Saturday Story: To Catch a Killer

He tried to quiet the sound of his breathing. The last thing he wanted was to alert Klement that he was nearby. It was no mean feat. The panic he felt escaped his nostrils in small puffs before disappearing into the night air. A car door slammed in the distance and two cats battled it out in their alley. His good eye was trained on the doorway above the fire escape. The instructions he received told him that at exactly three minutes after the hour, Stuttgart, Hollander and their kingpin Klement would appear before meeting their driver in the unmarked taxi below. His back tensed; his safety catch was off and in forty-five seconds, all would be revealed. It surprised him when he had to dab his brow despite the chill.

         

A veritable floodlight fell out of the door and the outlines of hats appeared on the landing of the fire escape. He could smell cherry cigars – a Klement staple – and hear the relaxed laughter that accompanies a successful night of gambling. In four seconds, Hollander would be halfway down the first flight of stairs, with his back to him, Klement would be on the landing and Stuttgart would be in the doorway. If he were accurate, it would be easy.

         

He got Stuttgart between the eyes, then Hollander’s throat and Klement in the leg. He congratulated himself for a good hit. But now there was Klement to take care of. He had time, Klement had a shattered femur and would not be going anywhere in a hurry. It was somewhat satisfying to see him splutter.

         

“Who sent you?”

“I work alone.”

“Why? Why did you do this?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Klement groaned when he nudged a boot against his leg.

“The war.”

“Listen boy, that was a long time ago. And I don’t remember most of it, so tell me what it is that I did to you and then please – for God’s sake – call an ambulance before I bleed out.”

“I hear you go by the name Klement these days.”

“Yes, well, it’s good for business. Lots of sympathetic traders. They feel bad when they find out I survived.”

A digit peeked from under Klement’s cuff. “Nice tattoo you have there.”

“What do you want? Why have you done this to me?”

“Because, ‘Mr Klement’, I want my face to be the last one you see before you die. Just like all those men and women you now claim to represent saw your face before they were sent to God knows where to die.”

He sat up and laughed. “I remember you. The little boy hiding behind his mother’s skirts at the rabbi’s house. Well, if you can call it that.” Klement retrieved a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit up, his eyes lost to the middle distance of his memories. “Yes, I remember you.”

“You forced my father to teach you about our culture, our language and our beliefs.”

“He was a good teacher. Too good, I think. I almost forgot he was a rabbi at times.”

“So when I heard about a ‘Mr Klement’ newly arrived in Buenos Aires – an astute businessman, and a scholar of the Tanakh, I knew it was you.”

“I’m sure your father is very proud that he didn’t waste his time educating you.”

“My father is dead. You had him killed.”

“These things happen. It was a war.” Klement moved himself against the railing of the fire escape, wincing as pain reverberated through his leg. He sucked on his cigar. “I never liked these things, you know. I preferred cigarettes all through my adult life. But when I came here, I developed a taste for the exotic.” He smiled to himself.

“I know what you did to my sister.”

“Were you in the Luftwaffe, boy? Because you bring wave after wave of new and more shocking details.” Klement brushed ash from his lapel. “She was not the only one. But I do not care to discuss my escapades. What fresh accusation will you level at me now? I am bleeding. My companions are dead and you’re engaging in a bizarre game of elephant and mouse with me here.” He leant forward. “What do you want?”

“My sister was fourteen. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell.”

“You stole her innocence.”

“Something tells me you’ve been fantasising about this conversation in your head for years. You have been reading too many of those Captain America comics. I am not sorry and I will not beg your forgiveness. There is no grand Damascus Road experience in which I will acknowledge that what we did was wrong. I loved what I did. And I would do it all again. No, I would have you shot you at the same time as your father, if only to spare me the colossal waste of time that is this conversation.” He flicked his cigar over the railing and clasped his hands across his belly. He began to hum a tune that might have been Bach.

“I...”

There was a thud of boots on the roof of the building. A team of men in black, with automatic weapons and combat boots made their way to where they were. Two jumped down and flanked him, taking care not to trample the bodies.

“Good job.” A rough hand clapped his left shoulder.

“Who is this?” said Klement.

“We are Mossad. And you are under arrest.”

“On what grounds?”

“Adolf Eichmann, you have the right to remain silent. You will receive medical attention and then you will be transported to Israel where you will be charged and trialled for your crimes against humanity.”

Klement did not take his eyes off him while they bundled his leg in bandages and shunted him onto a stretcher. “You. The rabbi’s boy. You never told me your name.” He had to shout above the noise of the helicopter and the Mossad agents who were trying to decide whether his feet should be shackled too.

“They call me Fletcher Hemingway.”

“And your real name?”

He looked away.

“Your name, boy! What is your name?” They moved him up the side of the building to the roof where the helicopter sliced air. “Tell me!”

He could still hear the shouts over the helicopter.