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Damnation
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DAMNATION
DAMNATION
PETER BECK
Translated from the German
by Jamie Bulloch
For the QoH, the queen of my heart.
In memory of my father.
And for my mother.
CONTENTS
PURGATORY
JULY 24 – 20:40
JULY 24 – 20:52
JULY 24 – 21:22
JULY 25 – 00:08
JULY 25 – 00:28
JULY 25 – 13:21
JULY 25 – 16:49
JULY 25 – 19:34
JULY 25 – 20:38
JULY 25 – 21:58
JULY 26 – 10:02
JULY 26 – 21:07
JULY 27 – 17:03
JULY 29 – 19:32
JULY 30: 03:55
JULY 30 – 05:42
JULY 30 – 07:14
JULY 30 – 08:00
JULY 30 –10:20
JULY 30 – 21:10
JULY 31 – 09:17
JULY 31 – 12:10
JULY 31 – 18:19
JULY 31 – 23:10
AUGUST 1 – 03:53
AUGUST 1 – 9:02
AUGUST 1 – 11:20
AUGUST 1 – 22:55
AUGUST 2 – 05:07
AUGUST 2 – 07:33
AUGUST 2 – 13:10
AUGUST 3 – 08:35
AUGUST 3 – 15:10
AUGUST 3 – 16:47
AUGUST 4 – 09:08
AUGUST 4 –12:55
AUGUST 4 – 16:10
AUGUST 4 – 19:10
AUGUST 4 – 22:07
AUGUST 5 – 06:10
AUGUST 5 – 10:32
AUGUST 5 – 14:23
AUGUST 5 – 20:15
AUGUST 6 – 10:23
AUGUST 6 – 13:13
AUGUST 6 – 18:30
AUGUST 6 – 20:02
AUGUST 6 – 22:10
AUGUST 7 – 01:22
AUGUST 7 – 05:20
AUGUST 7 – 06:12
AUGUST 7 – 09:07
AUGUST 7 – 11:21
AUGUST 7 – 11:44
AUGUST 7 – 12:13
AUGUST 7 – 12:35
AUGUST 7 – 12:56
AUGUST 7 – 13:01
AUGUST 7 – 13:13
AUGUST 7 – 13:20
AUGUST 7 – 13:24
AUGUST 7 – 13:31
LATER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PURGATORY
The Arab’s burning better than the woman. Must be down to the kaftan, Strittmatter thought. The flames were licking at his legs. He was desperately looking for somewhere to land in these inhospitable mountains. Anywhere. The main engine cut out for a second. The helicopter dropped.
The fire hadn’t yet reached the family photo beside the logbook.
This hadn’t been an unusual job. His small but classy ‘VIP Helicopter Transportation Corporation’ often flew rich clients to spectacular sites in the Alps. In such magnificent surroundings, they were easier to schmooze. Ice and snow were particularly special for Arabs from the desert.
Shortly after a summer shower, the Arab and the woman in her elegant trouser suit had climbed into the back of Strittmatter’s Bell 206. The young woman had smiled professionally as she handed over confirmation for the flight from Zürich to the Gemsstock mountain. There was a twinkle in her eye. She had brought the customary welcome gift, decorated with a fat bow in the colours of the private bank – a gigantic box of chocolates.
Twenty minutes after take off the woman was on her mobile.
‘Fire!’ the sheikh screamed.
‘Where’s the extinguisher?’ the woman asked with urgency, but calmly.
‘Under the middle seat,’ Strittmatter answered with much less composure.
She pulled out the bright-red extinguisher, broke the safety seal and tried to spray foam onto the fire.
Strittmatter cast a brief glance over his shoulder. The helicopter was made of lightweight aluminium and the seats out of flameretardant material. But the kaftan wasn’t fireproof. The Arab was ablaze, a wreath of fire in his hair.
