The Helsinki Pact (37 page)

Fuelled by the adrenalin pumping
through his system, Thomas felt no strain in cycling up the long,
steep hill which led to the farm. He let himself in, shouted a
greeting to Frau Dornbusch and ran up the staircase and locked
himself in the room. He turned the combination of the briefcase
lock then opened it quickly and took out one of the files. He
turned to the information on Roehrberg's house and began
reading.

Some time later Thomas, now
dressed in dark clothes, went downstairs and wheeled out the
bicycle ready for the ride to Roehrberg’s villa, a street or so
away from Henkel’s. The two were similar in structure although
Roehrberg’s had an observation turret built into the roof which
commanded an excellent view of the surrounding neighbourhood as
well as across the city, thanks to the hill on which the villa
stood. Roehrberg's wall seemed somewhat lower than Henkel's, he
noticed. It was now approaching five to eight.

There were lights on in several
rooms on both floors and Thomas regretted not arriving earlier to
watch who came and went. Now he would have to wait to see whether
Roehrberg was still at home or if anyone else was around. If
Roehrberg had the habit of leaving lights on when away then Thomas
would waste valuable time waiting unnecessarily and would probably
also have to prowl riskily around the house to check that it really
was empty.

“The files aren’t detailed
enough.” Thomas thought as he passed the house on the opposite
pavement and searched for a spot far enough away not to be
recognized if Roehrberg came out but still close enough to monitor
movements through the front door.

Some minutes later he saw a tall
shape hurry through the front door, slamming it shut behind him as
he went. “Roehrberg.” he thought, judging the man from his long
stride as he headed off at speed down the hill and in the opposite
direction from where Thomas was standing. Thomas locked his bicycle
to a street lamp and walked toward the entrance, scanning the
building carefully. He walked past the front door and saw to his
relief that most of the lights inside were now switched off. He
checked that there was no one on the road, walked to the far end of
the wall, jumped as high as he could, gripped a spike and fluidly
pulled himself up, swinging over and dropping lightly into the
garden. Despite Roehrberg’s reputation for efficiency he hadn’t
fortified his garden wall as much as Henkel had done but perhaps
that meant that the security measures taken at the house itself
were that much more dangerous to intruders.

According to the maps and the
files there were only two openings on the ground floor where the
alarm wasn’t connected, one a tiny bathroom fanlight too small for
anyone to get through and the other a barred wooden garden door
down to the basement. He hoped that Roehrberg might have left
something open, remembering how easy the entrance to Henkel’s house
had been, but then realised that even if he had it would be
impossible to use it without setting off the alarm. In Henkel’s
case the open window had probably been used by the murderer to
escape. It was increasingly obvious that Henkel hadn’t committed
suicide at all, he thought.

He stayed very close to the
garden wall while circling the building, moving to look inside
where possible and trying to hear any noise, however small, coming
from the interior. Everything was silent. It seemed that Roehrberg
had left the house empty. Even for him it was probably embarrassing
to confess to a girlfriend that he was off to dinner with a
beautiful blonde, business meeting or not.

He found the basement door and
examined it closely, finding it as he’d imagined from the plans
he’d seen. The door itself was stout and in good condition, held
shut by a thick iron bar which was fixed with a ring to the side
wall at one end, passed closely across the door and ended in a
hinged hasp which passed over the large staple in the door and was
secured by a serious looking steel padlock. With the lock opened
and removed the bar could be lifted out or up and the door thereby
freed but cutting through the padlock was going to be impossible.
Shielding his torch he examined and tested the staple and the
surrounding wood but could see no weakness. There was none that he
could see in the metal bar either but as the light showed up the
fixing of the ring in the wall he saw that it was old and that the
builder had used concrete rather than lime mortar, thereby damaging
the surface of the stone. The wall itself was weathered with
softened edges and the concrete was already slightly pulling away;
with luck, a few well placed smacks with a stone chisel would
complete the task and free the ring.

