Collision of Evil Read online

  The other men nodded.

  “I’ll help with the logistics,” one of the men across the table intoned. “But we need to know where we’re bringing the crates. How far from the cave are we going to travel?”

  The leader of the group pursed his lips and nodded. “I rented warehouse space not far from here a year ago, when we started to think that a move might be required. I’m glad I did, it makes everything easier.” The others seemed impressed at his prescience.

  “Anyway, since we have to drive slowly, especially with the trucks loaded, I estimate about ninety minutes from cave to the warehouse. We’ll need more time unloading the stuff at the end destination, of course, but the critical period is the time at the cave and the drive to the valley road. It could seem strange for trucks to be driving around up there, and I want to avoid attention.”

  “You didn’t say where this warehouse is located,” said one of the men.

  The leader smiled coolly. “I know where it is; that’s what’s important. You will all know once we arrive there. It’s best for now that we each carry in our heads only those details requiring our immediate attention. I think you understand, yes?”

  The trio issued a collective low murmur of assent.

  “We have to be careful moving these items; we don’t want breakage. I bought some battery-operated lamps at the home maintenance store. We’ll place them in the cave before we start moving things to ensure good visibility. We need to do this right the first time.” The group leader rubbed a hand absently against his cheek. “Okay. Anybody want coffee? I’ll buy. Any questions?”

  “No,” one of the men said. “I’m happy that we’re finally getting underway after years of waiting.”

  “Right,” the organizer agreed. “We mustn’t forget what we are doing. Remember our goal. Our lives up to now have only been the process of waiting for this moment. In a matter of days, everything changes. Everything.”

  A cavernous boom reverberated from behind them, another bowling ball striking against wooden pins. The leader smiled. “It will be like that. What we are going to do will be a lot like that. A hard hit, a smashing. It will change everything.”

  The others smiled with anticipatory satisfaction. And had there been anyone there to judge such a thing, it would have been noted that despite the smiles there was not a trace of humor on their faces or, for that matter, in their souls.

  Chapter 14

  Waldbaer had established the uncomfortable conviction that he was not merely out of shape, but was, in fact, in bad shape. He reflected on the droll aphorism muttered regularly by his friend Hans: strong mind, strong body, take your choice.

  He stopped his plodding ascent through the forest and slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees. He tried to breathe in deeply from the pure mountain air but could not, his lungs only able to ingest shallow, teasing wisps of oxygen. His hammering heart seemed intent on boring a way out of his chest and the racetrack tempo of its beat filled his ears. He concluded that his decision to make a survey of the mountainous terrain on foot had been a misjudgment. The related decision to make the survey alone held potential as a very grave misjudgment. No one knew he was here, and even if he raised someone on his cell phone, how to communicate with any precision where he was? Somewhere in the woods above the valley? Recognition of this error caused his fear to mix with self-reproach.

  Not moving, forcing himself to concentrate on the task of breathing, he willed himself to focus on something other than his physical condition. Glancing around, he took in his Arcadian surroundings. Pines, silent and thick, stretched out on all sides. He was standing in old forest, dark and damp, the air earthy with a trace of the fetid, a plush carpet of pine needles underfoot. After what seemed an interminable time, the protestations of his heart lessened and he breathed more steadily. He leaned for a moment against the bark of a broad tree and felt measurably better.

  He debated turning back, but expected that the worst part of the ascent was behind him. He was high above the place where the meadows surrendered to the woods, and the degree of incline ahead seemed less severe. He would try to venture to where the trees stopped at the dolomite outcroppings. He could go no farther than that without mountain climbing gear, which, in his condition, was no more than a theoretical possibility. Still, he might find something by then. But what? He did not know, he admitted to himself. Some sign, perhaps, of where Hirter had passed before his death, some disrupted area of earth suggestive of struggle or flight. He would just have to see. But he retained the sense that this piece of terrain was key to Hirter’s murder.

  Pushing away from the tree with some effort, Waldbaer propelled himself forward. He found a slow stride and kept to it, intent on maintaining regular breathing and heartbeat. He surveyed the ground as he moved, looking for any suggestion of something out of the ordinary. But all seemed undisturbed, an early autumn pastoral scene, summer having slipped away only day’s ago, the subtle shading of chestnut trees in the valley whispering of Father Winter’s impending, unwelcome approach.

  Fifteen minutes later he noticed a dark slash in the rolling swell of the forest floor. A shadow? No, something more substantial. He walked toward it. As he neared, it became evident that he was looking at tire tracks. The tracks traced the line of least resistance heading toward the cliffs above. The spoor had deely rutted the soft, damp earth. Waldbaer paused and thought. Was this something unusual or not? He considered that there were no meadows up above, thus no agricultural reason for a tractor or farm vehicle to travel this far into the woods. He also knew that this stand of forest was not being worked for lumber. Which left open the question, why did someone bother to drive up here?

