So you’d risk hitting innocent people,” said Frank with a hint of completely unearned moral outrage. If it suited him, Frank would have blown up the whole church.
Conrad ignored him, not least because he’d long since lost the discernment necessary to tell an innocent person from a guilty one. “I’ll drive to Birkenstein tonight, check the place out, do Freddie on the way home, get the hardware, hopefully do Eberhardt a week tomorrow, then Gaddi.”
Frank shook his head, an expression of disbelief, but he was still acting as if he wasn’t in danger himself. He knocked back his port and then looked down, contemplating the glass. Conrad guessed he was wondering if the time was coming to throw the glass, and in Frank’s hands that could prove enough of a missile to give him the edge.
Conrad decided to head him off at the pass—he dipped his hand into his coat and pulled out his gun. Frank looked up, his eyes drawn by the movement, and was genuinely surprised to see the gun with its silencer already attached.
“I altered and strengthened the inside pocket. It’s not perfect, but good for situations where you can’t wear it or carry a bag.”
I’m not surprised by your tailoring, Conrad, I’m surprised that you’re aiming a gun at me.”
“It’s nothing personal, Frank.”
Frank looked derisively and said, “Oh spare me the clichés! Jesus, forget the madness a second, what about the disloyalty, what about stabbing people in the back, people who’ve helped you? You do remember that, don’t you, Conrad? I took you in. You were a wreck, and I took you in and gave you a life.”
Conrad nodded, acknowledging the point and inadvertently offering hope in response to Frank’s indignation. He thought back to his arrival here nine years before, the spell its preternatural calm had cast on him. He’d booked into Die Alpenrose and hadn’t wanted to leave, like a convalescent soldier from an earlier war.
In truth, Frank hadn’t helped him at all; he’d merely smoothed the path of his descent. But Conrad couldn’t help but feel grateful to him, and now that he was here, he understood in some detached way that this wasn’t fair. Frank didn’t deserve to die, and certainly not by Conrad’s hand.
“I’m sorry, Frank, but you know who I am. There’s nothing more to it than that.” It sounded like a feeble excuse for killing someone, but he imagined he’d killed some of his targets for less over the years.
Frank tried a look of smug superiority, but it was undermined by his adrenaline jitters and he sounded slightly arch as he said, “Oh, I know who you are, but tell me, Conrad, are you absolutely sure you know who you are?”
“Nice try, Frank. I’ve been sick, I know that, but I remember everything I’ve done these ten years. That’s the worst of it—I know all too well who I am.”
“You’re forgetting something ...”
“I’m not forgetting anything.”
The conversation was going nowhere. Conrad shot Frank in the chest, the bullet meeting his final words halfway. “I lied,” said Frank, before the bullet punched him into the sofa and the glass fell to the floor.
He didn’t die instantly, and, apart from the bloody hole in his chest, he looked like he could keep conversing all night.
Conrad couldn’t resist asking, “What do you mean? What did you lie about?”
Frank’s eyes looked left and right, as if he was struggling to see where the question had come from or what it meant. Then he seemed to spot Conrad sitting opposite and a sense of understanding crossed his face. He coughed a little, producing blood, his lungs rattling with fluid. “Everything,” whispered Frank, almost to himself.
“I forgive you, Frank,” said Conrad, and immediately felt it was a cheap shot to make fun of a dying man’s words. He thought about adding something else, something more fitting, but Frank was done listening.
Conrad put the gun aside and sipped at his port, savoring the silence. He told himself it didn’t matter if Frank had lied to him. He’d always kept his distance from the business anyway, and like he’d said, as long as there were only four people—three now—who could connect him with it, the lies he’d been told and the truths they concealed were of no importance.
Conrad finished his drink, then worked Frank’s house the same way he’d been instructed to do the Klemperer job, killing the hard disk on his computer, collecting the loose disks. He took the SIM card from Frank’s phone, too, then built a couple of bonfires, one in the study and one around Frank.
And as he walked back to the car, his footprints already being erased by the gently relentless fall of more snow, the sitting room window was beginning to glow orange. A new house would be built here, and the neighbors would be shocked but happy that Frank was gone.