“Where are we going?” she asked as he fired up the Cinquecento and pulled out into the traffic. She wore a light, white cotton skirt with a red cashmere sweater and she’d applied some of Carla’s eyeshadow and lipstick. She looked like a model from Milan. He changed up a gear and they were so close together, his hand brushed her knee.
“Sorry. It’s a little cramped in this thing. I had one of these last time I was here and I thought it was great fun, but I was on my own so…” He grinned awkwardly at her and she gave him a mock reproving look in return.
“Where are we going, Harry? I thought we needed to get away as soon as possible.”
“I know. But there’s one thing I need to do first and I want to talk to you about it.”
He found the route without going via Santa Cristina De Lago and he could sense her discomfort as it began to dawn on her where they were headed. She rested her elbow on the side window and propped her head up with one hand. There was no one around and no traffic other than a single motorcycle he’d once spotted in the rear-view mirror.
They turned off at the lane leading up to the church of San Dionisio, and Harry watched in the mirror as the same motorcycle passed by the end of the lane and carried on down the road. He caught a glimpse: big bike, Triumph Bonneville or similar, fitted with panniers, rider in black leather and crash helmet. Long distance tourer. It reminded him of the one he’d seen the previous day in the piazza at Monte Galliano. They weren’t uncommon.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked. The softness had gone, her manner defensive and wary. He pulled up in the same place as before and got out, then walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She didn’t move.
“Please, Lucia, there’s something I need to ask you.”
“Then ask me.”
“Not here. Please. It will only take a moment.”
She ignored his outstretched hand and climbed out, her expression one of anger and trepidation. She walked ahead of him along the path and then onto the soft green grass. She knew where she was going. He caught up with her standing in front of the headstone and she made the sign of the cross on her forehead and chest. He noticed tears and she made no attempt to wipe them away; she simply stared at the headstone that bore the names of her family. They stood in the silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, both remembering.
“It’s a beautiful place,” he said, but his voice faltered and he fought to hold back his own emotions. “You’ve been here before?”
She shrugged. “Maybe ten years ago. I came back once, but there is nothing for me here.”
“I’m pleased to be able to share this moment with you.”
“Is this why you came? What you wanted to ask?”
He paused. No, it wasn’t. There was something else he needed to know.
“Lucia. Why is there no mention of the baby? Catalina. Why is she not buried with her mother?”
She turned to look at him, confused. But her eyes moved, focusing on something else, something behind him.
“A very touching scene.”
Harry’s heart sank. He’d been careless again and Barone had caught up with him. But he could explain everything. He turned around slowly and despite the warmth of the sunshine on his face, the chill rose from the ground beneath his feet, crept up his legs and buried itself deep in his spine like a spear made of ice.
He was older, of course – older than the film, older than that day in the farmhouse and absent the blood and soot and smoke and the crazed expression. But he still held a gun as he had on every other occasion. Black leather jacket and trousers. Black leather boots. Jackboots.
“Kessler,” he whispered.
“Good day, Major Male. I am very happy to meet you again at last. Buongiorno, Signorina Girardi. Could this be little Lucia? My goodness, you have grown up to be a handsome woman.”
Harry looked at her in confusion but she was staring at Kessler, strangely impassive. He knows her? And she knows him? How?
“You have no right to be here,” she said, taking a step forward, apparently fearless, and Harry grabbed her arm to restrain her. She had no idea what this man was capable of.
“I have every right. Now I suggest we go into the church and perhaps we shall say a prayer together?” Kessler waved the Makarov at them, pulling Lucia’s Beretta from his pocket. “Thinking about this, Major?” Harry berated himself. He’d left the gun in the car, unwilling to desecrate a churchyard. Kessler shepherded them up the path towards the door.
The church was empty and quiet. A dozen candles burned on a table next to the aisle and down one side, shafts of sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, a faint dust billowing in its rays.
“To the altar steps,” said Kessler. They walked slowly up the aisle then stopped and turned. “Lucia, move to one side, please.”
“Do it, Lucia,” said Harry without taking his eyes off him.
“What do you want?” she said, her voice now laden with contempt but also the stirrings of fear.
“What do I want? I want to kill him.”
“In a church?!”
