by Peter James
‘Hallo Marvin.’
‘I have some information, but not everything. Lasserre is a client of Globalex – both a personal client and corporate. The total account is some £25 million sterling; it is fairly widely spread over a range of commodities – mainly soft, but some metals.’ Baenhaker was pleased he had now grasped the difference, and hoped Ephraim was impressed. He paused and then went on. ‘I don’t know why Elleck went to dinner, but it may have something to do with a syndicate that has been formed between Lasserre, Jimmy Culundis and Sir Monty Elleck, which is called, as far as I can ascertain, Goldilocks.’
‘Goldilocks? Isn’t that a children’s story?’
‘Yes – the name is obviously supposed to be humorous. This syndicate is buying £1,000 million worth of gold. They are doing it very discreetly, and are using a broker within Globalex to buy the gold in small quantities – a few bars at a time in a large number of different markets, and through a variety of dealers, banks and brokerage houses.’ Baenhaker stopped for a moment. ‘That’s about all I know, sir.’
There was a long silence down the phone. Then Ephraim spoke: ‘You have done well, Marvin, very well. Do you know the identity of the broker?’
‘Yes, I do. Alex Rocq.’
There was another long silence. ‘I’d like you to keep a close eye on Rocq and Elleck – understand?’ said Ephraim.
‘Yes, Sir,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Ephraim. ‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you. Time is of the essence.’
‘I understand, Sir. Goodbye.’
Baenhaker hung up the phone, and then sat back in his seat. He rubbed his eyes again, stretched his arms, then laid his head right back. Ephraim had, by the words ‘close eye’ instructed him to put Rocq and Elleck under 24-hour surveillance. There were three surveillance teams available to him. He would put them all onto Elleck. Rocq, he decided, he would watch himself.
When he came up from the basement, the building was empty, apart from the Italian cleaning woman hoovering an office. He walked out of the front door, into the balmy evening heat. The Friday evening exodus out of the City had begun, and he watched the cars in the jam down Lower Thames Street with envy. They were going to their summer weekends, to their cottages and mansions, to their wives, girlfriends, lovers, boyfriends – companionship. Tonight was an evening for Pimms in the countryside, for sitting at a table with a beautiful girl and a bottle of wine, and a candle flickering.
He thought about evenings in Israel when he was a child, hot balmy evenings like this, and he felt nostalgic. London was a grand city, a great city; in spite of the bad that was happening in England, London still retained its dignity. But to Baenhaker, after five years here, the doors were still as closed as the day he had first stepped off the aeroplane at Heathrow. Twenty months ago, those doors had opened for the first time, in the form of Amanda. He had someone to share the city with, to share all the experiences of his life, at least the ones that he could talk about. Now he was back in the loneliness, hoping that maybe, one day, a single unmarried secretary that he fancied might join Eisenbar-Goldschmidt or, alternatively, that somewhere, as in that gutted building where he had first met Amanda, there might be someone else that he could find to love, who would also love him. But so far, no one.
As he walked down the street, he decided to do something he rarely did; he went into a pub, and had a pint of bitter. He stood at the counter, looking around. The barmaid was about forty, not bad-looking, but not the girl he dreamed of. The rest of the bar was full of men, mostly in suits that were too thick for the heat.
He downed the pint slowly and then left, feeling a little drunk. He went down the steps of Cannon Street tube station, bought his ticket and stood on the platform; opposite him, a long slender leg, wrapped in a sensuous Pretty Polly stocking, slunk out from a poster. She was the girl for the discriminating man, the poster told him. He was discriminating, but evidently someone must have got to her first.
He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the dark tunnel; there was no sign of a train. A young plump negress stood near him, clutching a carrier bag; two men, extremely drunk, in short-sleeve shirts, were having an argument about football players. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here any more; he wanted to be back in Israel, on a kibbutz, in a large family of his own people. He was tired of this existence, tired of the sacrifice. Someone had to do it, he knew, but he didn’t feel any longer that it should be himself. He wanted the lushness, the dryness, the heat, the wind, the smell of fruit; he wanted to go out and dig up fields under a blazing sun, not to be standing here on this platform which smelt of damp sacks and old socks.
