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“The Nazi in Inglorious Basterds! The same guy was in Django Unchained!”
She meant the actor Christoph Waltz.
I had to admit, the two men did sound incredibly similar.
“Herr Rosoliniiiiiiiii…” the voice called out. “I know you can heeeaaaar meeeeeee…”
“Who are you?” I shouted from the floor.
“Ah – hello, there! Allow me to introduce myself!” he said as though he was addressing a local chapter of a men’s charity. “My name is Friedrich Zollner. Professionally I am known as der Jäger – the Hunter.”
He pronounced it ‘yay-ger,’ like the liqueur Jägermeister.
“Perhaps you have heard of me?” he called out hopefully.
“No.”
“…oh,” he said, sounding a bit crestfallen.
The strangeness of the situation was beyond absurd.
A man who called himself ‘the Hunter’ was tracking me, and he was disappointed that I didn’t know who he was.
But then he rebounded with renewed optimism in his voice. “Well, that is perhaps to be expected. I don’t really run in your circles, after all. In fact, this is the first time anyone from the Cosa Nostra has ever hired me. Normally I work with… well, for the sake of discretion, let us say ‘other parties’ and leave it at that.”
I tried to figure out who those ‘other parties’ might be.
There was no German equivalent of the mafia –
Perhaps the Russian Bratva?
Probably not. I doubted the Russians could stomach his cheerfulness.
The Swiss banking industry was known for its stiff formality – but they could be as ruthless as gangsters when someone crossed them.
“Who hired you?” I shouted. “Fausto?”
“No – actually, your cousin Aurelio. I don’t think he would mind you knowing that.”
Aurelio.
It lent credence to the theory that Aurelio had gone rogue and plotted the Venice caper himself.
Though surely Fausto would have intervened by now, three weeks after the fact…
Zollner continued. “I have no reason to harm you, as you can tell from my announcing my presence so dramatically by shooting out the – how do you say it – Fensterscheibe – ah, the pane of the window. You see, Aurelio is not paying me to kill you – not even to apprehend you. All he wants is Fräulein Fioretti.”
“Too bad,” I shouted.
He sighed theatrically. “Unfortunately, I thought you might say that. By the way, congratulations on your engagement!”
My guts twisted inside me.
“Yes, I had a nice little chat with the store owner after you left. He told me all about the giant man who proposed to the tiny little woman! Herzlichen Glückwunsch – my heartfelt congratulations, truly! But… considering the situation… could I suggest that you rethink your position on the matter? I really don’t want to hurt either of you, especially on such a blessed day – but I will… if forced.”
His voice took on a dark, menacing quality when he said if forced.
The contrast with his previous tone was chilling, even to me.