“It doesn’t matter where. But I think this is probably a good place, don’t you think so, Major Male? You see, Lucia, this man is a criminal before God and must be punished.” Harry thought Kessler must be crazed and deluded, but he appeared calm and relaxed. He was an old hand at assassination and murder. He was a Nazi after all; it was second nature to him. Harry decided he could be calm and relaxed too.
“Lucia, this is the guy, the crazy German who shot me in your house back in forty-four. He’s also the assassin who killed a refugee from East Berlin along with two of my colleagues, three police officers and an innocent old woman who just got in the way. He and his Nazi pals also murdered a hundred and forty-three civilians in Santa Cristina De Lago. We have him on film.”
“You forgot the two idiots in the forest yesterday,” he added, smirking. Harry laughed at the irony. Of course! The sniper. He wasn’t surprised, but he was confused.
“So why didn’t you shoot me then when you had the chance?”
“Because you were too far away and I wanted to get close. I wanted to get close so you could see who was killing you. And also, you had a gun. That was inconvenient.”
Harry shook his head. It still made no sense. “But you had me on the floor in my own apartment in Berlin with a gun to my head and you didn’t shoot.”
“I came to kill the traitor Bergmann. I didn’t expect to find you there too. I confess I hesitated when I recognised you. Not good for a professional. But you could not see me! Your eyes were closed, filled with the blood and the brains of the old hag. I needed you to know. I needed you to know that I was going to kill you, just like you know now!”
“So rather than kill me there and then, you let yourself get arrested, confident you’d just escape and come after me again? Just so you could have time to explain?”
“If I had shot you, they would have shot me. That would have been a waste. The police were just a nuisance, a minor distraction. I came to visit you in your new apartment but you were not there!” Kessler ladled on the irony, he was enjoying the moment. “I did not expect you to run away to Italy. But here we are. And very soon you will die.”
Harry still couldn’t rationalise Kessler’s behaviour, but it hardly mattered. The guy was a psychopath, he had proven that time and again and he would be the next victim. He needed to play for time and as it appeared Kessler’s desire was to relish the moment, spin it out for as long as possible, that suited him too. He knew the average Nazi could be volatile and if Kessler was true to form, it might be a weapon he could use against him.
“You see, Lucia. Here’s a perfect example of your typical Nazi. He’s from the same mould. They kill because they enjoy it. He wants his victims to know how much he enjoys it and he likes to watch them suffer while he does it.” He watched Kessler’s expression. The arrogant and relaxed manner was evaporating. “He and his ilk have no respect for human life, no respect for humanity. I watched him on film, casually shooting men and boys in the head, then smiling at the camera when he’d finished.”
“It is tradition to smile for the camera. Anyway, it was not my order to kill them and those who were not already dead, I simply put out of their misery. It was merciful.”
“Did they teach you that stuff at school, Ernst? Did Mama and Papa pat you on the head when you came home in your little brown uniform with your right arm in the air and ask you how many Jews you’d killed?”
“The Jew had to be eliminated. The Jew was filthy and disgusting and made himself rich while we starved. The Jew was a parasite. We were superior in every way.”
“See? Just like his bloody Führer: deranged, depraved, psychopathic.”
“The Führer was a hero of Germany.”
“He was a bloody lunatic!” Harry watched Kessler adjust his grip on the Makarov, a slight shake in the gun hand. “A short ugly little prick with a stupid haircut who killed everyone who disagreed with him because he alone had all the answers.”
“He gave us back our country!” Kessler’s voice was beginning to rise now, his teeth gritted.
“He lied to you. He lied to everyone. He even believed his own lies, his own self-deluded fantasies. He strutted and swaggered and shouted and convinced you Aryans were the perfect race and that everyone else was to blame for your misfortunes and you all fell for it.”
“He gave us back our pride and our self-respect!”
“But he lost, didn’t he?”
“He was betrayed by the cowards around him!”
“He lost because the truth finally exposed him as a fraud.”
“I will not listen to the opinion of a Jew-loving Englishman. The Führer took on the whole world and it took the whole world to stop him!” He saw Kessler was on the edge, visibly shaking, foam gathering at the edges of his mouth, gun hand twitching again.
“Did you and your pals take shouting lessons at school, Ernst? I mean, why is it you Nazis are always screaming and shouting at people?”
“Because you are all fools!” he bellowed. “You cannot see what we see!”
