Zen and the Art of Murder Read online

  Pham.

  She heard a shrill humming and ducked in terror as a projectile thudded into the dashboard, shattering the speedometer. She pressed her foot down, but the accelerator was already on the floor.

  Pham, 3½, Vietnam.

  Pham, who couldn’t wait to meet his new parents. Who had become a commodity and had cost five or ten, or maybe fifteen thousand dollars. Pham, who had vanished without trace.

  She maneuvered the Mégane slightly to the right and turned her head toward the road. The Sharan was facing the right way again and the passengers were coming back out of the darkness. Two of the three men who’d fired shots were running into the field after her. The third was hurrying back to the Audi.

  More bullets hit the passenger side, but they had no penetration and ricocheted off. She was too far away.

  Fifty yards farther on she hit more solid ground—a meadow. Taking her foot off the pedal, she allowed the car to freewheel. Without letting the two men out of her sight she opened the last miniature of Jägermeister, tipped the contents on to a tissue and held it against the bleeding side of her head. The pain returned with a fury.

  Glass crunched as she sank back into the seat. A grazing shot. Painful, but by no means fatal. Worse was that her mobile had been destroyed by a richochet.

  The Sharan blocked her view of the three passengers. Now she was almost sure that Annegret Schelling was among them, but who were the others? And where had Asile taken the children? To the farms Lederle had mentioned? Still so many questions and so few answers. Who was in the car? Where was Pham? Why were people being murdered and others abducted if this was “just” about illegal adoption? It would earn two to three hundred thousand dollars per year at most, and involve several people, all keen for a share of the profit.

  But was it just about arranging adoptions? What sort of parents did children like ten-year-old Areewan from Thailand get?

  The third man had reached the Audi. With his lights off he drove down the small embankment into the field. The two other men had closed to within a hundred yards of Louise, but had slowed and weren’t shooting anymore. All she could hear were the drone of the Mégane’s engine and her breathing. Otherwise, silence.

  Here they were again: Niksch, Taro and the blurred face of a Thai girl with long black hair. And Pham.

  The silence grew oppressive. The silence of the abyss. The emptiness into which Taro and Pham had vanished. A silence where no answers existed, only questions. Her eye caught the stereo. She turned it on and switched to cassette.

  Beethoven, “Für Elise.”

  The Audi had driven some way across the field, but its progress was sluggish, the driver encountering the same problems. The two other men were now attempting a pincer movement: one coming diagonally from up ahead, the other from behind.

  She changed into first gear and put her foot down. The men in the field shot at once, but only the one in front was close, and therefore dangerous. She raised her weapon and fired. The passenger window shattered. The man immediately disappeared from view.

  On the hard ground the Mégane accelerated quickly. She looked straight ahead at the Sharan. In the beam of her headlights she could see the driver staring back at her. On the other side there was movement. The doors opened and the three figures jumped in.

  She turned her lights on full beam. The driver seemed to be shouting something. He kept turning around, then faced the front again. His right arm was gesticulating and the Sharan kangarooed along. Bonì was about twenty yards from the road. She took her foot off the accelerator but did not brake.

  Then came the second theme of “Für Elise.” She wondered whether Pham would like the music. Bermann played Mozart to his unborn children. What did prospective parents in the Far East play to their unborn children? What did Tommo and Landen play to their unborn child? Mozart? Beethoven? Bach? Most likely Bach. What would she do? Would she alternate between Beethoven and Barclay James Harvest?

  The first theme repeated as she reached the embankment. She glanced at the approaching Sharan. Good timing, she thought.

  The impact was not as violent as she had expected. The Sharan’s door was surprisingly robust. She saw the driver yell three feet in front of her and fancied she could hear his voice.

  The three feet became one and a half feet.

  The hood of the Mégane flew open, obstructing her view. Steam shot up in a fountain. The music played on.

