Zen and the Art of Murder Read online

  But Lederle was a good policeman too. Even if he considered her suspicions to be far-fetched, he knew that nothing was yet proven. There was a tiny possibility that she was right. Good police officers kept tiny possibilities in mind.

  The cat crossed the track and vanished into the woods. “Fine,” Lederle said. “But it might take a while.”

  She turned left toward Suedwiller. A hundred yards farther on, a path she had noticed on the way led into the forest. She reversed on to it and parked her Mégane on the soft earth. Here the trees were quite dense. Unless you turned your head at precisely this point on the road you’d never notice the car.

  She put on a pair of sneakers and took from the trunk the rucksack she had packed. When she opened the glove box she thought of Barbara Franke. But Barbara was far away.

  On the way back to the road she felt the urge to call Anatol. To mumble raunchy, tender, secret things to him, whisper pet names. Fuel her anticipation for the weekend.

  The ringing was replaced by the distant sound of an engine. “Hi!” Anatol said.

  “Hi!”

  She looked up. On the road in front of her a silver car was heading for the monastery track.

  Her brain shifted only slowly into gear. A box-like car rather than a sedan. Large, light-colored.

  A silver MPV.

  “Shit!” she said, switching off her mobile.

  Fifteen minutes later she reached the parking lot. The MPV was there, but she couldn’t see anybody, either in the vehicle itself, or on the path to the woods.

  She crept up to the car, one hand on her pistol. A Cologne license plate. She committed it to memory. After a quick glance inside she ran her finger over the letters on the back: SHARAN.

  Bonì knelt to examine the tire impressions in the dried earth. An asymmetrical profile with two circumferential grooves. The same tracks as on the photograph she’d swiped from Lederle’s dossier. She crawled in front of the left rear tire. ContiWinterContact T.S. 790, 215/55 R16. As Lederle had suspected.

  The car that had been east of Liebau on Sunday and here yesterday evening. The car that Ponzelt hadn’t seen.

  She stood up. She had to call Lederle or Bermann. Then it struck her that Lederle and Bermann weren’t interested in the MPV. Only she was.

  She walked through the woods but didn’t venture into the clearing. Although dusk was settling in, she would have been spotted immediately from the windows on the first floor. Kneeling, she leaned with the rucksack against a tree trunk at the edge of the woods. From here she had a view of both the monastery and the path. If nothing had happened by midnight she would steal her way into the Kanzan-an. If someone came out to the MPV before that, she’d try to follow the vehicle.

  It turned dark rapidly. About halfway between her and the main monastery building there was a soft, yellow glow above the clearing. The dharma hall. What happened in a teisho? What did the roshi say to the monks and nuns? From his face she’d seen that the recent events had left their mark. That he was worried about Taro. Did he talk about him?

  The thought of Taro made her freeze. The cold had to be fought off with warmth. As she unscrewed the small bottle the soft, reassuring gong resounded. She closed her eyes.

  We drink tea, we talk.

  At some point, when she had the time, she would tell the roshi everything. Ask Chiyono why and how she’d become who she was. Take part in a teisho.

  Confront her spiritual foe.

  What, she wondered, might you find within yourself if there was no longer any ego? What was own-nature if not your own self? All those different questions and all the different answers depending on your conviction. Some were looking for their ego, others trying to liberate themselves from it. Christians went to church and prayed, Buddhists to dharma halls to meditate. Not to mention what Jews, Muslims and Hindus did.

  What did Jews, Muslims and Hindus do?

  When she had the time she would ask Landen these questions. Perhaps he also knew what newborn babies were before they were baptized. Were they already Christians, or were they nothing?

  She grinned. Were they perhaps heathens?

  A question she wouldn’t mind putting to her father—when she had the time. He would go silent and turn pale. Over the decades he’d become increasingly faithful to the Church. Increasingly German and increasingly religious.

  A barely audible crack made her spin around. She held her breath and listened. A small, light-gray creature moving away from her and bounding into the clearing. The cat.

