Read Online Private Berlin by James Patterson, Mark Sullivan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Mark Sullivan
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a sweet, mixed-up kid and wished her well.
Mattie quit out of the mailbox before she thought to sign in to her personal account. She hadn’t looked at that e-mail account
in well over a week, but then again the only person to use it regularly was…
Amid the spam, Mattie spotted an e-mail from Chris with a date stamp of the prior Wednesday evening at approximately 10 p.m.
She opened it and saw only an MPEG attachment. She clicked on it.
Chris’s face appeared on her screen. He was in his apartment, in the alcove, looking weary, and sounding partially drunk,
with Socrates in his lap.
“Hi, Mattie. I’ve tried to respect your wishes and not contact you, but…” He stopped, looking away from the camera.
He cleared his throat, gazed at the lens again, and said, “Mattie, I’ve gotten on to something, and I feel that if I can see
this through, then it’ll be better, better for me, and better for you, and for Niklas.”
Chris’s eyes glistened, watering with tears. “These past few weeks have been the worst I can remember since I was a kid. I
miss you, Mattie. I miss Niklas, too. And Aunt Cäcilia. Call me? Or send me a message back? However you want to contact me,
I’ll be waiting. I love you both. I always will.”
The clip ended and went dark.
Mattie collapsed into sobs so loud that Aunt Cäcilia came running.
CHAPTER 20
IT’S JUST AFTER dawn, my friends, and the rain pours as I drive south out of Berlin in the Mercedes Benz ML500 I picked up last year. Do
you know the ML500? It’s like a tank in wet conditions, my power vehicle, my go-anywhere car.
Normally I’m the picture of confidence behind the 500’s wheel. But I’m nervous as I drive, thinking about the police at the
slaughterhouse last night. When I awoke, I desperately wanted to pass by again this morning, but I had such a long way to
drive and so little time before I needed to be back at work.
Southeast of Halle, I find a two-track lane that goes down by the river, a secluded spot. Especially in this foul weather.
I park and wait, thoughtless except for the pleasant task before me.
Twenty minutes later, a motorcyclist rides up wearing rain slickers and a black helmet. The deluge has ebbed to a light drizzle.
I get out wearing a rain jacket with deep pockets and my gloved hands shoved into them.
My friend pulls off the helmet, revealing a swarthy man in his late thirties, a Turk who is also a thief. And as a thief would,
my friend says, “I want more money. I almost got caught. I almost got killed.”
“So you said on the phone last evening,” I reply agreeably. “Fifty thousand euros instead of the twenty-five. Will that cover
it?”
I could see the thief had expected an argument, but now he nods.
“You show me yours,” I say. “I’ll show you mine.”
My friend goes to dig in his saddlebags. I open the rear of the Mercedes. Next to the tarp that contains the body of the computer
hacker, I find a leather satchel. I open it and draw out a little something to help speed things along. Then I pick up the
bag as if I were serving it at a fine restaurant, the jaws gaped so the cash inside is visible.
I walk to the thief. He’s holding the hard drive.
I make as if to hand him the moneybag and then stumble. The bag pitches from my hands.
My friend instinctively reaches out to catch it.
I stick him with a stun gun and jam the trigger.
He jerks violently and collapses.
I stun him again, then drop the device and ram the screwdriver up under the nape of his skull.
Now the thief quivers on his own, but I hold him tight, feeling the mystery drain from him and fill me once more.
But on this occasion I cannot pause to savor the moment or the sweet stillness that follows death. I’m in the open. It is
raining. But I could be seen if I remain too long.
Instead, I superglue the wound, and drag the thief’s body to the riverbank. I wade out and push him into the main current,
hoping that the cold
Mattie quit out of the mailbox before she thought to sign in to her personal account. She hadn’t looked at that e-mail account
in well over a week, but then again the only person to use it regularly was…
Amid the spam, Mattie spotted an e-mail from Chris with a date stamp of the prior Wednesday evening at approximately 10 p.m.
She opened it and saw only an MPEG attachment. She clicked on it.
Chris’s face appeared on her screen. He was in his apartment, in the alcove, looking weary, and sounding partially drunk,
with Socrates in his lap.
“Hi, Mattie. I’ve tried to respect your wishes and not contact you, but…” He stopped, looking away from the camera.
He cleared his throat, gazed at the lens again, and said, “Mattie, I’ve gotten on to something, and I feel that if I can see
this through, then it’ll be better, better for me, and better for you, and for Niklas.”
Chris’s eyes glistened, watering with tears. “These past few weeks have been the worst I can remember since I was a kid. I
miss you, Mattie. I miss Niklas, too. And Aunt Cäcilia. Call me? Or send me a message back? However you want to contact me,
I’ll be waiting. I love you both. I always will.”
The clip ended and went dark.
Mattie collapsed into sobs so loud that Aunt Cäcilia came running.
CHAPTER 20
IT’S JUST AFTER dawn, my friends, and the rain pours as I drive south out of Berlin in the Mercedes Benz ML500 I picked up last year. Do
you know the ML500? It’s like a tank in wet conditions, my power vehicle, my go-anywhere car.
Normally I’m the picture of confidence behind the 500’s wheel. But I’m nervous as I drive, thinking about the police at the
slaughterhouse last night. When I awoke, I desperately wanted to pass by again this morning, but I had such a long way to
drive and so little time before I needed to be back at work.
Southeast of Halle, I find a two-track lane that goes down by the river, a secluded spot. Especially in this foul weather.
I park and wait, thoughtless except for the pleasant task before me.
Twenty minutes later, a motorcyclist rides up wearing rain slickers and a black helmet. The deluge has ebbed to a light drizzle.
I get out wearing a rain jacket with deep pockets and my gloved hands shoved into them.
My friend pulls off the helmet, revealing a swarthy man in his late thirties, a Turk who is also a thief. And as a thief would,
my friend says, “I want more money. I almost got caught. I almost got killed.”
“So you said on the phone last evening,” I reply agreeably. “Fifty thousand euros instead of the twenty-five. Will that cover
it?”
I could see the thief had expected an argument, but now he nods.
“You show me yours,” I say. “I’ll show you mine.”
My friend goes to dig in his saddlebags. I open the rear of the Mercedes. Next to the tarp that contains the body of the computer
hacker, I find a leather satchel. I open it and draw out a little something to help speed things along. Then I pick up the
bag as if I were serving it at a fine restaurant, the jaws gaped so the cash inside is visible.
I walk to the thief. He’s holding the hard drive.
I make as if to hand him the moneybag and then stumble. The bag pitches from my hands.
My friend instinctively reaches out to catch it.
I stick him with a stun gun and jam the trigger.
He jerks violently and collapses.
I stun him again, then drop the device and ram the screwdriver up under the nape of his skull.
Now the thief quivers on his own, but I hold him tight, feeling the mystery drain from him and fill me once more.
But on this occasion I cannot pause to savor the moment or the sweet stillness that follows death. I’m in the open. It is
raining. But I could be seen if I remain too long.
Instead, I superglue the wound, and drag the thief’s body to the riverbank. I wade out and push him into the main current,
hoping that the cold
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