Although the chisels he'd brought
were padded on the handles the noise would still be significant but
he realised he had no choice. The small battery operated drill he'd
brought might also work but wouldn't really be much quieter and
would take several times as long.

He cringed as the sound of chisel
on stone rang out absurdly loudly in the still evening. He stopped
and listened but there were no footsteps on the pavement, no
challenge as to what was going on. In the end it was easy and after
only a few blows he freed a lump of stone with the ring and bar
still firmly attached. With the lock pushed round the staple there
was just enough play at the hasp end to allow him to swing the bar
clear of the door and in a moment he clicked the latch and pulled
it open with a harsh creak. Again he listened but there were no
worrying sounds nearby.

Standing at the top of a narrow
staircase Thomas cautiously flashed his torch around, hoping that
the report on Roehrberg’s house was accurate. He waited for a few
moments but there was no sound of an alarm breaking the stillness
and so he pulled the door closed behind him and cautiously walked
down and into the large basement room, flashing his torch around as
he went.

This was clearly a junk or
storage room, with objects of all kinds stacked in corners and
piled on top of each other. In the far left corner there was a tall
wooden construction housing a collection of bottles. On the right
hand side a couple of paintings leant against a wall. Further on
there were some old cane-bottomed chairs apparently waiting repair
but now covered in dust. By the foot of the stairs from the garden
were gardening tools. In a far corner there was a female mannequin
wearing a battered fedora at a jaunty angle, her right arm angled
up and holding a pretend cigar near her mouth.

Thomas moved the torch around a
final time before deciding there was nothing of interest. He moved
to a door opposite, finding it opened on to a staircase to the
house. He climbed carefully, alert to creaks and to any noise from
above, opened with infinite slowness the door into the corridor by
the kitchen and stood looking for the characteristic red lights of
motion sensors. There was nothing that he could see so he moved to
the front hall to find and deactivate the alarm system if
necessary.

Checking the sheet of the report
which showed the system details, he identified and took down from
the wall by the front door the painting which concealed the
controls. To his surprise it looked as if the system hadn’t been
activated and he checked his paper several times to make sure that
this puzzling discovery was correct. Possibly Roehrberg felt safe
since Bettina was having dinner with him. Indeed, maybe that was
one reason he’d invited her out, to avoid her poking her nose
around elsewhere. But a lot of other people, including foreign
agents and burglars looking for pickings from large houses, could
have had an interest in breaking in. Thomas had no time to think
the matter through. It was very odd but all that mattered was that
Roehrberg had left the system off, whether by mistake or
intentionally.

At the end of the front hall,
opposite the main entrance, was a wide flight of carpeted stairs
curving elegantly round to an upper landing. Roehrberg’s study was
through the third door on the right upstairs, the last room on the
corridor, according to the maps. Thomas quickly climbed the stairs
and walked along the unlit corridor, feeling in his rucksack for
the camera as he went. About to enter the study he saw light coming
from under the door. He bent to look through the keyhole but seeing
nothing straightened, turned the doorknob cautiously and pushed the
door open. It squealed slightly. His heart beat fast as the image
of Henkel’s body and the blood-stained desk flashed briefly through
his mind.

For a moment he stood in the
doorway and looked around the large and well proportioned room. In
the middle of the short wall opposite the door there was a large
fireplace with a marble mantelpiece above. There were still warm
ashes in the grate. The long wall to his left had three large
windows running almost to the ceiling and looking out over the
garden. The facing wall was entirely covered with solid mahogany
library bookshelves which then continued along the shorter wall to
the door where he stood, most of the shelves filled with books.
There was an ornate desk in the corner between the door and the
outside wall and on it were a couple of silver framed photographs
of a laughing, beautiful dark-haired, tanned woman in her early
twenties, taken by the sea. A large Persian carpet lined the floor,
its rich blue setting off the dark polished wood surround. Near the
far corner between the fireplace and the longer outside wall,
balancing the desk and facing the centre of the room, there was a
small velvet sofa with a low table in front of it on which were
scattered some magazines. In the other corner a wing chair,
upholstered in dark red velvet to match the sofa, faced at an angle
a fireplace set in the middle of the short outside wall directly
opposite the doorway.