Screaming, the Arab squeezed himself into the corner. Apart from ‘Allah!’ Strittmatter couldn’t understand a word. Earlier the Arab had spoken English. But mortal fear was suffered in the mother tongue. He hammered his fist in vain against the shatterproof window. All that broke was the glass of his expensive, mechanical wristwatch.
The fire extinguisher was empty and the woman’s frantic efforts were to no avail. Terrified, she shouted, ‘Land! Now! We’ve got to get out of here!’ From the corner of his eye Strittmatter saw her trying to put out the raging flames on her white blouse with her bare hands.
They were spinning ever further downwards. In the steep mountains there were only bare rock faces, scree and ravines.
Steady the chopper. Slowly. Where the hell could they land?
The helicopter dropped once again and juddered, hurling its passengers across the cabin. He wouldn’t be able to keep control for much longer, Strittmatter knew. His brow was slick with sweat and he let out a hacking cough. Black phlegm came up as the synthetic material of his shirt burned into his skin. The family photo went up in flames: first the edges, then his children, finally his wife.
They were still a hundred metres above ground when the engine cut out altogether.
A peaceful alp stretched out before the pilot. A squat hut, its two small, dimly lit windows staring back at him. Strittmatter saw black blobs on the pasture. Cows! They were lying languidly in the grass.
When the helicopter exploded at 20:44, the docile creatures leaped up awkwardly and bellowed in shock.
JULY 24 – 20:40
Winter lay motionless in the filthy water. A thin film of grease covered the surface, trapping a mosquito which twitched as it struggled to avoid drowning. It was a hopeless fight against death.
The water had entered Winter’s ears and made its way along the auditory canals to his eardrums. His eyes were closed, head and neck submerged. His Adam’s apple and injured hand rose from the surface of the lukewarm water.
His hand was scratched, dirt engrained beneath the fingernails. A mixture of earth, clay and organic residue. One of the fingernails was split.
His pulse was weak.
And very slow.
The mosquito had stopped moving.
After a day of hard, physical labour he was relaxing in his bath, easing an aching back. He wanted to be on top form for Anne this evening.
He wallowed in the memories of their first date. How the scent of her Issey Miyake perfume had tickled his nostrils as they greeted each other with the traditional three kisses. How she had stood on the old, wooden balcony with her radiant smile and a glass of sparkling white wine.
He’d ventured an apologetic gesture as he showed her the half-finished terrace in his rampant garden, where the only edible things growing were wild courgettes, cucumbers and some berries. He could recall precisely the energy that had flowed through his body when, with a gentle laugh, she placed her hand on his forearm. She’d found his jungle ‘romantic’ and said how much she was looking forward to fresh raspberries and blackberries.
After that they’d taken it in turns to blow on the stone barbecue to get the fire going. She’d teased him and he’d almost passed out for lack of oxygen. When they’d finally put the steaks on the embers Anne was covered in soot. A black line from the edge of the grill ran across her T-shirt beneath her chest. His dishcloth had only made the mark worse. Since that moment Winter had been unable to forget Anne’s belly button.
A warm feeling washed over him as he replayed that wonderful evening in his mind. Thoughts like that drifting through his head were a positive sign. His physical exertions on the terrace and the relaxing bath
were doing him good.
After dinner he and Anne had sat there for a long while, finishing the bottle of Rioja. It gradually got dark and Winter lit the candles in the lanterns. The crickets were chirping. Later he made coffee and served the cheesecake he’d bought from his favourite bakery.
Anne had told Winter about her dream of watching lizards on the Galapagos Islands. Winter had raved about the nature reserves in Canada with their huge, unspoiled forests. They’d continued laughing late into the night, touching on every topic imaginable.
Apart from the bank. At some point he and his deputy had reached a tacit agreement that they wouldn’t discuss work at his house. The superior and his subordinate. It was a fine line. A business lunch at the pizzeria was acceptable. As was a formal dinner with clients. But an intimate tête-a-tête was borderline. After much hesitation, finally feelings had trumped reason.