  She sank back down. Her pulse was racing. She hadn’t been paying attention.

  Then it was pitch black. Tiny lights flickered at certain points on the ground floor of the Kanzan-an. On the second floor a few candles were alight in the long corridor. The top floor was not visible.

  If the Asile people didn’t use flashlights she wouldn’t notice them immediately. Too late, perhaps, to creep back to the parking lot and her Mégane, which meant that she wouldn’t be able to follow them. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

  She stood up. She’d wait near the Sharan.

  At that moment a small, circular light flashed close to the entrance to the monastery, followed by two more. They were stationary for a few seconds before moving slowly in her direction.

  Adrenaline shot through her veins. They were coming.

  As quietly and yet as quickly as she could, Bonì ran to the lot. When she reached the Sharan she stopped and caught her breath. What now? Wait here to see who got in? Run to the Mégane and try to follow the MPV? She cursed under her breath. There were so many reasons why officers worked in teams.

  It then dawned on her that she hadn’t thought to memorize her surroundings. She’d forgotten to get her bearings at the critical moment, scout for paths and make a plan.

  Her Jägermeister thoughts were being joined increasingly by Jägermeister lapses.

  No lights were visible in the woods, so she still had time. To the right of the track there was a shallow hill. She would have a good view from the top. But the Mégane was in the forest to the left of the road. What was between the road and the edge of the forest on her left? A ditch? A stream? A narrow meadow? A meadow with a fence? Without a fence? She had no idea.

  She ran along the soft verge to the left of the track toward the road. She could scarcely see three feet in front of her. She’d thought to bring a flashlight. She hadn’t thought she might not be able to use it.

  A shimmer of light appeared on the horizon beyond the road.

  After half a minute she got a stitch and had to stop. She turned around. No lights. She pressed her hand against her side and stumbled on, but the pain quickly grew acute. Her breathing was hasty and irregular, however much she tried to calm it. And the horizon wasn’t getting any closer. She stopped and clasped her knees with both hands and looked behind her, panting.

  Still nothing.

  She dropped to her knees and stared into the darkness. No dots of light. The Sharan must still be in her field of vision, even if she couldn’t see it. Had they switched off their flashlights? Were they walking that slowly? Were they not going to the parking lot after all? Was it possible that the light had come from inhabitants of the monastery rather than the Asile people?

  No. No batteries China of Kanzan, no batteries here.

  She continued at a steady pace. Only when she was about fifty yards from the road did she see lights dancing away in the distance behind her. Relieved, she wiped sweat from her face and ran the last bit to the junction.

  At the wooden sign she turned one final time. In the darkness the Sharan’s headlights flared on.

  13

  The Sharan went in the same direction it had come from. Once it had passed the forest track, heading toward Suedwiller, Louise set off, keeping her headlights off until she reached the road. The Sharan was nowhere to be seen. She accelerated. Two bends later, taillights and silver silhouettes appeared ahead of her. On one or two occasions the beam of her headlights lit up the driver�
�s side. There were several people in the Sharan, but she couldn’t say how many.

  They took the Obermorschwiller exit, then drove westward through the village toward the French–German border. The MPV stuck rigidly to the speed limit, staying on narrow country roads and crossing through tiny villages.

  As they were leaving Magstatt-le-Haut, Bonì braked spontaneously and coasted into a dark farmyard. For a few seconds she waited next to a crazed, chained-up bulldog. Then she drove for over half a mile without lights on, slowing whenever she got to a bend.

  After a while she switched on her dipped headlights and put her foot down.

  *

  Beyond Uffheim she turned on her mobile and placed it in the hands-free cradle. There were two messages on her voicemail. The first was Anatol asking nicely what was “shit,” followed by engine noise and a screeching as if a tram were braking. A cool, barely comprehensible voice said, “Louise? Barbara Franke here. Give me a call at the office.”

  But first she rang Lederle’s number. Before she could speak he said, “I’m still on it, I’ll let you know.” She could hardly understand him either—he seemed to be eating.