The train arrived, the doors opened, and he sat down. They slid shut again, and he looked around the carriage, looked at ten faces numbed into silence by something – perhaps the same shyness, perhaps the same apathy, perhaps the same boredom. He looked at them aloof, for he was a big person, an important person, and they were nothing. He had been instructed to kill men for his country; what had they been instructed? To bring home chicken dinners from Colonel Sanders?
Then he felt afraid, and a wave of guilt hit him. Two nights ago he had killed, and thought no more about it. It had even made him feel good. He wondered what had happened to him, that he could kill as easily as this and then think no more of it. He wondered if it was normal or if, somewhere, in the last five years, he had lost a vital part of himself. He cast an eye around to ensure no one was looking at him; then he closed his eyes and began, without moving his lips, to say a prayer. ‘Please God, guide me to do what is right, amen,’ were the words with which he finished the prayer. He opened his eyes and felt better again, warmer, more courageous; he had succeeded in passing the buck to his Creator. It was up to God now to decide what Baenhaker did, and it would be God who would have to carry any blame.
The doors slid open at Earls Court, and Baenhaker got out; he had a lot of work ahead of him, and he wanted a clear head. He wanted to relax tonight, and thought about whether he wanted to read a book or see a movie. He felt that he didn’t want to be alone tonight, didn’t want to go back to his flat. He decided that what he really fancied was getting laid, but he had no idea where he could get a whore in Earls Court. The only whores he knew were the two at the Israeli Embassy who were occasionally wheeled out for blackmail purposes, but they were going to have to be replaced soon; at thirty-six and thirty-nine, with three and five children respectively, they were getting beyond the point where they could successfully pass as innocent young chambermaids.
Then he decided, to hell with it, he would get straight on with his work. He left Earls Court tube station and walked in the direction of Redcliffe Square. When he had returned to E-G, he had changed back into his casual clothes, and he felt inconspicuous as he walked along.
He had found Rocq’s address while going through Globalex’s offices, had photographed it along with everyone else’s – but Rocq’s he had taken special note of. He thought it mildly curious that in addition to working less than 400 yards from where Rocq worked, he should also live less than 400 yards from where Rocq lived.
He scanned the square for any signs of a Porsche, and saw none; then he walked down past number 34, where Rocq lived, without stopping; he carried on to the end of the terrace, then walked around the side, to check the terrace from the rear. It was eight o’clock, but still fairly light; certainly light enough for people to be clearly identifiable. He figured that on a Friday evening, Rocq would either be out or have gone away for the weekend; he was pretty sure he would be safe for the few minutes he needed in Rocq’s flat.
He rang the bell and waited; after a few minutes, he rang again. Either no one was in the flat, or the bell wasn’t working. He slipped the latch on the front door of the building, with a small piece of plastic in his pocket, and walked in. It was a typical communal entrance; cream plastic lino, a few circulars lying on the floor, a take-away pizza menu, an invitation to join a new religious sect, and a scattering of letters. One for Miss
A. Moussabakias, two for F. A. Watling FCA, and one for Lady Rowena Melchenth-Henty. That last name added a certain class to the place, he decided – not that he’d ever heard of her, but there was no one titled living anywhere in his tip, unless it was the phantom curry-freak, which he doubted.
