Strangers: A Novel(112)

“But it was quiet. And unclear,” Erik interjects.

I manage a smile. “Yes. But it was in English. My native language. They got rid of the little tour guide so as not to take any risks—and that’s why Bartsch’s plan didn’t work. Two orders that got mixed up in my head. That’s why I forgot you instead of killing you.” I close my eyes. The world sways a little, like we were on water. “And yet the plan was a really good one. I would have hurt myself and then stabbed you. One of those cases of domestic violence and self-defense. It wouldn’t have thrown any bad light on Gabor and his company.”

Bartsch appears in my mind’s eye, buried beneath the heavy metal shelving unit and its contents. Bleeding. Dying. It’s a shame that I won’t live to see you kill him after all.

“I’m going to go get treatment,” I declare. “I mean, now that we know what happened, it should be easier. Don’t you think?” I search for Erik’s gaze; his smile is encouraging, and he nods, but of course he can’t know if that’s really the case. No more than I can.

“I’ll copy these files before we give the USB stick to the police,” he says, pulling the icons into a new folder. “In any case, we now know that you got rid of my stuff, don’t we?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where? Dump site? Storage? Some charity?”

I shrug. “No idea, I’m sorry.”

His grin grows wider. “Well, in any case you must have had to work really hard. More credit to you.”

I give Erik a playful punch on the shoulder. “Well, you know me. When I do something, I do it properly.”

He pulls the stick out of the USB slot, snaps the lid back onto it, and puts it on the coffee table. Then he turns to me and takes me into his arms. “That’s true. You always have.”

His kiss is familiar, as is his scent. I bury my head against his shoulder. I feel like I could cry, because I’ve been robbed of almost a year with this man, all the stories, the shared memories, the first times.

He seems to sense that my mood is shifting again. He pushes me a little way from him, and looks at me in mock accusation. “There’s something else I have to know.”

“Yes?”

“And I’m expecting you to tell me the truth.”

The sight of his intensely wrinkled brow makes it hard for me to stay serious. “Let’s see.”

“Do you still remember that guessing game we played when you thought I was a burglar?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I want to know at least one of the answers now. Tell me your middle name.”

I shake my head decisively. “No chance.”

“Now listen to me. We’re engaged. I have a right to know such important things.”

I kiss him on the tip of the nose. “You have a right to guess. So get started.”

He smiles deviously. “A name that suits you?”

“In a certain way, yes.”

“Hildegard,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Another wise-ass guess like that and I’m getting the knife again.”

“Oh. OK. No, wait. Probably some insane English fantasy name. Tiffany Amnesia or something like that. Am I right?”

Now I really can’t help but laugh. “Not at all bad. Both of them. But still wrong. Just think about how my father made the majority of his money.”

Erik takes my hand. “Diamonds.”

“Exactly. But it’s not Diamond, because I’m also—what?”

Erik frowns again. “Difficult? Exhausting? A danger to the public?”

“Unique, silly.” He pulls me close to him, strokes my back. I can’t see his face, but I feel him nodding. And I know that he’s going to guess right.

“Solitaire.”





Epilogue

The conversation in the room falls silent as he gets up. All of them have gathered here today; he wouldn’t have expected any less. Only two of the eldest are absent—Zedwitz, who is pushing ninety, and Habeck, who is older still, and from whom dementia has robbed nearly everything, even his love for the fatherland.

He waits until all eyes are fixed on him, until he can be certain that all those present are paying him their utmost attention. Only then does he begin to speak.

“My brothers-in-arms. I thank you for your trust, and value greatly that you are entrusting me with the leadership of the squadron in these difficult times. My predecessor is a very tough act to follow—we all know what Heinrich von Ritteck achieved for our cause. Staffel 444 was his life, a life he decided, at the very end, to take himself. He chose an honorable death, and thus avoided the shame of being arrested by a corrupt police force. All of you know just how much filth the lying press have poured onto him these past weeks—and so we shall honor his memory all the more.” He reaches for his glass and raises it up high. The others get to their feet—the younger men swiftly, the old men slowly and with difficulty. Again, he waits until everyone is ready, then he clicks his heels. “To Heinrich von Ritteck!”

“To Heinrich von Ritteck!”

They drink, and only sit back down when he sets his glass onto the table.

“I would like to welcome three newcomers to our ranks. Ulrich Herfurth, Max Jauner, Albert Puch—welcome!”