  Waldbaer bent slowly to his knees and let his hands trace over the track marks. How recent? The sides of the impression were crisp and rough, and there was no veneer of forest debris over the tracks to suggest that they were old. It had rained heavily four days ago; he was certain the tracks were more recent than that. Examining the tire marks carefully, Waldbaer noticed that this path had been used in both directions; the vehicle had come back down the hill via the same route. He followed the trajectory of the tire marks with his eyes and saw that they zigzagged through the trees in the direction of the cliffs above. With a groan he hoisted himself erect again and followed the track upward, careful to stand off to one side.

  Twenty minutes later Waldbaer stood at the imposing face of the rock outcropping, a mass that rose above him like a fortress. He could see where the vehicle had moved back and forth near the cliff, as if seeking a good position. A good position for what, he wondered. Moving closer, he gingerly pushed at some of the brush along the rock face near where the vehicle had parked. Surprisingly, the brush fell away. He pulled at the branches with more earnestness and soon uncovered a yawning black recess in the stone. He stepped hesitantly into the mouth of the cavern and found himself enveloped in blackness.

  Using his hands to guide him along the rough cave wall, he moved a few yards forward. He felt smooth, hard-packed dirt beneath his feet and knew that this place had been used by men for some covert purpose. His temple connected sharply with rock and he realized that it would be pointless and dangerous to venture farther without light. Turning on his heels, he made his way back out of the cave.

  Once out, he did not pause but began his descent toward the valley, following the route of the tire tracks once again. When he returned here, he knew, it would be with an array of lamps and the full paraphernalia of a police investigation, which he intended to conduct with exacting German thoroughness.

  A half dozen green and white police Volkswagen SUVs were positioned wherever space allowed in the vicinity of the uncovered cave. The vehicles had their blue lights flashing, although Waldbaer could not understand the point of it, as they were far from any trace of humanity. At least the sirens were not whining. Procedures, no doubt, he allowed, aware that abiding by procedures, sensible or not, was tonic to the Germanic soul. The usually bucolic stand of forest was
awash with flashes of motion; in addition to the detective, there were nearly twenty uniformed police and white-clad forensic officers on site.

  Earlier that morning, Waldbaer had ranged around the terrain near the cavern, looking for anything out of place. He had been lucky. Largely hidden in the ebony shadows of an old spruce tree, he had detected a hint of navy blue. Moving there, he used a twig to carefully lift a baseball cap from its bed of needles and cones. Blue cotton fabric, stylized red letter logo on the front. Boston Red Sox. The headgear was not old; there was no sign of the decay that time and exposure would have wrought. This must have belonged to Hirter, the Massachusetts native. He carried the cap on his stick like a totem, depositing it in a plastic bag at one of the police cars, where it was tagged as evidence.

  Two policemen were taking a resin cast of the tire tracks that had lead Waldbaer to this place. Two others were wandering around apparently photographing at random. Trees, cave walls, rocks, all seemed of sufficient merit for a photograph. Although he did not dispute the need to record the scene, Waldbaer was skeptical about the investigatory value.

  Eventually tiring of surveying the scene, Waldbaer walked back into the cavern, which was now brightly illuminated by portable lamps. The shadows were gone, the aura of mystery the cave once possessed banished as well. The stone walls told him nothing, revealed nothing; the cave was empty. The information he sought was elsewhere. Turning this unhappy fact over in his mind, Waldbaer directed his vision to the items that had attracted his attention when they had first lit the cavern earlier that morning. Wood splinters, not large, but a number of them scattered on the ground. The splinters were smooth, planed wood, and the detective was certain that they issued from crates. Probably heavy crates that had been moved toward the cave entrance with difficulty. He contemplated this and a small flag waved in his mind.

  Hirter’s body. A wood shaving caught in the tread of his hiking shoes. Yes. Which meant that—in all likelihood—Hirter had been inside this place prior to his death. More than likely just prior to his death, or else the shaving would have worked its way out of the shoe. Waldbaer felt elated at making the connection, and a satisfied smile lightened his normally brooding countenance.

  This covert place was connected to the murder; of this Waldbaer was certain. Something had been stored here in wooden crates. Whatever had been warehoused in this stony surround had been sufficiently valuable to drive someone to murder. And possibly more than one murder, he mused, recalling the two hikers who had gone missing all those years ago. What dark and damning thing had been secreted here?

  Surely this cavern and its undefined contents were related to Sedlmeyer’s tale of the Kriegsende, the end of the war. The old man claimed to have been an eyewitness to a delivery of mysterious goods—in wooden crates—to precisely this part of the mountain. How many caves concealing hidden goods could there be up here? This had been the storage venue for crates dating back to 1945. But what mute prize was contained within the National Socialist packaging?

  “At least it’s a start,” Waldbaer muttered, ignoring the glance and raised eyebrow of a nearby police officer. He balled his fists and shoved them deep into the pockets of his sports coat. The problem was, the trail discovered now seemed to end. Whatever had rested here for decades had been moved. To where? The tracks to and from the cave could be traced only as far as the asphalt of the valley road below. To find the killers of Charles Hirter, they needed to determine the new location of the crates. At exactly that location, Waldbaer was convinced, all would fall together and the deadly sequence of events would be resolved. The detective’s love of clarity would be fulfilled.