If Rocq had any great valuables in his apartment, he wasn’t giving any hints away with the lock he had on his door – a child of three could have picked it with a piece of wet string. Baenhaker closed it quietly behind him, and took a careful look around. The door opened into a huge open-plan drawing room and dining room. A white wall-to-wall shag carpet filled the floor area; there were two white velour sofas facing each other across a massive marble coffee table. By a window was a white marble topped table, with black lacquered legs, and a black lacquered chair; the dining table was smoked glass and had eight white velour-upholstered carver chairs around it. The colour in the room came from several vivid geometric original paintings. He walked down a corridor and came to a large bedroom. The bed was low and massively wide; built into the headboard, and matching bedside-tables were stereo speakers, lights, and a complete control panel on each side, which Baenhaker presumed was for the television at the foot of the bed. The bed was unmade and well tousled; a large fur rug hung off the side of it. It looked like a good romp had taken place in it. Baenhaker noticed the photograph of Amanda beside the bed, and emotion began to well up inside him again; he looked at and puzzled over the large roll of polythene on the floor by the wall. He walked over to the bedside telephone, and pulled a tiny microphone from his pocket, when suddenly there was the sound of a key in a door – then voices:
‘Amanda, you have the most filthy mind!’
‘And you love it, don’t you.’
‘I feel so horny I don’t know if I can wait to get to the bedroom.’
Baenhaker froze, and cursed himself for not having jammed the door lock. He looked frantically around for an escape. He rushed over to the window; it was double glazed, and only a small portion at the top would open. They were coming towards the room. He did something he had never done before in his life: he dived into a cupboard.
He heard them come through the door, and then there was a crash of bed springs.
‘Alex! Let me get my shoes off.’
‘Keep them on!’
‘Well, at least let me get my jacket off – ow – now I’m stuck – oooh, your hands are cold – ooh Alex – oh – oh – oh that’s good.’
Baenhaker listened in silence, quaking with a strange mixture of fear and fury. There was a creaking sound; it got louder and louder. With a panic, he realized it was the cupboard door swinging open. He put out a hand and slowly pulled it to. There was a loud ‘clunk’ as its magnet locking mechanism connected.
He began to feel baking hot in the cupboard; he was sitting uncomfortably on some very hard shoes, and was surrounded by suits and ties which draped themselves around his head. The bed began to creak consistently, faster and faster, and Amanda began to groan and shout. So many emotions rushed through Baenhaker that he was paralysed. For a moment he wanted to burst out of the cupboard, grab Rocq in one hand and Amanda in the other, and smash their skulls together. For another moment, he wanted to curl up in the cupboard, and just give up and die. He just hoped that after they finished what they were doing, neither of them was going to feel much like hanging any clothes up.
An hour passed; for the last quarter of it, there had been silence in the bedroom. Amanda’s voice broke the silence: ‘Do you really have to go to Switzerland tomorrow?’
‘I don’t want to Amanda, but I have to.’
‘It’s going to be such a gorgeous weekend – it’ll be rotten without you.’
‘It’s not going to be much fun for me – the last thing I want to do is spend half my weekend in an aeroplane.’
‘It’s only an hour’s flight.’
‘By the time I get to the airport, hang around – then Verbier is an hour and a half from the airport. And there’s fuck all to do in Verbier this time of year – I’m not exactly into mountain hiking.’
‘You say it’s business – why can’t you go during the week?’
‘I would, normally – but we have a panic on at the moment, and I cannot afford to be away from the office for even a few hours. Look – I tell you what – I’m catching the first flight out in the morning – it leaves nine o’clock. I’ll be in Geneva at 10.15 – with luck I’ll be in Verbier lunch time, sign everything I have to sign – and I may be able to make a late afternoon flight back here – be back in time to go out for dinner? How does that sound?’
‘Okay,’ she said dubiously. ‘That sounds fine – in theory.’
They talked for another hour, then made love again for another hour. Baenhaker continued to crouch in his stifling cupboard, half his body seized with cramp, the other half raging silently.
Finally, at a quarter to three, Baenhaker had heard no sound from either Amanda or Rocq for what he guessed had been an hour. He pushed the wardrobe door open gently. There was a report like a starting pistol as the metal catch on the inside of the door separated from the magnet, and Baenhaker froze. He listened carefully for several minutes, but there was no sound.
He climbed out of the cupboard, debated whether to risk trying to place the bug in the telephone, decided better of it, and quietly let himself out.
