by Peter Temple
Anselm looked at the name and date pencilled on the back: Lisa Campo, October 1990.
‘What’s the nature of her malfeasance?’ said Inskip.
‘She’s an accountant. Worked for Charlie Campo, a Midwest pizza prince. She became Mrs Campo, stashed around six million dollars offshore for Charlie. Skimmed money. Then she took off. Our client says there’s five million moved, vanished. And all Charlie’s got is this old driver’s licence shot.’
‘Sad, really.’
‘Send the pic and the whole video to the Jocks, marked Rush. They may still be upright, capable of responding today.’
The firm sometimes used people in Glasgow, experts in facial recognition, academics making a buck on the side, putting taxpayer-funded research to good use.
Inskip said, ‘You’re suggesting that these totally different women might be the same person?’
‘I’m just running up the bill.’
He nodded. ‘How uncommercial of me. What do the Jocks do? Apply haggis-fuelled intuition?’
In spite of his considerable hacking skills, Inskip pretended to technological bewilderment, an upper-class English attitude of puzzlement and disdain.
‘This’ll be over your head, old fruit,’ Anselm said, ‘but they use something called PCA, principal component analysis. You establish a person’s eigenface, then you compare any other face’s eigenvectors, beginning with eyes, nose and mouth. It’s well established but the Jocks have come up with a few tricks of their own.’
Inskip rolled his chair back, ran fingers through his hair. ‘Eigenface? Why do the English think a German word is more serious than an English one? I mean, really, what has Doppelganger actually got going for it?’
‘Didn’t register anything except the one word, did you? Send the pics.’
Anselm was reading the logs when Inskip loomed in the doorway.
‘John. The sporran-swingers say 100 per cent positive.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘I cannot believe that.’
Anselm looked at him for a while. ‘Her eigenface. Plastic surgery couldn’t hide it. Nothing they can do about the distance between her pupils. Her eye sockets. Booked in for how long?’
‘Didn’t notice.’
‘Notice, James. Check it.’
Inskip sniffed, disappeared. Anselm signed a logbook, went back to the big room.
‘It’s three nights, two to go,’ said Inskip.
‘The man to ring is called Jonas. Campo’s lawyer. The emergency number’s in the file. If I remember, Charlie Campo offers twenty-five grand if he gets to confront her. Half for us.’
‘My God.’ Inskip was looking for the number. ‘Who gets it?’
‘Our policy,’ said Anselm, ‘is to give half of our cut to the finder.’
‘The other half?’ He was dialling, tapping on his keyboard.
‘Distributed to the needy. For example, to someone who needs a new wife or a new Porsche.’
‘Vulgar vehicle,’ said Inskip. ‘Do you want to speak?’
Anselm shook his head. You didn’t want to deny people the pleasure of bearing good news. Inskip put on his headset. Anselm listened to the crackling from space, the crisp sound of a phone being picked up.
‘Jonas.’ Vague voice.
‘Weidermann amp; Kloster in Hamburg, Mr Jonas. Sorry about the time. It’s the Campo file.’
‘What?’ A cough, cigarette cough.
‘The airline’s found your client’s luggage.’
‘What, you found the name?’
‘No, we’ve identified the actual luggage.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No.’
A cough. ‘Listen, fuck this spy shit, it’s Lisa?’
Inskip looked at Anselm. ‘We believe a hundred per cent positive,’ he said.
‘The face?’
He looked at Anselm again. Anselm nodded.
‘The face. One hundred per cent.’
‘Christ. Where?’
‘Barcelona. Last night. Booked in for two more nights.’
‘Barcelona, Spain?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a hundred per cent?’
Inskip raised an eyebrow. Anselm nodded again. The Scots were never wrong. Eigenfaces didn’t lie.
‘Yes.’
‘Ten years,’ Jonas said, ‘Charlie’ll come in his pyjamas. Listen, Barcelona, some cover there, local knowledge, you can get that?
Inskip looked at Anselm, opened his hands. Anselm took the headset off him, put it on. ‘Mr Jonas, John Anselm. We can arrange that but it’s expensive.’
