Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“Get up!” I say. “At once!” He obeys.

“Take off your jacket and lay it on the table. Slowly.”

He does so. I pick up his jacket, without taking my eyes off him, and frisk it for weapons. But there’s nothing and I drop the jacket on the floor.

“Empty your trouser pockets.”

He puts his lighter on the table and looks at me hesitantly.

“Turn around!”

I can’t bring myself to frisk him, but I can see that neither in his trousers nor in his belt does he have a gun.

“Push your bag across to me,” I say. “Slowly.”

I pick the bag up and rifle through it. Nothing — just harmless stuff. Lenzen is unarmed. But that doesn’t make a difference. For all I know, he might kill me with his bare hands. I grip the gun.

“Sit down.”

He sits down.

“I have some questions and I expect you to answer honestly,” I say.

Lenzen says nothing.

“Do you understand?” He nods.

“Answer me!” I yell.

He swallows. “Yes,” he says huskily.

I study him — the size of his pupils, the skin on his face, the throbbing of his pulse in his carotid artery. He’s had a scare, but he’s not actually in shock. That’s good.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Fifty-three.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“In Munich.”

“How old is your father?”

Lenzen looks at me in utter consternation.

“We can skip all this,” I say. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Er…for the interview,” says Lenzen, his voice trembling. He really is pretending not to know what I’m talking about.

“So you’ve no idea why I’ve asked you here?” I say. “You, rather than anyone else?”

Lenzen looks bewildered.

“Answer me!” I snap.

Lenzen hesitates, as if he were scared I might fire the gun if he said anything wrong.

“A little while ago you said you’d chosen me because you admire my work,” he replies with studied calm. “But it’s beginning to dawn on me that that’s not the real reason.”

I can’t believe he’s still playing the innocent. It makes me so furious that I have to make an effort to collect myself. Very well, I think. It’s up to him.

“All right then,” I say, “back to the beginning. How old are you?”

He doesn’t immediately reply; I raise the gun a little.

“Fifty-three,” he says.

“Where did you grow up?”

“In Munich.”

He tries to look at me rather than into the muzzle of my gun.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” He fails.

“I have an elder brother.”

“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have children?”

His hand strays to his temple.

“Listen, you’ve already asked me all this!” he says, forcing himself to sound calm. “What is this? A joke?”

“It’s not a joke.”

Lenzen’s eyes open a little wider.

“Do you have children?” I ask.

“A daughter.”

“What’s your daughter called?”

He hesitates — only momentarily, but I sense his reluctance.

“Sara,” he says.

“What’s your favorite football team?”

I note his mental sigh of relief as I move off the subject of his daughter. Good.

“1860 Munich.”

Time to hit below the belt.

“Do you like inflicting pain on others?” He makes a sound of contempt.

“No.”

“Have you ever tortured an animal?”

“No.”

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Nitsche.”

“How old is your father?”

“Seventy-eight.”

“Do you think of yourself as a good person?”

“I do my best.”

“Do you prefer dogs or cats?”

“Cats.”

I can almost see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tries to work out where I’m going with all this and, more importantly, how he can disarm me. I’m holding the gun in my right hand, leaning on the table for support. I hold it correctly; I don’t allow myself to become careless. I’ve been practicing. The table is wide. Lenzen doesn’t have a chance of getting at me or the gun. To do that, he’d have to come around the table. Not a chance. We both know that.

I ratchet up the pace.

“What’s your favorite film?”

“ Casablanca .”

“How old is your daughter?”

“Twelve.”

“What color is your daughter’s hair?” His jaw is grinding.

“Blonde.”

The questions about his daughter are bothering him.

“What color are your daughter’s eyes?”

“Brown.”

“How old is your father?”

“Seventy-seven.”

“A moment ago you said seventy-eight.” Punish every mistake.

“Seventy-eight. He’s seventy-eight.”

“Do you think this is a game?” He doesn’t reply. His eyes flash.

“Do you think this is a game?” I repeat.

“No. It was a slip of the tongue.”

“You should get a grip on yourself,” I warn him. Put him under stress, wear him down.

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Nitsche.”

“How old is your father?” Lenzen conceals a sigh.

“Seventy-eight.”

“What’s your favorite band?”

“U2. No, the Beatles.” Interesting.

“What’s your favorite Beatles song?”

“All You Need Is Love.”

Touché. I try not to let anything show, but I fail. Lenzen looks at me; his gaze is shifty, inscrutable.

Time to tighten the screws.

“You lied to me, Herr Lenzen,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter. I know your daughter’s name isn’t Sara; it’s Marie.” I let this sink in.

“You know,” I say, “I know a great deal about you. More than you think. I’ve had you watched for a long time. Your every move.”

That’s a lie, but what the hell.

“You’re crazy,” says Lenzen. I ignore this.

“In fact I know the answer to every single question I’ve asked you and to all the questions I’m going to ask you.”

He snorts. “Then why ask?” Now that’s predictable.

“Because I’d like to hear the answers from you.”

“The answers to what? Why? I don’t understand any of this!” At least part of his desperation sounds genuine. I mustn’t go easy on him now.

“Have you ever been involved in a fight?”

“No.”

“Have you ever hit anyone in the face?”

“No!”

“Have you ever hit a woman?”

“I thought ‘anyone’ included women.”

He seems back in control, damn him. Talk of violence leaves him untroubled. Cold bastard.

“Have you ever raped a woman?”

His face no longer betrays any emotion.

“No.”

The only sore point I’ve been able to make out so far is his daughter. I decide to embed all potentially delicate and provoking questions in questions concerning her.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Twelve.”

His jaw muscles clench.

“What year is your daughter in at school?”

“Year seven.”

“What’s your daughter’s favorite subject?”

I spot a vein I hadn’t noticed before on Lenzen’s temple. It’s throbbing.

“Maths.”

“What’s the name of your daughter’s horse?” And throbbing.

“Lucy.”

“Do you think you’re a good father?” His jaws are grinding.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever raped a woman?”

“No.”

“What’s the name of your daughter’s best friend?”

“I don’t know.”

“Annika,” I say. “Annika Mehler.” Lenzen swallows. I feel nothing at all.

“What’s your daughter’s favorite color?”

“Orange.”

His hand strays toward his temple; he’s sick of all these questions about his daughter. Good.

“What’s your daughter’s favorite film?”