26
After General Ephraim had spoken to Baenhaker on the Friday evening, he had stood up and paced around his office without stopping, for half an hour; then he sat down, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a computerized chess set. He played against the machine, set to its toughest level, and beat it in seven minutes; then he snapped off the switch and put the machine back in the drawer. He wished the current real-life game, in which he was an unwilling player, was as simple to win.
This week he had to send 100 Israeli sailors into Umm Al Amnah, quietly, without publicity. They were to be smuggled in, in a container in a cargo plane. It just didn’t make sense. Why sailors? Soldiers he could understand, that would be easy – a coup d’état. But sailors? He thought about the man Bauté, who had spoken to him on the beach at La Baule; and then about Elleck flying in to have dinner with Lasserre, and joined by Culundis, who had already supplied arms and, Ephraim was pretty certain, soldiers, to Umm Al Amnah.
He still smarted over the way Elleck had treated him after the Osirak raid. He had completely ripped him off. He was sure that a second rip-off was under way. Somewhere, at the end of the bizarre line, there had to be a massive profit in all of this for Elleck. But how? What was there with a tiny country like Umm Al Amnah? It did have a coastline on the Persian Gulf, but not much of one. There was the Libya connection, but there was nothing particularly unusual in that; Libya meddled in the affairs of a lot of countries, with and without their leaders’ approval. He remembered the report about the Umm Al Amnah’s registered fishing dhow drifting loose in the Persian Gulf with a cargo of nuclear mines, and a chill went through his body. Was that the connection? Was he going to be forced to order the sailors to commit some act of aggression – some massive terrorist act of sabotage?
He went to the window and looked out; it was dark, with the lights of the traffic moving down below him. He should call the Prime Minister and level with him, he knew, that was his best bet. He had a repugnant obsession, and it had finally caught up with him. It was not right that he should put his country at risk to protect himself. His time was nearly over in any event; a year or two more, and he would be expected to retire. He had no further ambitions for himself. He was tired; he wouldn’t mind stepping down now. He needed a rest. A long, long rest.
He tried to think how the Prime Minister might react, and each time he drew a blank. He had no idea. A fear suddenly struck him that the Prime Minister would go for the complete hard line, call his blackmailer’s bluff, and he shuddered. He thought about his wife and children, going through the rest of their lives, his children with their brilliant careers ahead of th
em, tarnished forever with the fact that they came from a man who liked to make love to dead boys. Necrophiliac. He shuddered. They would be destroyed; there was no doubt. Ami, his eldest son, already a captain in the army: Nathan, who had passed through law school with a first and had joined the top law firm in Israel; Helene, his daughter, engaged to the son of the Chief Rabbi.
While parents around the world despaired so often of their children, he and his wife Moya could sit in the evenings, when they were alone together, and reflect on their fortune that their children not only were healthy but were intelligent and successful. It was the careers of his children and, one day, the arrival of grandchildren, that he and Moya had to look forward to. He turned away from the window; not for his country, not for anything, did he want to give that up; not for anything would he destroy their lives. Ephraim clenched his fists in anger. It was the greed of Elleck, the man whose life he had saved in Auschwitz, that had put him in this position, he was certain of that. This was Elleck’s way, forty years later, of showing his gratitude.
Ephraim marched back over to his desk, stood beside it, and dialled the number of Eisenbar-Goldschmidt in London. Being a major control centre, the switchboard was manned through the night. The girl who answered informed him that Baenhaker had left over an hour ago. He tried Baenhaker’s home number: it rang several times, without answer; he hung up. He then dialled Chaim Weisz’s number in Paris; to his mixed relief, his chief of French operatives answered.
‘Good evening, Montclair!’ said Ephraim, using Weisz’s identifying code.
‘Good evening,’ said Weisz.
‘I have a job for you. Viscomte Claude Lasserre –can you buy him out?’
Weisz paused, surprised, the other end. ‘When?’
‘As soon as you can?’
‘I’ll do my best for you.’
‘Good. Let me have a progress report.’ Ephraim hung up the receiver. He had just instructed the chief of the Mossad’s French operations to kill Viscomte Lasserre.