  She took off her belt and leaped out of the car. The collision had given the Sharan a shunt; its front wheels jolted on to the pasture and the back of the car swerved across the road. As she ran around the back of the Mégane she fired a random shot into the field. In the darkness muzzle fire flared.

  Screams were coming from the Sharan. One male and several female voices. She wrenched open the back door. The courtesy light came on and she found herself staring into the terrified face of an Asian woman. “No!” the woman screamed in English. “No! Please! No!” Bonì’s gaze fell on her swollen belly. The woman was highly pregnant.

  “Police,” she said in English.

  The woman said nothing.

  Beside her sat Annegret Schelling, holding the back of her head and groaning. Her blonde hair was covered in blood. The driver, too, was moaning softly. He had slumped over the gearshift but Louise couldn’t see any blood.

  Only the woman in the passenger seat was silent. She had turned and was coolly staring at Louise. A delicate Thai woman, twenty years old at most and very beautiful. Well-proportioned, narrow cheeks, eyes as deep as oceans, an exotic dream, a lifelong dream. Every man’s dream.

  “Natchaya,” Louise muttered.

  The woman sunk back into her seat and stared into the darkness.

  Bonì glanced across the roof of the car. The Audi was still in the field, its engine running but both doors on the driver’s side open. A shadow was kneeling in the place where one of the men had disappeared from view. Frenzied voices drifted over. It took her a moment to identify the language. Not Romanian or Bulgarian or Polish, but French. With no accent.

  They were French, not eastern Europeans.

  Shit, you’ve got to get me to Steiner!

  Can you get up?

  Ow! Careful!

  Can you stand?

  I don’t know! Shit, you’ve really got to get me to Steiner! Fucking hell!

  Two voices. Where was the third man? He’d been farther from the road, but must have reached the Audi by now. Why couldn’t she see him?

  Quickly she turned back to the Sharan. What should she do now? She couldn’t arrest anybody as she was in France. Not to mention her sick leave.

  And she was alone. Without a phone.

  And she didn’t know where the third man was.

  But she couldn’t just run. She needed information; she had to know where the children were, how they came to Asile d’enfants and where Jean Berger was.

  She slammed the door and ran to the other side of the car.

  Annegret Schelling fell toward her when she yanked open the door. Pushing her back in, Bonì hissed, “Where are the children?”

  Schelling just moaned.

  Right, you’re coming with me then, Louise thought, heaving her out of the car. But Schelling could not even stand, let alone walk. Her legs buckled, she fell to her knees with a whimper and vomited.

  Louise cursed and opened the passenger door. Natchaya did not look at her, the woman’s eyes were half closed. With a soft but surprisingly deep voice she was humming a tune to herself. It took Bonì a moment to recognize “Für Elise.”

  “You’re coming with me,” she said, grabbing Natchaya’s arm.

  They ran across the pasture toward the trees, Natchaya in front, Bonì close behind. Although she was delicate, Natchaya moved energetically. She didn’t make a sound, whereas Louise was soon panting. After a few minutes Louise told her to stop and she turned around.

  There was still no trace of the third man. He couldn’t be injured as she hadn’t shot at him. Had she
failed to spot him by the Audi? Was he already on his way to “Steiner” with the other two?

  It was possible. But it was more likely that he was following her.

  She tried to remember how many shots she had fired. Four? Five? Which left her with three bullets, four at most.

  Natchaya eyed her indifferently and didn’t offer any resistance. What was going through the woman’s mind? Was she waiting for an opportunity to escape? Sink a knife into her back?

  Louise realized that she hadn’t searched for weapons. She felt the pistol with both hands. A warm, smooth body that didn’t flinch, didn’t yield and curiously entrusted itself to her hands.

  Natchaya was still looking at her, her expression unchanged. Bonì kneeled and made a swift check of the insides of the woman’s legs and ankles. No weapons. She stood up. It was too dark to make out anything in Natchaya’s eyes. She radiated a peculiar lack of determination. The unending, passive patience of an old dog. Or of a humiliated younger one.