Winter slowly raised his head and surfaced from the water. With his right hand he carefully reached for the beer beside the bath. The cold bottle relieved the burning of his pierced blisters. He wondered how his battered hands would affect his shooting accuracy. Fortunately, there were few armed bank raids these days. Robberies now took place in back rooms. Instead of masks, the criminals wore pinstripes. Instead of dynamiting safes they hacked computers.
Winter downed his beer in one, climbed out of the bath and prepared to shave. Before applying the razor to his stubble, he examined his face in the mirror. He wasn’t bothered by the lines that had started to appear. This evening, perhaps, Anne wouldn’t just give him a long goodbye kiss, she would stay the night.
He’d met her at a judo competition. Winter was knocked out in the quarter-finals; Anne had won in her category. Sweating, he’d congratulated her on the victory and invited her out to dinner. She had declined, but when she saw from his business card that he worked at a private bank, she’d asked, ‘Does your company recruit lawyers too?’
‘Of course. Nobody else understands the contracts, though I’m not sure which came first: lawyers or contracts.’
She’d laughed, cocked her head slightly to one side and said nothing, which told him that she was not only a top judo fighter but also a sound negotiator.
‘Send me your details and I’ll ask our head of legal.’
Two weeks later there was no legal job for Anne, but there was lunch in a brasserie. That was the first time he saw her in one of her elegant trouser suits. Like him, Anne had studied law. After university she’d worked in a law firm whose name was so long that Winter was unable to remember it. But from her CV Winter learned that Anne had been with the police before university, working for two years as an officer on the beat while doing her matriculation certificate. And that’s how she came to be his right-hand. Even though they’d only known each other for six months, they trusted each other implicitly.
Now he stepped out onto the balcony in bare feet, a towel wrapped around his waist: it was still pleasantly warm. The sun was hovering over the horizon. The weathered wood had retained the heat of the day. In the distance the mountains were clearly visible. A good sign for tomorrow’s weather.
Winter went down the creaking, outdoor steps and fetched a bottle of Rioja from the cool, stone cellar.
On the way back he stopped beside his temporary granite store. Beneath the stairs were three towers of heavy slabs. His intention had been to impress Anne this evening with a finished terrace. He’d taken the day off and heaped up the earth behind the new drystone wall. But he’d underestimated the work it would involve.
He calculated what he had left to do. Laying the remaining granite slabs would take another day, after which he’d be able to lie in the sun on his deck chair and enjoy the view of the Alps. If his luck held out, it would soon be the two of them sitting here together. After all, Anne had certainly taken a shine to his little farmhouse.
The old wooden house in Eichenhubel, a secluded hamlet near Bern, had been a good buy. At first it was a shambolic building site. Now the water, heating and electricity were all functioning.
Winter was going to do the rest of the renovations gradually, when he had time. Working with his hands made for a good balance. You could immediately see the results of your labours. Maybe Anne would help him paint the shutters. At least the initial chaos had been tamed, Winter felt.
Being able to get your bearings straight away and act decisively amidst chaos was crucial in the security business too. Anybody who couldn’t imagine the worst possible scenario wasn’t paranoid enough to work in this field.
Lost in thought, he stroked the rough edges of the granite. They cut into his fingers. For a moment, those dead eyes from his past appeared again.
‘Not today!’ Winter thought.
Shaking his head, he climbed back up the outdoor stairs.
In the meantime Tiger had stretched out on the old wooden bench. The tomcat purred his contentment when Winter ruffled his neck. What could be better than a cat’s life? To sleep as much as your heart desired, to be answerable to no one and to be presented with a full bowl of food every day. You only had to hunt the occasional mouse.
Winter went into the kitchen and put the bottle of wine on the shelf. He glanced at his mobile. A missed call. He probably hadn’t heard it when he was in the bath.
From Anne.
JULY 24 – 20:52
The telephone conversation was received by one of the American Navstar satellites, which sent the recording, together with millions of other electronic data, to the secret computers of the National Security Agency in the Nevada Desert. There it was automatically scanned by computer software. In the endless stream of bits and bytes the digital eavesdroppers detected a word that was on the list of defined key terms, marked the spot, took out the ninety seconds before and afterwards and sent the recording to NSA analysts. The net tightened a little.