“What do you see, Ernst? Another Tommy telling you, you were wrong back then and you’re still wrong now?” The colour had risen in Kessler’s neck. Harry kept going. “Are you still fighting the war, Ernst? Still trying to kill everything that gets in the way? How many more have you killed since then? Lucia, this man kills people for a living. He doesn’t care who they are or what they’ve done; he does it because he enjoys it. Were you born a maniac Ernst or did you go to psycho school?”
Kessler looked suddenly wistful. “The war took everything from me, everything I had ever loved and believed in. Despite what you might think Major Male, I once lived a normal life. I was not the monster you think. I did my duty for my country and I will not apologise for that. I gave everything, including my soul and how was I repaid?” Harry could see Kessler winding up like a coiled spring; whipping himself up into a frenzy of vitriol. “My family was murdered and I was left to rot in a filthy Russian jail until they discovered I had a use and that use gave me a purpose; a purpose to ensure everyone would feel the same pain that I feel.
“You!” he jabbed the gun in Harry’s direction. “You and all the others like you did this to me. You made me what I am! You are responsible!” Kessler was a pressure cooker ready to burst.
“How on earth can you blame me?”
“You are responsible for the death of Ernst Kessler and his family!”
Harry looked aghast at the outpourings of a madman. There would be no reasoning with him, but about this, he was plain wrong. “What’s that got to do with me?”
Ernst Kessler’s rage exploded like a grenade. “You killed my wife!”
His scream echoed around the church, the reverberations eventually dissipating, leaving them stranded in the unholy silence. Jesus looked down from the cross and the Virgin Mary’s eyes were lifted towards heaven, praying to God, but neither appeared moved to comment. Kessler took another deep breath. “You butchered her and then you butchered my child!”
The echoes reached into every last corner, finally subsiding, leaving Harry rooted to the spot, paralysed with confusion. He’d never been anywhere near the man’s wife or his child. Kessler began to sob, but it was Lucia who tried to bring calm.
“Isabella was not your wife,” she said softly, looking down at the mosaic floor.
“She would have been my wife. And we had a child.”
Harry snapped out of his torpor and cast a nervous glance at Lucia. What’s happening?
She looked him in the eye. “He is the father. Catalina was his child.”
“And he killed them both!” snarled Kessler.
“No!” It was Lucia’s turn to shout, to take control of the madness. “Isabella was already dead. He delivered your child,” she said with passion, pointing directly at Harry.
“Liar!”
“No, Ernst. It’s true. He was trying to help her when one of your German rockets hit the house. It killed my father and Isabella before the baby could be born. He cut Isabella open to save the baby. To save your daughter.”
Kessler’s face twitched, processing the information, preparing again to denounce the lie, unable or unwilling to accept it as truth, but also, stabbed through the heart. The sobbing started again.
“A girl? Isabella had a baby girl? We had a baby girl and this man killed her?”
“No, you fool! He saved her.”
The sobbing turned again to fury within a second. “But I saw him! He had a knife! He was cutting her into pieces! I had to stop him.”
Harry was back in his nightmare. He could hear the explosions outside the farmhouse, the demented German in front of him, waving the gun and screaming, shouting… Obersturmbannführer Ernst Kessler!… echoing in his brain, the baby wriggling upside down in one hand, bloody knife in the other. He heard himself speaking out loud.
“I had just cut the cord,” he said absently, as if trying to remember the chain of events, but it was like slow motion. “She almost slipped from my hand and I caught her.” He looked up at Kessler. “Then you came from nowhere. You were there in front of me. Shouting.” I am Ernst Kessler… I have come to kill you! “The bombs fell and your gun went off and I fell backwards and you disappeared.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Kessler, shaking his head in denial.
“The baby died in my arms. You killed her.” Kessler’s head shook and his eyes rolled in their sockets. “Your Nazi guns killed Isabella and you killed your own child.”
“Nein!” The entire church and the ground on which it had stood for a thousand years shook at the sound of the devil in its midst. And in the deathly silence that eventually followed, an angel spoke.
“She did not die.”
Lucia’s voice cut through the evil resonance and both men froze. Harry turned to look at her. One of them had lost their mind but it wasn’t Lucia Girardi. She was calm and composed.
“I took her from you. Catalina was alive.” She switched her gaze to Kessler and Harry followed it. Ernst Kessler and Harry Male were struck dumb, but before either recovered the power of speech, they were startled by the sound of the heavy latch on the main door.
