Private Berlin (Private 5)

I caught her as any loving son would. “They told me you died there too.”

She pushed back in horror. “No!”

“Yes.”

“But they said you’d be told I went into the West.”

“They said many things,” I replied. “I didn’t believe any of it.”

“And I should not have. Come in! Come in out of the cold!”

I smiled dutifully at her mothering, followed her inside, and shut the door behind me.

My mother’s living area was a simple place with an overstuffed reading chair and a lamp and a fire burning in a wood stove. There were no photographs, which made my mission seem all the easier.

She was looking at me in wonder and joy again. “I did not recognize you.”

“It’s been too long,” I said.

Timidly, she said, “Your father is dead, yes?”

“Five years now.”

“I’d heard that,” she said with a pained expression. “But I guess all things must pass,” she went on, and then swallowed and looked at me pleadingly. “Do you forgive me?”

I could not control my reaction.

My right hand shot out of its own accord and grabbed my dear mother by the throat. I lifted her dangling, bug-eyed, and choking into the air.

“As a matter of fact, Mother,” I said, “I can honestly say I will never, ever forgive you for leaving me.”

CHAPTER 70

PRIVATE’S CORPORATE JET was a sleek Gulfstream G650, the gold standard in business aviation. At nine forty-five that morning, the jet’s landing gear descended in anticipation of landing at Frankfurt am Main airport.

Mattie finished her coffee and handed it to the steward, and then looked at the front page of the Berliner Morgenpost. The newspaper was plastered with stories about Agnes Krüger’s murder and Hermann Krüger’s disappearing act.

Berlin Kripo was executing a search warrant on his offices and all his known residences in the city. The price of Krüger Industries stocks had fallen in overseas trading. At the same time, Olle Larsson, the Swedish financier, had filed documents that indicated he’d increased his position in Krüger Industries from 5 to 10 percent.

Mattie shook her head, puzzled, trying to stitch it all together. Was Krüger involved? Had he somehow known Chris when he was a child? Krüger was born in East Germany, wasn’t he?

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nbsp; She turned to look at Burkhart. The counterterrorism expert was in the tan leather captain’s chair opposite her. His eyes were closed—his great shaved head lolled to the right—and his breath came slow and rhythmic.

Mattie decided that she might have underestimated Burkhart. After shutting off Niklas’s light, she’d gone back to the kitchen and found Aunt Cäcilia laughing and Burkhart grinning, a plate of sausages and potato pancakes before him.

“He’s funny,” Aunt Cäcilia said.

“She’s a great cook,” Burkhart said, sipping his beer.

“I know that,” Mattie said, taking her own plate and beer.

They’d talked and eaten for almost an hour. Burkhart was funny and entertaining in a mordant way, a quality she attributed to the line of work he’d been in prior to joining Private Berlin.

He thanked Aunt Cäcilia twice after he’d finished, and then Mattie saw him to the door.

“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Burkhart said. “Thanks.”