Thomas closed the door and looked
at the piles of cardboard boxes neatly stacked in the middle of the
room by the table. Crouching, he opened the first box and found it
held a number of large volumes bound uniformly in light green cloth
and dated variously on the spines. The first one he picked up held
manuscript accounting records for the period 1980-1982. He skimmed
through the pages, glancing at the figures showing weights of raw
materials, labour costs and the tonnage of goods sold, then turned
to the front to check the name of the company but couldn’t find
anything relevant. He picked up another volume, finding different
information covering the same period but still with nothing to show
the company concerned. About to close the box and try another he
noticed a slim volume bound in blue and saw that this was a
five-year plan setting out the anticipated production of tonnes of
relevant products. He flipped to the front page and his heart
skipped a beat as he read “Dresdener Mehl Kooperative”
1985-1989.

Chapter 30

Tuesday January 16
1990, evening

AS Thomas propped open the report
on the mill and began to take photographs there was the sudden slam
of a door from somewhere downstairs. Startled, and with his heart
hammering, he listened but there was no further sound. "Wind from
an open window somewhere" he thought, but failed to convince
himself. He listened again but could hear nothing but his
breathing.

After a couple of minutes, his
tense muscle starting to ache, he relaxed and lifted the lid on
another box. As he was reaching for another blue bound volume he
heard the creak of a floorboard somewhere and a moment later the
low sound of voices. "Shit!" he thought. "Two. At least."
Impossible to sneak out of the room. He jammed the lid crookedly
back on the box and looked round frantically for somewhere to hide.
In a panic he grabbed the mill report and darted behind the sofa in
the far corner, crouching. He pulled out his gun, flicked off the
safety catch, and eased himself as low and out of sight as he could
manage. He realised he was breathing hoarsely, panting, and forced
himself to breathe slowly to clam himself. The voices grew
louder.

“Third door on the right,
Roehrberg said. The room with the light on.” a low-pitched, gruff
voice said.

The doorknob rattled and he heard
the men enter the room. They were several feet away but Thomas felt
as if they were standing next to him and could hardly fail to
notice him crouched behind the sofa. “So that’s why the alarm
system wasn’t on!” he thought. He held hhis gun at the ready and
waited for the worst.

“I guess this is it.” a younger
voice said. “Must be twenty boxes there, by the look of
things.”

Thomas could hear someone lifting
boxes and putting them down again.

“Shit, they’re heavy.” the deeper
voice said. “I think we’ll bring them down one by one. We still
have a bit of time before the boss returns, no use breaking our
backs.”

“You’re lucky,” the younger voice
said. “I had to move the things on my own the other evening. And
not just down stairs either, out of one place round the corner and
then into this one. Not to mention the rest.”

“Shut up and move them.” the
other growled. “I don’t want to hear a single word about it, do you
understand? Complain again and I swear I’ll cut your balls off. Now
pick up a box and get your young arse downstairs with it. You
should be glad I’m helping you and you’re not loading them all in
the van by yourself. OK, get the tape and let’s get these babies
sealed as we move them. You got the scissors?”

Thomas checked the exact time on
his watch as they left the room and waited until he heard the steps
descending before coming out from his hiding place. The footsteps
vanished into the distance. It would take them a couple of minutes,
possibly more, he judged, to drop off the boxes in the van and
return to the room. The first two boxes contained bound books. The
other ones, bigger but lighter, held collections of lever arch
files. Thomas opened one file and then another, opening the files
randomly and taking several photographs each time. As the footsteps
returned, coming back up the stairs, he put the file back in its
place and hurried behind the sofa. The two voices kept talking as
they came up. Thomas could barely hear them.