Harry lowered his head and launched himself at the German, colliding with Kessler’s middle like a battering ram, wrapping his arms around his body and propelling them both into the aisle. They landed together in a heap and Kessler grunted at the force of Harry’s weight falling on top of him. Harry grabbed Kessler’s wrist to force the gun down and it went off with a loud explosion, sending splinters of oak pew flying as he pummelled the German’s head with his right fist. But Kessler’s rage made him impervious to the blows and he reached up to Harry’s face with his left hand, trying to gouge his eyes. Harry lifted his head back out of reach and punched again, but it still had no effect.
And then there was a riot of noise, boots on stone, men shouting. “Si arrenda! Stop!” Italian voices telling someone to yield, legs and bodies on top of them, pulling at their clothes, kicking and punching, Harry being hauled off Kessler and dragged backwards, arms flailing, three polizia trying to restrain the German, one repeatedly hitting him with a cosh, one twisting his arm behind his back, one holding his legs, a fourth standing on a pew pointing a gun. Harry struggled and wrestled against the grip of the two polizia holding him but gradually ended his resistance as he watched Kessler succumb to the blows and finally go limp.
“Harry!” Lucia was in front of him, distraught.
“Vada indietro, signora!” said one of the officers, telling her to get back.
“Lo rilasci!” she said. Let him go.
They flipped the semi-conscious Kessler onto his front and cuffed his wrists behind his back. Then two of them lifted him up and dragged him by the arms down the aisle, feet trailing, the toes of his jackboots leaving a black streak along the ancient stone floor. Harry’s breathing stabilised and he looked into Lucia’s anguished eyes, feeling a sting on his cheek and a trickle of blood. A plain-clothes officer strolled up behind her.
“Signora Barone, please,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Keep away from this man.”
“No! You keep away,” she said, pointing down the aisle. “That is the man who was threatening us. He’s a killer.”
He turned his attention to Harry. “My name is Commissario Fabio Bianchi. Are you Mr Harry Male?”
“Yes.”
“You are wanted for the kidnap of Signora Lucia Barone and the murder of Paolo Barone and Franco Prezzi.”
“I didn’t murder anyone, Inspector. She’s right. The chap you want is Ernst Kessler. Your men just carried him out. If you’d like to check with the Berlin police, you’ll find he’s wanted for the murder of seven people including three police officers. I suggest your men are very careful.”
“Get off him!” Lucia shouted at the two uniformed polizia holding Harry and they stepped back, looking dumbly at each other. She flung her arms around Harry’s chest and gripped him tightly. Inspector Bianchi cleared his throat.
“Signora Barone. Your husband has accused this man of kidnap. I must take him for questioning about this and the murders of two men.”
“He’s innocent, Commissario.” Father Benelli was standing behind them in front of the altar. “I heard everything. The man you arrested confessed to those killings in the presence of God. He was going to kill these good people too. Here, in God’s house,” he said, making a sign of the cross. “He is a Nazi, a war criminal. He is guilty of terrible crimes. He participated in the massacre at Santa Cristina De Lago.”
Inspector Bianchi’s face darkened, trying to take in the priest’s testimony.
“I think you’ll find the bullets in the victims in the forest are from a Makarov,” said Harry. “The one Kessler had.”
Bianchi snorted and turned to Lucia. “Your husband has made a complaint,” he persisted.
“My husband is a monster and a crook. I am sure you know this already. Signore Male helped me get away from him.” She looked up into Harry’s eyes and smiled. “Does it look like I have been kidnapped?”
Bianchi ignored the inference and continued.
“I cannot release him until he has been questioned.” Inspector Fabio Bianchi was clearly a professional who knew his duty.
“Commissario,” said Father Benelli. “I am sure you have more important things on your mind at the moment – your daughter Maria’s wedding here on Saturday? You would not want anything to, shall we say, disrupt the proceedings.”
Bianchi flushed red. Then pointed at Harry.
“Which is your hotel?” he demanded.
“The Abruzzi.”
“Do not leave Montellano until I give permission!” he said irritably, then nodded to his men. “Buongiorno, Signora Barone.”
“Girardi!” she shouted as he turned away.
Bianchi left with his remaining two officers and they heard the church door clunk behind them. Lucia released her grip and Harry put an arm around her shoulder.
“Thank you, Father.”
“It is my pleasure, Signore Male. In Italy, there is a way to do business, eh?”