Jonas cleared his throat, not a sound to wake up to. ‘Fuck expense, John,’ he said. ‘Lose this fuckin fish, I’ll die. Do it now.’
‘Can you transfer fifteen thousand US immediately?’
‘Check your balance in thirty.’
Anselm said, ‘Give us your flight details when you have them and you’ll be met.’
‘Tonight,’ said Jonas. ‘We fly tonight. Barcelona, Spain. Some place quiet, we need that, you with me?’
‘The person who meets you will have arranged that.’
Jonas made a sound like a snore. ‘This works, I’m comin around, drinks, dinner. Fucking breakfast. For days.’
‘And lunch?’
Jonas laughed. ‘For wimps, man. Remember that movie?’
Anselm reminded him about the bonus and said goodbye. Inskip was looking at him, mouth open a little, teeth showing. He was more than interested, a little excited. ‘Cover?’ he said, no sign of languor now. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Make sure she doesn’t vanish again.’
‘We can do that?’
‘We can do anything. Record this in the log.’
Anselm sat down at the workstation next to Inskip and rang Alvarez in Barcelona, exchanged pleasantries in Spanish, told him what was needed.
‘Expensive,’ said Alvarez.
‘Within reason, Geraldo.’
‘In advance, a thousand? Perhaps.’
‘Because this is short notice, yes. I’ll send it tonight.’
Anselm was heading for the door when Inskip said, ‘What’ll happen to the woman? Lisa?’
Anselm looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you think? Charlie gets his money back, they fall in love again, go on a second honeymoon. Eat pizza.’
Inskip nodded a few times, licked his lips, turned back to his screen.
11
…LONDON…
Niemand opened his eyes, out of sleep instantly, disturbed by something, some irregularity, some change in the background noise he’d listened to as he drifted away on the too-soft bed.
Listening. Just the night-city sounds: wails, growls, whines, grates, squeals.
It had been a sound from inside the hotel. Close by.
Listening. Thinking: a hard sound, metallic, like a hammer strike. What could make a harsh metal-on-metal sound?
He knew, threw the sheet and blanket aside, was out of bed, wearing just his watch and running shorts.
Someone had opened the fire-escape door.
He was at the back of the building, last room in the corridor, a door away from the short passage that led to the fire-escape exit. Someone had pushed on the lever of the steel fire-escape door, found it reluctant to come out of the latch, applied more force, too much. It had come out, hit the restraining pin above it hard. That was the sound, a ringing, metallic sound.
Someone inside the hotel had opened the fire-escape door to let someone else in.
More than one?
He looked at his watch. 1.15 a.m.
If they’re coming for me about the tape, he thought, there’ll be a big one to break open the door, then they’ll want to be finished in seconds, down the fire escape inside a minute.
He pulled the bed covers straight, they’d look there, that might give him a second, they were hardly rumpled by his few hours of sleep. He looked around for anything useful-the chair, a flimsy thing, better than nothing.
Stand behind the door?
His instinct said: No, see what I’m up against, don’t get slammed against the wall by a door shoulder-charged by a gorilla.
He stepped across the worn carpet and stood to the left of the door, back against the wall, holding the chair by a leg in his left hand.
Waiting in the dark room, wall icy against his shoulderblades, listening, all the city sounds amplified now. Calm, he said to himself, breathe deeply, icy calm.
No sound came to his ears from the passage.
Wrong. He was wrong. Too jumpy, the fire-escape latch just an invention of a mind looking to explain something, something in a dream probably. They couldn’t have found him. How could they find him, they didn’t even have a name? He dropped his head, felt tension leave his neck and shoulders.
The door came off its hinges.
A huge man, shaven-headed, came with it, went three steps across the room with the door on his right shoulder, his back to Niemand.
Close behind him was a tall, slim man with a silenced pistol in both hands, arms outstretched, combat style. He saw Niemand out of the corner of his eye, started to swing his arms and his body.
Niemand hit him in the head and chest with the chair before he had half swung, broke the chair back to pieces, hit him again with the back of the seat, more solid, caught him under the nose, knocked his head back.