  “Wait, Reiner.” She told him about the Sharan with the Cologne license plate and the ContiWinterContact T.S. 790. Explained how she’d waited at the Kanzan-an, followed the Asile staff, how they had given Mulhouse a wide berth, eventually crossing the border at Ottmarsheim or Chalampé.

  She heard Lederle chew, swallow and drink. Then he fell silent. “Say something, Reiner.”

  “No.”

  Anger rose inside her. “Shit!” she cried. “I can’t understand why you won’t at least consider the possibility that it might be Asile rather than the Buddhists!”

  “It’s for your sake,” Lederle said wearily. “I don’t know who you are anymore, what you’re doing, why you’re doing it, how you’re doing it, what’s going on inside your head—I don’t know anything anymore. Apart from the fact that you’re refusing to talk to the psychologist.”

  “What do you mean, how I’m doing it?”

  “What you’re doing right now, are you doing it sober? Are you doing it drunk?”

  “I see.” She gave an irate laugh. “OK, let’s assume I’m drunk.”

  “You see?”

  “And let’s assume it’s Asile that’s involved.”

  Lederle drank and sighed. “All right, fine.”

  “Would my state have any bearing on the fact that Asile’s involved?”

  “Oh dear.” Lederle laughed sadly.

  “Exactly.”

  The taillights of the Sharan were getting closer. She cut her speed. About fifty yards apart, the two cars crossed some kind of highway. The red lights moved away again.

  “Apropos,” she said, “what are you drinking at the moment, Reiner?”

  Lederle didn’t reply, nor did he need to. Despite his wife’s diagnosis some of his habits hadn’t changed. There was scarcely a day he worked that didn’t include an early evening beer.

  She felt shabby. On the other hand, what was the point in standards if they didn’t apply to everyone?

  She said, “I need both the addresses Annegret Schelling gave you.”

  “You’re in France, Louise.”

  “Oh really? Tell that to Niksch, Hollerer and Taro.”

  Seconds passed without either of them speaking, then she heard Lederle leafing through some paper. His voice sounded reedy and unfamiliar. Two farms in the southern Vosges. One near Thann, the other in Ferrette. She opened her map. Thann was to the west of Mulhouse, Ferrette to the south. The Sharan had been heading eastward, then northeastward.

  She flinched when she was overtaken. A yellow VW Beetle stuck itself between her and the MPV. Below them ran the Basel–Mulhouse motorway. Ahead lay Kembs.

  “Thanks, Reiner.”

  “We need to talk,” Lederle said hoarsely. “There’s something you ought to know. Let’s talk next week, Louise.” He hung up.

  Before she could consider what he meant, her mobile rang. “I’ve got something for you,” Barbara Franke said, this time with no noise in the background.

  “Have you won the war?”

  “Almost. The enemy’s on the point of surrender. But I’ll cut to the point—I’ve only got a minute. I’ve found out nothing about Annegret Schelling, but I do have information on Asile d’enfants.”

  Barbara had quizzed other members of Terre des hommes about Asile. Hardly anybody knew more about the organization than she did—name, founder, activity. One TdH friend, however, by the name of Franco, seemed to recall that several years ago an adoption in Germany arranged by Asile had been revoked. The child, a seven-or eight-year-old Thai girl, had been put in a Bangkok orphanage by her mother. Franco couldn’t remember exactly why, but it was generally done for financial reasons. At any rate the girl, Areewan, was not given up for adoption. And yet for some unfathomable reason, Areewan was placed with adoptive parents in Germany. Months later her biological mother learned of this and through the courts in Bangkok and Germany managed to have the adoption annulled.

  “It shouldn’t happen, but sometimes it does,” Barbara said.

  Areewan, Bonì thought uneasily. The name seemed vaguely familiar. She reached for the photocopies Chiyono had given her. Without reducing her speed she skimmed through them at the wheel. On the list dated autumn 2000 it said: Areewan, 10, Thailand.

