The Confessor

called it.
    As he arrived at the apartment house, a gust of wind chased him into the lobby and scattered a fresh stack of salmon-colored fliers. The professor twisted his head so he could read one. A new curry takeaway had opened around the corner. He liked a good curry. He scooped up one of the fliers and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
    The wind had carried a few of the leaflets toward the courtyard.
    Frau Ratzinger would be furious. As he trod softly up the stairs, she poked her head from her foxhole of a flat and spotted the mess. Predictably appalled, she glared at him with inquisitor's eyes. Slipping the key into his door lock, he could hear the old woman cursing as she dealt with this latest outrage.
    In the kitchen, he put away the food and brewed himself a cup of tea. Then he walked down the hallway to his study. A man was standing at his desk, casually leafing through a stack of research. He wore a white tunic, like the ones worn by the beauticians at the cosmetic and was very tall with athletic shoulders. His hair was blond and streaked with gray. Hearing the professor enter the room, the intruder looked up. His eyes were gray too, cold as a glacier.
    "Open the safe, Herr Doktorprofessor."
    The voice was calm, almost flirtatious. The German was accented. It wasn't Wolfie--Professor Stern was sure of that. He had a flair for languages and an ear for local dialects. The man in the tunic was Swiss, and his Schwyzerdutsch had the broad singsong accent of a man from the mountain valleys.
    "Who in the hell do you think you are?"
    "Open the safe," the intruder repeated as the eyes returned to the papers on the desk.
    "There's nothing in the safe of any value. If it's money you're--"
    Professor Stern wasn't permitted to finish the sentence. In a swift motion, the intruder reached beneath the tunic, produced a silenced handgun. The professor knew weapons as well as accents. The gun was a Russian-made Stechkin. The bullet tore through the professor's right kneecap. He fell to the floor, hands clutching the wound, blood pumping between his fingers.
    "I suppose you'll just have to give me the combination now," the Swiss said calmly.
    The pain was like nothing Benjamin Stern had ever experienced. He was panting, struggling to catch his breath, his mind a maelstrom. The combination? God, but he could barely remember his name. "I'm waiting, Herr Doktorprofessor."
    He forced himself to take a series of deep breaths. This supplied his brain with enough oxygen to permit him to access the combination to the safe. He recited the numbers, his jaw trembling with shock. The intruder knelt in front of the safe and deftly worked the tumbler. A moment later, the door swung open. The intruder looked inside, then at the professor. "You have backup disks. Where do you keep them?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "As it stands right now, you'll be able to walk with the use of a cane." He raised the gun. "If I shoot you in the other knee, you'll spend the rest of your life on crutches."
    The professor was slipping from consciousness. His jaw was trembling. Don't shiver, damn you! Don't give him the pleasure of seeing your fear!
    "In the refrigerator." "The refrigerator?"
    "In case"--a burst of pain shot through him--"of a fire." The intruder raised an eyebrow. Clever boy. He'd brought a bag along with him, a black nylon duffel, about three feet in length. He reached inside and withdrew a cylindrical object: a can of spray paint. He removed the cap, and with a skilled hand he began to paint symbols on the wall of the study. Symbols of violence. Symbols of hate. Ludicrously, the professor found himself wondering what Frau Ratzinger would say when she saw this. In his delirium, he must have murmured something aloud, because the intruder paused for a moment to examine him with a vacant stare.
    When he was finished with his graffiti, the intruder returned the spray can to his duffel, then stood over the professor. The pain from the shattered bones was making Benjamin Stern hot with fever. Blackness was closing in at the edges of his vision, so that the intruder seemed to be standing at the end of a tunnel. The professor searched the ashen eyes for some sign of lunacy, but he found nothing at all but cool intelligence. This man was no racist fanatic, he thought. He was a professional.
    The intruder stooped over him. "Would you like to make a last confession, Professor Stern?"
    "What are you"--he grimaced in pain--"talking