by Martin Suter
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Allmen International that had made this investment. It was Carlos. Not for the first time since the firm’s inception, he had made the agency a loan from his share of the dragonfly commission, his personal savings. According to his accounts the agency now owed him more than the start-up capital of twenty thousand francs they had contributed equally when the company was founded. In a real sense Allmen International Inquiries belonged to Carlos Santiago de Leon. But due to his status as an illegal immigrant he could only be a silent partner, so there was no record in the commercial register of his de facto expropriation of Allmen.
In mentioning the investments Allmen had touched Carlos’s raw nerve. Finance was his weak point too, but in the opposite sense: whereas for Allmen everything revolved around money because of his extravagance, for Carlos it was because of his thrift.
And now Allmen topped it: “Then there’s the fact that Allmen International Inquiries has already taken the down payment.”
Carlos made no reply. He knew his patrón well enough not to suggest he return the money. He knew he could count himself lucky if there was any of it left for the housekeeping.
3
Allmen had asked Herr Arnold to leave his 1978 Cadillac Fleetwood in the garage today and chauffeur him in his everyday Mercedes diesel. It went against the grain, but it was necessary to preserve his anonymity as an investigator.
They drove through the city’s urban sprawl toward Schwarzegg, a suburb close to the airport. The hazy sky was crosshatched with vapor trails. Allmen had opened the window. It smelled of tar and summer.
Gelbburgstrasse was at the edge of the city, a tract of bleak 1980s apartment blocks surrounded by monotonous expanses of grass. Mathematically aligned concrete sidewalks led past trash containers and bike racks to each building.
Allmen got out at the path leading to number fourteen. The building had recently been done up. Above the entrance, a canopy of chrome and glass had been erected to give the impression of tasteful modernity. Allmen entered the hall. It smelled of cleaning products. A man in work clothes was sitting on a machine polishing the floor—flecked yellow, reconstituted stone. He ignored Allmen.
There was no name on the letterbox for apartment 12, just the fragments of a torn-off nameplate. In the elevator, the button for the third floor was labeled “Apartments 8-12.”
The doorbell to the apartment was not identified with a name either. Allmen pressed it.
To his surprise the door opened immediately. He was hit by the thick, stale air of unventilated rooms. A medium-tall blond man stood in front of him. He was wearing a shirt with the collar open and a loosened tie, along with colorful sweatpants. His feet were shoved into hotel slippers, no longer terribly white.
“Yes?” he asked, managing to say this one word with such a strong accent Allmen immediately knew he was dealing with a Hungarian.
“Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Mr. Solokov.”
“I don’t know him.”
“I’ve been told he can be found at this address.” Allmen held his notebook with the address under the man’s nose.
He cast a swift look at it. “The address is correct, but not the name. People come and go. Business apartments.”
“I see. Your predecessor.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Or the one before him. Why don’t you ask in the office?”
“Which office?”
“The real estate agency. They rent this place out. Wait a moment.”
The man vanished from Allmen’s view. He heard the plopping of tennis balls and the lethargic observations of a television commentator. In the hallway was a half-open suitcase revealing its disorganized contents.
The man returned with a diary. “Immolandia is the company’s name. I thought I had a card, but I must have given it to the man before you.”
“The man before?”
“You’re the third person to ask about Sokolov.”
He dictated the address to Allmen. Before Allmen had even had the chance to thank him, the door closed again.
4
The offices of Immolandia were in a refurbished corner shop in a suburban district of the city. In the little plate-glass window hung marketing photos of elegant apartments with models dressed as businessmen. Above them it read, “Immolandia, your specialist for temporary business apartments!”
Allmen climbed the three steps to the door and entered the offices. Two desks with computers, four matching armchairs, and on the walls, photographs of the actual properties. They were somewhat less elegant than the idealized images in the window.
It smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee on a burner, steaming away.
A woman in her late thirties was sitting behind a screen at one of the desks. As Allmen entered she looked up crossly and sized up the man disturbing her. Based on the way he was dressed she identified a potential client and smiled. She half-stood and offered him the visitor’s chair in front of her desk.
Allmen introduced himself, whipped out his wallet, and gave her a business card. He’d had two versions printed. One reading “Johann Friedrich von Allmen,” with “International Inquiries” below, two points smaller. Another with “Allmen International” as the main text, his full name below, discreetly, followed by the letters “CEO.” In this situation he chose the latter.
Only when he had handed over the card did he sit down opposite the woman. She examined it and asked, even more impressed now, “How can I be of assistance?”
Her lips retained the traces of lipstick, mainly adhering now to the butts filling the ashtray along with a glowing cigarette. She stubbed it out. “Excuse my smoking. We don’t get many walk-in customers here. Our business is mostly over the Internet.”
“Feel free to smoke. It doesn’t bother me,” Allmen lied. Then he got to the point. “Two things. Firstly, we often need medium-term accommodations for our international team. I’d like to collect some information about your agency to pass along to our human resources department.”