  Waldbaer exited the cavern and stood under the pines, their sentinel stillness broken by the creaking of a branch high above. Perhaps someone had seen the truck or trucks that had been up here. It wasn’t impossible and represented the only real hope that the investigation could progress further. True, the mountains here were uninhabited and only sporadically invaded by hunters and hikers. But farther down toward the valley, where the meadows were located, there were a few farm dwellings. A long shot, perhaps, but one of the farmers might have noticed a vehicle moving up into the hilly terrain.

  Farmers. An interesting archetype. He ran through the qualities he assigned them: stubborn, narrow, loud, complaining. But at the same time: generally honest, hard-working, straightforward. Perhaps not bad on balance. Still, Waldbaer did not want to invest his time in visiting the three or four farmhouses within observing distance of the meadows. It would entail sitting in their rustic kitchens trying to pry out information word by word.

  “Colleague Eibel,” he said, and a bulky policeman nearby turned at the name. His complexion was like raw ground beef.

  “Yes, Herr Kommissar, what can I do for you?” The voice rumbled as if from some watery subterranean depth, thick with Upper Bavarian accent and a long intimacy with alcohol.

  “I want you to do something for me when you’re finished here. On the way back to the main road, you’ll see a few farmhouses. Pay them a visit. I’m hoping one of the farmers or their wives, distrustful, nosy creatures that they are, noticed the vehicle that traveled up here. If one of them has seen anything, let me know immediately.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kommissar,” the policeman intoned, hitching his trousers a centimeter higher over his generous, beer-built abdomen.

  Waldbaer walked over to the all-terrain vehicle he had driven up in, opened the door, and permitted gravity to assist him into the seat. There was nothing more to be gained here he concluded. Better to head back to the office and reflect. Maybe he should check on Hirter at the Alpenhof and give him the courtesy of an update. At least there had been some progress, however modest. Finding the baseball cap had been a good piece of luck; he was certain that a DNA test would definitively establish its provenance.

  Still, despite the day’s successes, he could not rid himself of an unsettling sense that some rapacious malignancy was let loose, larger in its dimensions than the brutal murder of Charles Hirter taken alone. There was no evidence for this sentiment, no facts to sustain it. It was an inchoate and primordial feeling only, but it weighed on him like a stone. A whisper that the evils recently unveiled were about to procreate explosively. He worried that he needed to do something to intervene against pending events but felt as helpless as a weak swimmer amid the waves of the North Sea. He heard fleetingly from inside his head the somber chords of Rachmaninov’s Isle of the Dead. He would have preferred to summon the vestigial strains of Mozart or perhaps Haydn, but the joyous notes would not come.

  Chapter 15

  Forty kilometers from the cavern, the crates lay in neat, military rows upon a concrete floor. The clandestine transfer of the items had gone without incident. The rented vehicles had been emptied quietly at their destination. The man who had organized these events gazed out over the cargo, his eyes squinting against the glare of neon lighting in the warehouse. He felt satisfied and the sensation coursed through him like blood. He was aware that a new stage in the operation had been achieved after years of waiting. Now the tempo of events would quicken and move along a trajectory toward violent completion. He wondered for a moment at the zeitgeist, a fine word from the German. The Spirit of the Age. Exactingly precise, he thought. Events were moving as they must, impelled by some invisible force toward an ordained conclusion. Destiny.

  It was not as if he himself had no part to play in the unfolding events; his personal fate was bound up with the cargo. The purpose of his life was contained in those wooden boxes. He was aware that the American he had killed had served as a catalyst for the movement of the cargo and its pending employment. In his own way, then, the American had served as a tool of the Spirit of the Age, and why not. They all had their role to play; whether wittingly or not was beside the point.

  The weekend would be busy. There was assembly to be finished, carefully, professionally. And phone calls to be made. It was critical that their activities be conducted clandestinely, but
this should not prove difficult. He felt certain that the police, that herd of otherwise unemployable dullards, could not prevent them from fulfilling their destiny. Even if the police managed to find the cavern where the goods had lain for so long, it would bring them nothing. Too late, friends, too late. It will lead you no farther, so go back to your liters of beer and your low-stakes card games. You will have more than enough to occupy you before long. He smiled broadly and broke into laughter, its resonance filling the otherwise silent warehouse.

  Chapter 16

  Waldbaer sat across the kitchen table from the couple, his back uncomfortable on the hard and unforgiving wooden bench. He felt the warmth of the steaming coffee cup between his hands. The farm kitchen was as he expected it to be—down to the last detail. Whitewashed walls and rustic, unvarnished pine cabinets. A collection of ceramic beer mugs with pewter lids arranged in a neat row under a window sill. The round, rude hardwood table before him was worn and scarred. It was impossible to tell whether it was twenty years old or two hundred. A large, hand-carved crucifix hung in one corner, its age equally a mystery. A calendar was thumbtacked to one wall, each month decorated with a color photograph of alpine flora. Edelweiss this month, prosaic but inoffensive. There was no chaos in this kitchen; this domain was ruled by an orderly housewife with an iron hand.