The man stepped two paces back, his knees bending, one hand coming off the pistol.
The big man had turned, stood frozen, hands up, hands the size of tennis racquets.
Niemand threw the remains of the chair at him, stepped over, grabbed the gunman’s right hand as he sank to the floor, blood running down his face, got the pistol, pulled it away, pointed it at the big man.
‘Fuck, no,’ said the big man, he didn’t want to die.
Maori, maybe, thought Niemand, Samoan. He shot him in each thigh, no more sound than two claps with cupped hands.
‘Fuck,’ said the man. He didn’t fall down, just looked down at his legs in the black tracksuit pants. Then he sat on the bed, slowly, sat awkwardly, he was fat around the middle. ‘Fuck,’ he said again. ‘Didn’t have to do that.’
The gunman was on his knees, lower face black with blood. He had long hair and it had fallen forward, hung over his eyes, strands came down to his lips. Niemand walked around him, pushed him to the carpet with his bare foot. There was no resistance. He knelt on the base of the man’s spine, put the fat silencer muzzle into the nape of his neck.
‘Don’t even twitch,’ Niemand said. He found a wallet, a slim nylon thing, in the right side pocket of the leather jacket. Took the mobile phone too. In the left pocket were car keys and a full magazine, fifteen rounds. That’s excessive for taking out one man, Niemand thought. He stood up.
‘Scare, mate,’ the gunman said. ‘That’s all, mate, scare.’
It was hard to pick the accent through the blood and the carpet but Niemand thought it was Australian. An all-Pacific team.
‘How’d you find me?’
The man turned his head. He had a strong profile. ‘Just the messenger here, mate. Bloke gave me the room number.’
‘What’s your car?’
‘What?’
Niemand ran the pistol over the man’s scalp. ‘Car. Where?’
‘Impreza, the Subaru, at the lane.’
‘Don’t move.’
Niemand went to the doorway, now a hole in the wall, looked down the dim corridor. Nothing, no sounds. The room next door was empty, he’d seen the whiteboard in the reception office.
He went back. ‘Unlucky room number,’ he said to the man on the floor and, from close range, shot him in the backs of his knees. Clap, clap.
While the man keened, thin sounds, demanding, Niemand dressed, stuffed his things in his bag. The big man was lying back on the bed now, feet on the ground, making small grunting noises. If he wanted to, Niemand thought, he could have a go at me, just flesh wounds, like cutting your finger with a kitchen knife. But he doesn’t want to, why should he? He’s just the battering ram, the paid muscle.
Like me, all I’ve ever been, just the paid muscle. And always stupid enough to have a go.
‘Give me your mobile,’ he said to the big man.
The man shook his head. ‘No mobile.’
Niemand went down the fire escape, not hurrying, walked down the alley, saw the car, pressed the button to unlock the driver’s door. He drove to Notting Hill, light traffic, rain misting the windscreen, feeling the nausea, the tiredness, not too bad this time. He’d never driven in London but he knew the inner city from his runs, from the map. Near the Notting Hill Gate underground, he parked illegally, left the car unlocked with the keys in it, Three youths were nearby, laughing, one pissing against a car, he saw the joint change hands. With luck, they’d steal the Subaru.
On the underground platform, just him, two drunks and a woman who was probably a transvestite, he took out the gunman’s mobile, flipped it open, pressed the numbers.
‘Yes.’ Hollis.
‘Not a complete success to report,’ Niemand said. ‘Those boys you sent, one’s too fat, one’s too slow. I had to punish them. And I’m going to have to punish you too, Mr Hollis.’
‘Hold on,’ said Hollis. ‘There’s some…’ ‘Goodbye.’
Niemand put the mobile away. One of the drunks was approaching, silly slack-jawed smile.
‘Smoke, mate?’ he said.
Glasgow. Niemand knew what people from Glasgow sounded like, he’d spent time with men from Glasgow. He turned side-on to the man, moved his shoulders. ‘Fuckoff, throw you under the fucking train,’ he said in his Scottish accent.