The woman got up, opened a filing cabinet, and began fishing out brochures, folders, leaflets, and a range of promotional material. She was a little overweight, which didn’t seem to bother her. When she reached for the top drawer, her spare tire was exposed; when she bent down for the lowest, the lace trimmings of her panties.
She placed the information in a large envelope, passed it to him, and sat back down. “And the second thing?”
“Just a query. A business associate gave me this address, but when I tried to call on him, he had moved out already. I wanted to ask if you had his new address.” He passed her a memo with Solokov’s name and the Gelbburgstrasse address.
“Does he owe you money too?”
Allmen wasn’t surprised. “No, why?”
“You aren’t the first person to ask about Mr. Solokov.”
“Who else then?”
“First there was an English man. Then an American. I couldn’t help either of them. Mr. Solokov didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
“What shall I do now?” Allmen’s helplessness looked so genuine the woman took pity on him.
“Most of our tenants return to their home countries. Then it’s tricky. But if not, try the registration office. They can tell you where someone has moved to or from. You just have to bring proof of interest.”
“What would that be?”
“A contract, a court ruling, a loss certificate from the debt enforcement office, or some kind of proof that he owes you money.”
“He doesn’t owe me money.”
“Sometimes a credible explanation for why you need to find him is enough. Those officials aren’t quite so inflexible these days.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Thanks for the tip.” He stood up, said goodbye, and started to leave.
“What about the information?” The woman pointed to the envelope he had left lying on the desk.
He came back and took it. “Nearly forgot the most important thing,” he said
, shaking his head.
“Depending on the volume of bookings,” she called after him, “we can offer highly competitive rates.”
5
It was such a hot day Carlos had made ceviche: raw seafood marinated in lime juice, with chili, coriander, ginger, and onions. He served it outside at the garden table, under the plum tree, which never bore fruit because it got too little sun.
Allmen had declared the meal a “business lunch” to persuade Carlos to sit at the table with him. Otherwise he would insist on serving Allmen his meals in a white waiter’s jacket, eating his own in the kitchen.
Over in the villa it was lunch break. A few employees of the trust company were making the most of the summer day and eating their sandwiches on the benches the management had placed around the grounds. In sight, but not in earshot.
“Englishmen and gringos,” Carlos repeated thoughtfully.
“Do you think Montgomery hedged his bets and contracted other agencies too?” Allmen sounded rather worried.
“For a forty-five million item, Don John, it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“He should have informed me then, don’t you think?”
Carlos reflected. “Perhaps he knows nothing about it. Perhaps his client has employed other people directly.” He stood up, took the bottle of Aigle from the ice bucket, wiped it dry with the napkin, and refilled Allmen’s glass in the correct posture of a waiter. Then he sat down as a guest again.
Allmen thanked him and took a sip of wine. “Or perhaps he shares your view that the matter is too large for Allmen International.”
There was silence for a while as they ate marinated squid, shrimp, and fish from the tall coupe glasses.
“Do you have an idea, Carlos?”
“Una sugerencia, nada más,” Carlos replied modestly. Just a thought …
Allmen had learned to take such suggestions seriously. “In the brochure for the apartment building in Gelbburgstrasse it lists the restaurants, bars, shops, laundromats, and sports facilities in the area.”
Allmen nodded. He had also noticed this.
“And a nightclub.”
“Lonely Nights,” Allmen affirmed. “And?”
“Una sugerencia, nada más,” Carlos repeated.
“You mean, it’s an apartment building full of single men. And single men tend to visit nightclubs.”
“Maybe someone there knows him.”
“Maybe.” Allmen decided to take a rather longer siesta today. It could be a late night.
6
Lonely Nights was situated in the basement of the budget Intotel, “ten minutes on foot from Gelbburgstrasse,” as it said in the real estate brochure. Allmen stood in front of the hideous complex, then descended the stairs; above them, in pink neon, the words “Lonely Nights.”
A display case was mounted on the wall by the door, with three or four photos of Asian girls wearing nothing but tiny black “censored” strips.
The door was locked. Next to it, under a brass doorbell, it said, “Please Ring.”
Allmen did so, and the door opened in a second. A bearded man in a black suit looked him briefly up and down and let him in. Without a word.
The brightest point was a small stage lit by a single spotlight. In the circle it threw, one of the Asian girls pictured in the vitrine was dancing to loud techno music. The rest of the club was submerged in gloom. Allmen’s eyes had to adjust to the light before he could find his way around.
A handful of tables were grouped in front of the stage, barely lit. Alongside them a bar ran the entire length of the room. Artistic nudes hung on the walls, each illuminated by a dim spotlight.
Allmen sat at the bar and ordered a vodka Perrier with ice and lemon.
“Will a different brand of water do?” the bartender said, a motherly blond wearing a lot of makeup and glitter.
Not really. But Allmen wanted to get on her good side, and said, “Of course. And for you?”
Now she smiled, showing a set of very regular, very white teeth. “The same. But without the water, ice, and lemon.”
