Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

The line went dead.

Waldhoheweg 30 was a stark five-story building situated in a quiet residential quarter of Bern, not far from the city center. Spindly, denuded birch trees grew from plots on the sidewalk every twenty meters or so, looking like skeletal sentries. Jonathan drove slowly past the building, checking for any signs that it was being watched. At four o’clock the neighborhood was quiet to the point of being deserted. Seeing nothing out of place, he parked three blocks up the street.

Emma’s real because Bea’s real, he reminded himself as he stepped out of the car. During the drive from Zug, he’d rehearsed everything he knew about Bea. Thirty-five years of age, she was an architect by trade, though she’d never gotten a foothold in the profession. At times, she’d been a frustrated artist, a frustrated photographer, and a frustrated glass-blower. She was a wanderer. A free spirit and a bit of a lost soul, but she was real. Flesh and blood in loose jeans and a ripped-up motorcycle jacket with an attitude to match.

Over the years, he’d met her only twice, maybe three times. The last time was eighteen months ago, a lunch in London when they were on home leave from the Middle East. Since they’d moved to Switzerland, Emma had made the trip to Bern several times to visit, but he’d never been able to find the time to join her.

Jonathan approached her apartment from the opposite side of the street. There was still no sign of anyone loitering. He ran an eye over the parked cars. No one sitting behind the wheels, either. He jogged across the road, one hand pressed to the bandage. Residents’ names were listed outside the entry. Strasser. Rutli. Kruger. Zehnder. He stopped and went back one. A bolt of ice rattled inside his stomach. No Beatrice Rose anywhere to be found, but an E.A. Kruger in apartment 4A.

He began to shiver. What was he waiting for, then? He rang the buzzer. A minute passed. He stepped back and gazed up at the building. The movement caused the gash in his neck to tear anew. Just then, a woman approached and used her key to enter the building.

“I’m here to visit Miss Kruger,” he said. “She’s my sister-in-law. Do you mind if I wait in the entry?”

The woman’s eyes fixed with alarm on his neck. Glancing at his reflection in the plate glass, he saw that the gauze was soaked red.

“Are you alright?” she asked, not quite kindly.

“An accident. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I am a doctor,” he said, pasting on a smile, trying to make light of the situation. “I can treat myself once I’m inside. I’m sure you know Eva. About yay high. Auburn hair. Hazel eyes. Wears glasses.”

The woman shook her head, considering all this. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know Miss Kruger. I think it would be better if you waited outside.”

“Of course.” Keeping his smile firmly in place, Jonathan turned away and counted to five. When he looked over his shoulder, the foyer was empty. The front door was closing in slow motion. It had an inch to go before it locked. Rushing forward, he rammed his toe into the doorjamb. It was too late. The bolt had struck home.

He turned in a circle, cursing his bad luck. He thought about ringing all the buzzers to see if someone would pass him through, but that was too risky. He’d already been spotted by one resident. He didn’t want to be reported to the police.

He dug his hands into his pockets. His fingers touched Emma’s key chain. Maybe he did have a key…

He produced Eva Kruger’s key chain. Besides the car key, there were three others, each marked by a color-coded rubber ring. He tried one at a time in the door. The black one didn’t fit. Neither did the red. The green key slid home. With a flick of the wrist, he freed the bolt. He was inside a moment later.

A well-lit staircase wound up and around the elevator shaft. There were three apartments on each floor clustered around an art deco landing with a plant, a side table, and a mirror. As was Swiss custom, the resident’s name was engraved below the buzzer. He found Eva Kruger’s flat on the fourth floor. He rang the doorbell, but no one answered.

It goes back further than Lebanon.

Hoffmann was McKenna from Kosovo. And Kosovo was five years prior to Lebanon. It might go back further than Lebanon, but Lebanon was as far back as Jonathan could go. Somehow, he couldn’t get his mind around the bigger implications. Maybe he didn’t want to.

The fact was that he no longer had any choice.

Jonathan slipped the key into the lock and opened the door to Eva Kruger’s apartment.

Across the hall, the woman watched through her peephole as the injured man entered the apartment. Of course she knew Eva Kruger. Not well, mind you. It was impossible to have more than a passing acquaintance with a woman who traveled so frequently. Still, on several occasions, the two had spoken and she’d found her nice enough. She knew better, however, than to trumpet the fact to a stranger. Certainly not to a man who was bleeding all over himself.

It was not the first time this week that unknown people had been looking for Fräulein Kruger. Two nights earlier, she’d seen a pair of men acting strangely outside the building. She’d entered without speaking to them, and later, she’d heard noises on the landing and looked out her peephole in time to see them entering Eva’s apartment. She still felt bad for not having alerted the police.

And now a man with a neck wound who was practically bleeding on the ground!

She would not make the same mistake twice.

Returning to her living room, she picked up the phone and called the police. “Yes, Officer,” she said. “I’d like to report a…” She wasn’t sure what it was. The man did, after all, have a key. She brushed off her worries. He was an intruder. “I’d like to report an intruder at Waldhoheweg 30. Please come right away. He’s inside now.”

They had been there . This time they hadn’t taken care to conceal their presence, Jonathan observed. What he saw before him was evidence of a painstaking and methodical search conducted without fear of discovery.

The living room was large and sparsely furnished, lit by track lights. Directly in front of him was a black leather couch, its cushions removed, lined up beside it as if it were to be cleaned. Books had been pulled from the shelves and stacked on the floor. Magazines likewise. A Persian carpet had been rolled up and not quite rolled back. There was an Eames chair. A sleek coffee table with too much chrome and polished metal. A tortured sliver of steel that passed as a sculpture. Someone had lived here…but it wasn’t Emma.

He slid the driver’s license from his pocket and stared at the picture of his wife. The furniture matched the chic glasses, the severe hair, the glaring lipstick. It was Eva Kruger’s furniture.

He forced himself to make a tour. The kitchen was clean to the point of being antiseptic. Cupboards open. Plates removed, stacked on the counter. Glasses likewise. He opened the refrigerator. Orange juice. White wine. Champagne. A tin of beluga caviar. An onion. A loaf of packaged black bread. A jar of pickles. It was an apartment in which to entertain during her “lightning safaris.”

In the freezer, there was a bottle of Polish vodka in an ice ring. He checked the brand. Zubrowka. Made from buffalo grass. Two frosted shot glasses sat on the rack above it.

Opening the bottle, he poured himself a shot. The vodka was colored a pale yellow and had the consistency of syrup. He put it to his lips and knocked his head back. “To Emma,” he said aloud. “Whoever you really were.”