Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

“My God, are you all right?”

She rushed across the room to him, where he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her like a lost child. Intense emotions were coursing through him, his body heaved of its own volition, and a great sob broke from his lips. He felt a sudden and enormous sense of relief. Bewildered, he just clung to her, trying to contain himself and understand what was happening.

“Michael, Michael, talk to me, please!” Lisa implored him, but he was unable to talk. His brain was resetting; working like a computer after someone chose a new start , it was busy creating order out of chaos. Gulping air into his lungs, he tried to get his bearings. Holding her was all he could do at that moment, and he felt like he should never let her go.

“Are you in pain?”

The assumption was not out of place. Lisa had never seen Michael cry.

He must be in pain, she thought, near panic.

Breaking free from his grip, she rushed for the phone, only to be stopped by his words when he finally spoke.

“I’m all right. I’m all right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s just, it’s just that I thought—”

He stopped speaking abruptly, and she turned to see his face full of confusion, close to despair.

“What did you think, Michael? What’s the matter? Is it your head?”

Holding the kitchen chair for support, he decided to sit, slumping down on the white rattan seat.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. The pain is gone, but God!”

He held his head in his hands, fighting for control of his frame. Breathing deeply, he ordered his body to calm down, to stop its madness. And slowly, very slowly, he felt it respond.

Lisa was now on her knees in front of him. Unsure what to do, she took his hands in hers and squeezed.

“Come on, darling, you’ll be fine. Just breathe, that’s it, deep breaths.”

It took some minutes, but finally, Michael felt he could stand up. Still holding her hands, he looked down into his wife’s tearful face and tried to console her, to help her understand.

“Wow.” He blew out a breath. “I have never known anything like that. I am so sorry, darling.” He squeezed her hands. “I woke up, and I didn’t know who I was.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was like a dream. This was not my house, you were not my wife, it was like I had woken up in another man’s body. And then I smelled the pancakes, and saw you, and it all came back. Christ, it felt like I had lost you—I had lost everything.”

Another tear rolled down his cheek. Getting to her feet, Lisa gently brushed it away, and clasping both sides of his face in her hands, she kissed him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Buster; you are going to have to put up with me for the rest of your life! Now let me call the doctor. This is not usual for a migraine.”

The national health system was its usual inefficient self. After an afternoon in A&E, a Junior Doctor examined Michael. As there were no symptoms left to report, the pair were reduced to repeating their story to the overworked child, who just shook his head and peered through his Otoscope into Michael’s eyes and ears. Giving them promises of appointments with specialists in the coming weeks and an MRI scan early the following month, the young man was happy to see the couple capitulate, and head for the exit. Out in the car park, Lisa had to remind Michael where they had parked the car.

“It’s over here,” she said, pulling at his arm as he set off in the wrong direction. “We should go private, the bloody NHS. You could be dead before you get a proper diagnosis.”

“Don’t fuss, darling. I am feeling loads better. If it happens again, I will get it checked out in Germany. I promise!” They were both to be privately insured in Germany, so this made sense to his newly booted mind.

The tip off had come by way of a text message. His mobile phone made its distinctive ping , and after retrieving it from his overcoat’s pocket, Von Klitzing looked down impassively at the display. American Police had contacted Interpol, looking for help in contacting Britt Petersen.

He frowned. The source was reliable.

This was not good news.

His mind sped through the possible reasons that an American police officer would take interest in Britt Petersen.

None of them were comforting. Feeling his skin creep, he hurried back to his office in the club’s basement, verbalising his racing thoughts as he went.

“That bitch. I should have spent more time on her. What has she done? The Bitch.”

A young couple had to separate, to let the ranting individual pass between them. His eyes stared at the ground, his mouth constantly repeating the word, whilst his hands madly scratched at his arms, face, and scalp.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.”

Von Klitzing’s office was immaculate. Nothing was out of place, and everything was labelled. The complete right-hand wall was covered with a bank of small wooden pharmacy drawers. Each with a bronze, handwritten cardholder. The information they held had long been digitised, but Von Klitzing still preferred the traditional method. Opposite the drawers hung a large oil portrait of Adolf Hitler, held in a gilded frame, and between them was his desk. Von Klitzing turned to the painting and made a short bow, before, still muttering to himself, he turned back and pulled open one of the drawers at the centre of the left wall. Retrieving an information card, and flipping it over and over in his hands, he took his place behind the desk. Another futuristic-looking chair, this time with a high leather back and shoulder support, took his weight, moving back and to the side before finding its centre. It was mounted on the same spring assembly and wheels as the chair in the interrogation room. He swung round the curved table top, to pick up the telephone, before angrily punching in the international code zero, zero, one, and the area code six, four, six before the number. Waiting for an answer, he rubbed at an angry patch of psoriasis on his scalp and cursed under his breath.

“Deputy Chief Hanson here.”

“Hanson, Von Klitzing here. We have a problem. The Portland Police are looking for a woman called Britt Petersen. I need to know why! And I need to know soon!”

“Very well, sir, I will get straight back to you.”

Von Klitzing replaced the receiver, sat back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

Hanson was by no means as composed. He had long regretted his association with Von Klitzing, but, as ever, he was too weak to change it. Von Klitzing had appeared some ten years earlier, as his career was taking off, and his gambling problems had not yet reached their peak. At the time, he thought it was a chance meeting, at a roulette table in Vegas. As time passed, however, he learned that Von Klitzing didn’t do anything by chance. The two men had struck up a friendship over a mega gambling session, which saw them both lose a considerable amount. Von Klitzing had seemed unperturbed by his losses, offering Hanson a loan to tide him over. Against his better judgement, he had accepted. That was $250,000 ago, and their relationship had moved to a more formal one. Hanson got $25,000 a year, and, in return, Von Klitzing got what Von Klitzing wanted. He had given him information about investigations, mostly involving Wall Street companies. Occasionally, he would receive a tip about unlawfulness in the financial sector, which he would then investigate and prosecute. But as his need for funds had increased, so had Von Klitzing’s demands. In the last year, he had stopped three investigations into suicides of Wall Street employees, for which he received a modest increase, of $15,000 a year.

It didn’t take him long to get the information Von Klitzing needed. A deputy chief in the New York City Police Force always got what he wanted. Hanson was beginning to wish he hadn’t. Von Klitzing picked up on the second ring.