Farther down the bar, two men were deep in conversation, backs to the stage. Between them and Allmen, one man was sitting alone. His elbows rested on the bar behind him as he gobbled up the dancer with his eyeballs. Only two of the tables were occupied. At one a man was sitting with a dancing girl. At another were three girls, who looked over to Allmen.
He took his drink, raised the glass to the bartender, and turned to watch the dancer.
The show consisted of an unerotic aerobics act, which did nothing for him. Nevertheless, he watched out of polite interest, as he did whenever someone performed for him. Even during the cabin crew’s security demonstration before takeoff, which he had seen a thousand times, he would never read the paper or look out the window. It was a matter of respect, in Allmen’s view. If someone made the effort to present something for him, they had the right to his attention.
The music stopped abruptly, and the naked dancer bowed, very low. With her back to the meager audience. Allmen was the only one to applaud.
He turned back to his drink. The matron behind the bar smiled at him and emptied her glass.
“Another?” Allmen asked.
She poured herself one and came over to him. “What brings you to this neck of the woods? Business?”
“Sure. But I also wanted to visit a friend who lives round here. Except now he’s moved and I don’t know where.”
“This close to the airport people don’t really settle. If they aren’t simply passing through anyway, the noise drives them away.” She looked past him into the club. “Would you like some company?”
“I have company.”
She glanced past him again with a very slight shake of her head.
“His name is Sokolov. Artyom Sokolov.”
“The guests here don’t tend to have names. What does he look like then?”
Allmen hesitated. Then he took Sokolov’s photo out of his wallet and passed it to her. She scrutinized Allmen. “You’re not a cop; you’re too well dressed.”
She went toward the cash register, put on a pair of glasses and switched on a little lamp.
One of the Asian girls took advantage of the brief moment Allmen was alone and sat on the barstool next to him. He recognized her as the stripper he had just watched.
“You all on your own?” she asked.
The bartender returned and made a casual gesture to the dancing girl, indicating she should disappear.
“It’s okay,” Allmen said to the barwoman. And to the stripper he said, “What are you drinking?”
“Piccolo,” she smiled.
Allmen ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon, only to discover that in Lonely Nights the top of the range was Veuve Clicquot. At 270 Swiss francs.
The stripper was delighted, however. She fell around Allmen’s neck and confided her name was Rosy. “Like a rose. But I don’t have thorns,” she added.
The bartender, “Gerta” Rosy called her, brought the champagne, the ice bucket, and two glasses. Allmen asked for a third. Not because he planned to switch to champagne. He just knew that in establishments like this it was about emptying the bottle, not drinking it.
But in Lonely Nights in Schwarzegg the rules were different. Veuve Clicquot was ordered so rarely it was gladly drunk.
And so Gerta filled three glasses and raised hers to the others’. Then she gave him his photo back. “He might have come here once or twice.”
Rosy took the picture off her. “Looks like the Russian.”
“Lots of Russians come here,” Gerta interjected.
“The one with the nine bottles.”
Gerta studied the picture again carefully and gave it back to Allmen. “Maybe.”
“Definitely. I saw him closer up than you,” Rosy said pointedly.
“If that’s him,” the bartender explained to Allmen, “he once forked out for nine bottles of champagne. Not Veuve Clicquot, just house champagne, but still. Birthday or something.�
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“Not his birthday,” Rosy corrected her, “an amazing business deal. He said he was celebrating an amazing deal.”
“When was that?”
The women looked at each other, unsure. “Roughly a month ago,” Gerta suggested. Rosy agreed.
Allmen was disappointed. That was too far back. Sokolov couldn’t have been celebrating the pink diamond with those nine bottles of champagne.
“One minute,” Gerta murmured, and went off. Allmen saw her exchange a few words with the two men at the other end of the bar. One of them accompanied her back.
Gerta introduced the man as Ted. He was a short, scruffy Irishman who looked like a retired jockey.
“Can you show Ted the photo?” the bartender asked him.
The Irishman examined it and nodded. “Looks like Arti. A bit younger, but it’s Arti. What do you want from him?”
“I was in the area and wanted to visit him, but he’s left his apartment without leaving a forwarding address.”
Ted nodded. “There one minute, gone the next.”
Allmen shook his head and laughed. “Typical Arti. Never still for long. You don’t have any idea …?”
Ted shook his head as well. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. When a man leaves no address behind, it’s for a reason.”
Allmen agreed wholeheartedly with him. He wouldn’t expect anything else from a friend. “But perhaps his employer could help me,” he suggested.
Ted shrugged his shoulders. “Arti was freelance. His own boss. He did programming for all kinds of people. You know Arti, nothing meant more to him than his freedom.”
Allmen nodded in agreement. “And he probably never said who he was working freelance for.”
Ted laughed. “Not Arti. The soul of discretion.”
Ted was so taken with Allmen he assured him again and again he would help if he could. By the time Allmen had ordered a third bottle he said if he knew where Sokolov lived or who he was working for, he would happily tell him.
“I’d tell you,” he added, “but not the other two.”
“Which other two?” Allmen asked.
“The ones who came asking about Arti a few days ago. Not them.”