The man put up his hands placatingly, walked backwards for several steps, turned and went back to his companion.
12
…HAMBURG…
‘What’s Serrano’s business in Hamburg?’ said Anselm. He was uneasy, his scalp itched. The other people in the restaurant seemed too close, he felt that they were looking at him.
They were in Blankenese, finishing lunch at a table in the window. Below them flowed the Elbe, wide, grey, unhealthy. Two container ships attended by screeching flocks of gulls were passing each other. The huge vessels-clumsy, charmless things bleeding rust at the rivets and oozing yellowish liquids from their pores-sent small waves to the banks.
‘Moving money, papers,’ said O’Malley. ‘He shifts stuff all the time. Can’t keep any computer records. No paperless office for Mr Serrano.’
‘The pages any use?’
‘The ones we can understand don’t help us. We sold them to a firm in Dublin, so we’ll get a bit of our money back. In due course. We don’t demand cash on delivery. Unlike some.’
‘Cash flow problems. The boss’s been away on honeymoon.’
‘Why does he have to marry them?’
‘Some Lutheran thing. What’s Serrano want with Kael?’
‘We’d like to know.’
‘You came over to tell me that?’
‘No. I’ve got other business here. Mention this matter to Baader?’
‘Yes. He says Kael’s a man of parts.’ Every time Anselm looked around, he thought he caught people staring at him.
O’Malley looked pensive, chewing the last of his Zanderfilet. He was big and pale, a long patrician nose between sharp cheekbones. He looked like an academic, a teacher of literature or history. But then you looked into his bleached blue eyes, and you knew he was something very different.
In the disordered and looted album of Anselm’s memories, Manila was untouched. Manila, in the Taproom at the Manila Hotel. The group came in laughing, O’Malley with a short, bald Filipino man, two elated young women who looked like Rotary exchange students from Minnesota, and dark and brooding Paul Kaskis. O’Malley was wearing a barong tagalog, the Filipino shirt worn over trousers. The Filipino was in a lightweight cream suit, and Kaskis was in chinos and a rumpled white shirt.
The Filipino ordered margaritas. Anselm heard him say to the blondes that he’d started drinking them at college i
n California. At Stanford. They shrieked. They shrieked at the men’s every utterance. It struck Anselm that if they were on an exchange, it was an arrangement between Rotary cathouses, an international exchange of Rotary harlots.
There was a moment when the shrieking women had gone to the powder room and the Filipino was talking softly to Kaskis and O’Malley was standing next to Anselm, paying for cigars.
‘I think I know you,’ said O’Malley. ‘You’re a journalist.’ He was Australian.
‘No and yes,’ said Anselm.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re with…’ ‘I’m a freelance, not with anyone in particular.’
O’Malley’s washed-out blue eyes, remarkable in his sallow face, flicked around the room. Then he smiled, a smile full of rue. ‘Not CIA then?’
‘No. I don’t think they’d have me.’
‘Fuck it,’ O’Malley said. ‘Met two today, I was hoping for a trifecta. Well, have a drink with us anyway.’
Anselm ended up having dinner with them. At one point, shrieking Carol, the taller and bigger of the American women, put an accomplished hand on him under the table, seemed to look to O’Malley for guidance.
Now O’Malley asked for guidance. ‘What’s Baader say about him?’
‘Arms, drugs, possibly slaves, human organs. Untouchable. He has friends.’
‘Just another Hamburg businessman then.’
‘I suppose,’ said Anselm. He had a cautious look at their fellow-lunchers, members of Hamburg’s haute bourgeoisie, serious people noted for being cold, tight-lipped and very careful with a mark. Most of them were in middle age and beyond, the men sleek-haired and hard-eyed, just on the plump side, the women lightly tanned and harder eyed but carrying no excess weight, taut surgically contoured faces many of them, bowstring tendons in the neck.
‘Baader says Kael doesn’t talk directly to his own clients,’ said Anselm, ‘so he may be a client of Serrano’s. Kael’s money’s all dirty and Serrano may be helping him with it.’