  A poor analogy, she thought, and got moving again.

  *

  When they reached the trees Louise realized they wouldn’t offer any protection. They weren’t close enough together and the trunks were too slim. The women would have to go on.

  But she couldn’t. Gasping, she leaned against a tree and pulled Natchaya toward her. For a few moments she stared into the darkness from which they had come.

  No movement, no sounds, no shadows. She couldn’t see what was happening on the road as the pasture sloped down to the Rhine, obstructing the view.

  “Have you got a mobile?” Bonì whispered.

  Natchaya shrugged almost imperceptibly.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Another slight twitch of the shoulders. Louise thought of Harald Mahler. Was he Natchaya’s husband? Her brother, her father? Had he driven the MPV? His name sounded German at any rate. She pursed her lips? “No? English? Français?”

  Natchaya shook her head.

  “Rubbish,” Louise said.

  Soon afterward they came to a broad path that ran alongside a water course, probably the Rhône–Rhine Canal. North must be to the left and south to the right. To the north was Ottmarsheim, the nearest border crossing. It couldn’t be far, a couple of miles. She pointed left.

  After a few yards she realized they couldn’t walk along the path; their footsteps were too noisy on the sandy ground. She pushed Natchaya on to the strip of grass between the path and the canal. The girl’s body gave way immediately. A creature without a will, without resistance. Or was Louise not an enemy in her eyes?

  Ten minutes later Louise was spent. “Stop,” she grunted, sinking to her knees. Natchaya came to her. Her breathing was heavier now too.

  Bonì let her gaze wander across the dark pasture. No movement, no sounds, no shadows. Where was the third man? Was he not following them after all?

  She felt her temple. The wound had stopped bleeding and the pain had subsided. She needed something to eat and drink, a telephone, Justin Muller, Bermann and Lederle. A new car. Richard Landen. And a pee.

  Come on, she thought. Keep going. But she stayed on the ground.

  Only gradually did she become aware that something had changed. It was even quieter than a few seconds ago. She could no longer hear Natchaya breathing. Louise looked up. The woman was standing in profile, staring into the darkness to the west of the path. Bonì followed her gaze with her eyes.

  Nothing.

  Just a sudden bright light and at that same moment an ice-cold pain in her left shoulder.

  Then she was lying on her back staring up at the sky. Into large eyes, a dark face looking down at her coldly. Something strange had happened. The eyes and face were blurring. She blinked, but it didn’t help. A cool liquid ran down her temples. She could feel her pistol being wrenched away.

  A second face appeared, a man’s face. “The bitch is alive,” it said in French.

  Not eastern Europeans. She felt the urge to laugh. Frenchmen who looked like eastern Europeans. Who sometimes spoke like eastern Europeans and sometimes like Frenchmen.

  “Goodbye,” said the second man in a friendly tone. There was movement, she heard a metallic click.

  The face with the large eyes vanished for a moment. Then it was back. In French it said, “No, I’ll do it.”

  “What?”

  “Give me your gun.”

  What are you doing? Louise thought.

  Waves of pain seared down her left side. Now the pain was hot and wet, and she grasped what had happened. What the something strange was that had happened. For the first time in her life she had a bullet inside her. She felt the urge to laugh again. Then she wanted to cry.

  She tried to focus. The entry wound must be below her collar bone. She thought she could feel the bullet. Hello, she thought. Welcome, my little, wicked friend.

  Above her an automatic pistol fitted with a silencer was passed from one hand to the other.

  What are you doing? Bonì thought.

  “Is someone going to pick us up?” the face with the large eyes said.

  “No idea.”

  “Have you got a mobile?”

  “Sure.”

  “Call my husband.”

  The man’s face disappeared. In a swift movement a small hand covered Louise’s mouth while the other pressed the muzzle of the silencer against her head. The face with the large eyes came closer to her cheek. She took in its odor; it smelled soft, foreign, young. What are you doing? she thought. The face whispered in German, “You . . . can . . . not . . . save . . . world. Save yourself.”