Anne’s message on Winter’s voicemail was from 20:41. Most likely a status report. Or to say that Al-Bader’s private Gulfstream was late again.
‘Hi, Tom. It’s me. Everything’s fine. We’re on our way with a twenty-minute delay, but the sunset is fantastic, unbelievable.’
The noise of rotor blades in the background.
‘I’ll call again when I’m back at the airport…’
‘Fire!’ The sheik’s voice. Screaming.
‘Al-Bader’s on fire!’
Winter froze. A shiver ran down his spine. It was as if a lightning bolt had struck the back of his neck and discharged itself down his vertebrae into the stone floor.
Muhammed Al-Bader was one of the bank’s best clients, a relation of the Saudi king. A global investor with holdings around the world. A liberal businessman. A target for fundamentalist groups. Al-Bader would occasionally meet his business partners in the Swiss Alps. This was the first time Anne had accompanied him.
Winter pressed the phone to his ear and strained to make out the message.
First it sounded as if Anne were putting her phone down somewhere. Clunk.
Then he heard her voice, tinged with a hint of fear that only someone who knew her well could discern: ‘Where’s the fire extinguisher?’
Something that sounded like ‘middle seat’. Probably the pilot.
After a ‘Ffffssssshhhh’ sound that seemed to go on forever, Anne was suddenly cut off. Nothing but silence. Even the chirping crickets in his garden had stopped.
Winter sat down and stared at the large kitchen table without noticing the bottle stains and bleached patches on the massive piece of oak.
In his mind he pictured Anne fighting the flames inside the cramped helicopter. The sunset as backdrop. Helicopters are vulnerable, fragile, especially in the mountains and at night. But Strittmatter had always been reliable. Had he been flying himself or had he sent another of his pilots?
Winter listened to the digital recording again. And again. 20:41, twenty-minute delay, everything fine, sunset, Al-Bader on fire, fire extinguisher, hissing, end.
Winter rang Anne’s number: no reply.
There was no answer on the VIP Helicopter Transportation Corporation business number either. Another answerphone. This time a friendly female voice told him that calls were taken during the office hours of 8:00A.M. to noon, and 1:00P.M. to 5:00P.M. The same message in English. Winter hung up. As if planes and helicopters only crashed during office hours.
The kitchen clock, with its extra-large numbers for sleepy eyes, showed 21:02. ‘No news is good news,’ Winter thought. It was a maxim he’d always lived by: communication was only necessary when the situation changed.
Three dead ends later, the last resort was Ben, a friend from his days at police college and now head of security at Zürich airport. Fortunately he was on duty. Ben was paranoid too, a professional illness, which was why he was always on duty. He promised to call back in ten minutes, which gave Winter time to get dressed and make coffee.
After eight minutes the phone rang. Ben, with good and bad news. The good news was that they’d managed to locate the helicopter. It was stationary. Winter made a note of the coordinates. The bad news was that Skyguide air traffic control hadn’t been able to establish communication.
‘The pilot may have just gone for a piss,’ Ben added. ‘If there’s still no sign of life after a while they’ll send a rescue chopper. But at the moment there doesn’t seem to be one in the vicinity, I’m afraid.’
‘Christ. I get an emergency call and no one’s doing a thing.’
‘I know,’ Ben said. ‘They’re all sitting here in the control room on their ergonomically tested chairs, thinking: maybe it’ll all sort itself out, and if there’s no sign of life then it’s too late anyway and there’s no need to hurry. I’m sorry.’
Winter thanked him and hung up. He looked for a detailed map of the region. The coordinates were in a rocky area. Here the map was grey, with black, curly lines close together marking cliffs and steep terrain. The place was known as the Höllentobel, ‘Hell’s Ravine’. Purgatory.
But how accurate were the coordinates?
Damnation