  Carefully she placed the sheets of paper on the passenger seat.

  When she looked up she noticed that the distance between her and the MPV had substantially decreased, so she took her foot off the accelerator and fell back. They had passed through Kembs and headed north for a while on the D52, then turned off on to a smaller road.

  “Louise?” Barbara said impatiently.

  “When was this?”

  “Mid or late nineties, Franco says.”

  “Is Areewan a common name in Thailand?”

  “I don’t know. It’s certainly not uncommon. Why?”

  “On the Asile list from autumn 2000 there’s an Areewan from Thailand. She was ten at the time.”

  “A coincidence.”

  “How can we be sure?”

  “Fly over there.” Barbara groaned. “All right, I’ll sort it out. Shit.”

  “But do it discreetly.”

  “Yes, yes. See you later.”

  “Wait. How much could you get for an orphan illegally placed with adoptive parents?”

  Barbara paused, then mentioned some figures before hanging up. Deep in thought, Louise pressed the button on her mobile to end the call.

  A child cost between five and twenty thousand dollars, depending on their background, age, sex and demand. Even in this business, however, special offers were available, Barbara had said. In India several years back, an employee of a charitable organization had been offered children for adoption at around 450 marks. The laws of the market. When there was a surplus of goods, the price sank. As so often, the poverty of the Third World and the desires of the First had entered a fatal pact.

  Soon afterward the Sharan stopped by the side of the road. She maintained her speed. About 150 yards now separated her from the MPV. Three figures got out of the passenger side and walked away from the road. One was blonde. Annegret Schelling?

  Eighty yards.

  Between her and the Sharan a small road forked off. Should she take it? Unsure, she eased her foot off the pedal. At that moment the Sharan started moving again, but instead of driving on, it steered toward the other side of the road, as if to turn around. But it stopped in the middle and blocked the road.

  She had been discovered.

  Cursing, she slammed on the brakes. With an ugly screeching of the tires, the Mégane skidded along the tarmac past the fork, coming to a stop fifteen yards from the Sharan. Instinctively she jammed her foot on the clutch to avoid stalling. Then she pulled out her pistol.

  She could only make out the silhouette of the driver—the Mégane’s headlights illuminated the field to the left
of him. From the position of his head she could see that he was looking at her. Her eyes darted to the right. The three figures were now around twenty yards from the road, moving slowly. Where they were going she couldn’t tell. There was no house or farm in sight, just a fenced-in pasture and the odd solitary tree in the distance.

  She turned back to the MPV. Seconds passed without anything happening. What was he planning to do? She decided to wait for half a minute. Then she’d go and haul him out of his car, even though they were in France.

  Assuming the traffic allowed.

  But there didn’t seem to be any traffic on this road. All she could see in front of her was the Sharan. She glanced in her rearview mirror—and flinched. A few yards behind her was a red car without its lights on. Four rings in its radiator grille. An Audi. It was a moment before she realized why it was empty.

  She put her foot down and the Mégane shot across a small embankment. She heard the rear window shatter and her head was thrown to the side. A burning pain spread from her right temple. She ducked. A muzzle flash was reflected in the side mirror and she felt several hard clunks in the metal. Then the window next to her exploded and shards of glass shot into her hair.

  She glanced over the steering wheel. The field was dancing before her. There was water in the furrows and the Mégane made slow progress. The wheels kept spinning and the rear of the car swung out to the side. More bullets burrowed into the metal without her hearing the shots. Silencers, she thought. They’re using silencers.

  Asile d’enfants hired professional killers.

  From far away furious cries reached her ears. She realized to her amazement that they were coming from her belly and throat. Louise shut her mouth and the cries stopped. A strangely unreal calm filled her head. The engine noise, the blows against the undercarriage, and the groaning of the bodywork all became quieter. Faces popped into her head. Niksch, Taro and Hollerer staring at her, then Niksch again, then the images froze on a child’s face.