  The muzzle slid along her skull. The sky went “plop” twice, then came the night.

  When she awoke she was lying in a bush, branches blocking her view. It was cold. She could hear water flowing somewhere nearby. For a moment Bonì tried to work out where she was and what she was doing in this place, but she could find no answer. She was seized by panic. She wanted to get up but her body refused to move. Instead there was a biting pain in her limbs. She decided to stay lying there.

  To stay lying there as long as possible.

  She was woken by Calambert. No, he said in her head. No.

  Beyond the branches it was now lighter. She was terribly cold. The pain seemed to have subsided, so long as she made no attempt to move at least. She still didn’t know where she was and what she was doing there. She pictured herself sitting in Landen’s living room. They both stood up and she left because she didn’t want to go into the kitchen where Niksch and the china cat were. But she knew that in Landen’s eyes she had a special gift.

  Then she drove to the Kanzan-an.

  All of a sudden her memory returned. The Sharan, Natchaya, her little, wicked friend from the darkness. The false eastern Europeans and Natchaya’s bizarre words.

  Pham and Areewan and the other children, at risk of disappearing forever.

  She tried to sit up, but her left side was heavy and immobile, like a chunk of metal. Only a resurgence of the pain proved to her that she was in fact flesh and blood. Moaning, she sank back down.

  Natchaya and the man had dragged her into a bush between the pasture and the canal. Why hadn’t Natchaya killed her? Clearly she wasn’t so passive after all, she had shown the determination to go her own way. She had deceived her accomplices and prevented the murder of another police officer. Even though this officer had seen and understood too much.

  What did that mean? Was Natchaya only a little bit evil? If so, how could she work for an organization that trafficked children? Children from the same continent, the same country as hers?

  A thought crept along the edge of her consciousness, but she no longer had the strength to focus on it.

  It was simpler to think of Calambert again. Calambert was more palpable than ever before. Since the bullet had entered Louise’s body there were similarities between the two of them. She had seen the sky from the same perspective as he had. She had felt exactly the same as him, been in shock like him. He
was now in every fiber of her body. He was a part of her. And she of him.

  She took him with her into unconsciousness.

  Bonì was found by a dog.

  When she came to, the dog was lying on her legs, whining. Girls’ voices were calling him. The dog began to bark and leaped up. Shit, stay here, she thought. The dog ran off. Shortly afterward he came back with the girl.

  The girl started to scream.

  “The bitch is alive,” Bonì said.

  14

  Lederle shook his head in disbelief, Bermann cursed her, Almenbroich praised and reprimanded her, Barbara Franke kept saying “shit” over and over again. The faces and voices and flowers changed in rapid succession. Only the hospital smell stayed the same. She had no urgent desire to drink, but she was looking forward to her first sip like a child looks forward to Christmas. She waited for Hollerer and Landen, but neither came.

  Someone put a newspaper with her photograph on the bed.

  Years passed.

  After three days Bermann brought some blurred visitors from France: Justin Muller and Hugo Chervel. They held flowers and a basket of fruit, but their faces were serious. “Ten minutes,” Bermann said in German. “She won’t manage more. And not one word that I can’t understand.” He sat to her right, Muller and Chervel to her left.

  “Feeling any better?” Muller asked, putting a hand on hers, and taking it away again immediately.

  She nodded. She dimly recalled that he’d already been there at some point over the past few days. But she couldn’t remember if they had spoken. “Almost back to my old self,” she muttered in French. The men said nothing, they seemed uncomfortable at the prospect.

  Chervel bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His face was close to hers. He smelled of cigarettes and aftershave. His eyes were red, the pupils small and light blue, like a husky’s. He wore a gray suit and a blue shirt with a starched collar. A gentle, lurking, lone wolf. She liked him. Like Justin Muller, he tried as far as possible to structure the cooperation with their German colleagues according to the needs of the case.