by Peter Temple
66
…HAMBURG…
It began to rain as Anselm neared home, cold sleet-like rain, but it didn’t bother him. He had sent Tilders to his death. There would never be any escape from that fact.
On a whim. Not on business. Not on behalf of a client. On a personal whim.
For that, Tilders was dead.
The house seemed colder than usual, the rooms darker. He rang Alex.
‘I was wondering about you,’ she said.
‘I won’t be coming,’ he said. ‘Someone’s been killed. A friend.’
A silence.
‘I’m sorry. That’s terrible. Of course, you must…Whatever you have to do.’
‘Nothing. There’s nothing to do.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Well. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I’ll call you. I’m sorry.’
‘No, please, don’t be. These things, you need time.’
Anselm sat on the edge of the desk, looking at the carpet. He felt all his aches, no alcohol in the system to dull them.
A whim. Was it a whim?
No.
‘You aren’t a journalist anymore, John,’ O’Malley had said. ‘That part of your life is over.’
It wasn’t over. It had started again with the decision to put Tilders on the ferry. Sad-eyed Tilders, wry and icy-calm doer of the impossible, benchmark for reliability. It couldn’t stop because he had been blown to pieces. The opposite. It had to go on because he was dead.
Dead. How many people in this unfathomable business were dead. Now Tilders by chance, Serrano and Kael murdered, Bruynzeel, probably murdered. Lourens, probably. Shawn.
And, long ago, Kaskis and Diab.
He thought about the Wishart woman. She connected Kaskis and Diab to the film shown to her by Mackie, who was Niemand, and that brought in Serrano and Kael and Shawn and Bruynzeel and Richler and Trilling, whoever he was.
Anselm went to the cold kitchen and poured half a glass of whisky, took the bottle back to the study, sat in the ancestral chair behind the desk. He found the number and dialled.
It rang and rang and cut out.
The other number, he dialled that, it was a mobile number.
It rang and rang.
She answered.
‘John Anselm.’
‘Hold on, I’m in the car, have to pull over, I don’t have a hands-free.’
He waited.
‘Hi, hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry, the traffic’s terrible.’
He wasn’t sure how to put it, then he said it. ‘Mackie is a man called Constantine Niemand. He’s a South African mercenary. The film comes from South Africa. He came upon it by chance, I think.’
A sound, a sigh, perhaps a passing vehicle, too close.
‘Do you know what it’s about?’ Her tone was tentative, talking to a cat so as not to scare it away.
He didn’t know what to say.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but I think knowing about it is very dangerous.’
She said, ‘Yes. I know that. They tried to kill him again. Last night.’
‘Your paper knows what you’re doing?’
‘No. They don’t. It’s…well, it’s complicated.’
‘I’ll call you if anything else comes up.’
‘Please. I’m feeling desperate.’
He put the phone down. It rang.
‘Anselm.’
‘I’m outside your house. Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
He waited for a while, drank some whisky, and then he went to the front door and opened it. Alex was there, hands in the pockets of a trenchcoat, face impassive, beautiful, rain on her hair.
‘I want you to fuck me,’ she said.
‘I ordered a pizza.’
‘We’re out of pizza.’
‘Well, this is most unsatisfactory.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
She came inside, closed the door, came up to him, close, he could smell her perfume. He put his hands on her waist and drew her to him.
They kissed, softly. Then harder and she pressed against him. He could feel her ribs under his hands. He slid his hands to her buttocks.
‘Do you have a bed?’ she said, not her usual voice, throatier.
‘We never sleep.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about sleeping.’
She put a hand on him but it was already happening.
‘I think you’re recovering,’ she said.
‘Only clinical trials can confirm that.’ His breath was short.
‘I’m a doctor.’ She unzipped him, put her hand in.
He was unbuttoning her red shirt. ‘A red bra,’ he said. ‘That’s provocative.’
‘White didn’t work last night.’ She squeezed him. ‘This is promising.’
‘Upstairs,’ said Anselm. ‘Quickly, I don’t know how long it will last.’
He was awake, lying on his back, still in the afterglow, and he caught the phone on the first ring.
‘Haven’t woken you?’ Inskip.
‘What?’
Anselm could make out Alex’s pale shoulders, the curve of the shoulder blades.
‘I heard about Tilders. I’m really sorry.’
‘Yes. Well.’
‘This probably isn’t of interest but that removed file, do you know…’ ‘Yes.’ He was talking about Diab’s file.
‘There was a number with the entry, a code. I didn’t think anything at the time, but it nagged. I went back and fiddled, just curious, you understand, pure spirit of inquiry, and…’ ‘What?’
‘It was one of a group of files removed at the same time, a bulk buy. All gone for good. Same remover.’
Alex turned onto her back and he could see her left breast lolling, flat on the breastbone, the nipple prominent. She moved her head, disturbed, as if worried by a fly.
He said softly, ‘How many?’
‘Eight.’
He felt her hand on his thigh, the long fingers moving slowly. Slowly. It was happening again and he had no moisture in his mouth.
‘Run the names,’ he said. ‘That’s good work. And if you’ve got time, do a biog on a Donald Trilling, Pharmentis Corp, that’s P-H-A-R.’
‘Certainly, sir. Enjoy your rest.’
‘Who said anything about rest?’
Her fingers were lying on him, doing nothing, he could feel each finger. Then they closed and she had him in her grip, a silken, strong grip. And there was something to grip.
‘Calling for pizza again?’ she said.
‘A victim of night hunger.’
‘Me too.’
He turned and she put her right hand to his head, he got his mouth on her breast, tried to engulf it, the whole breast, her, the whole of her.
67
…HAMBURG…
‘There’s insurance,’ said Baader. ‘Tilders’ wife and children will be looked after, I’ll make sure.’
Baader looked away, fleetingly touched his desk blotter, the computer mouse, pulled fingers away from them as if they were hot.
‘I signed as a witness when they got married,’ he said. ‘He gave the boy my name. Well, he never said it was for me, but I always thought, well, you know…’ Anselm wanted to tell him that Tilders had not been on the firm’s business. He wanted to confess. But he could not bring himself to.
Later. He would tell him later.
Baader shook his head, gathered himself. ‘What does O’Malley say? This is his business. Fucking around with Kael.’
‘I’ll find out today.’
‘We’ve never…This prick in Munich shot Fat Otto but that was a mistake…’ Baader looked away again. It was a tired face, the signs of too much and too little. ‘On the doorstep, too. That’s so fucking, I don’t know. I can’t…’ Baader shook his head. He made hand movements.
Anselm caught himself doing the same. Language has failed us, he thought. We have no way to express the ache. He went to his office.
; The logs stood on his desk, high, two stacks, sixty or seventy files, the records of twenty-four hours, the doings of strangers, their comings and their goings, their gettings and their spendings. He sorted, found Inskip’s pile, found the one he wanted.
The eight names.
Diab, Joseph Elias.
Fitzgerald, Wayne Arthur.
Gressor, Maurice Tennant.
Galuska, Benjamin Lincoln Garner.
Kaldor, Zoltan James.
Macken, Todd Garvey.
Rossi, Anthony Raimond.
Veldman, Elvis Aaron.
He felt something stir in a far corner of his mind, something in a crevice, stuck. He read the names again:
Diab, Joseph. Fitzgerald, Wayne. Gressor, Maurice. Galuska, Benjamin.
Kaldor, Zoltan. Macken, Todd. Rossi, Anthony. Veldman, Elvis.
Nothing came to him. He turned to the next page.
Inskip’s notes, in his sloppy hand, ballpoint, some letters upright, some slanting to the right.
Found five. With Diab, six.
Fitzgerald. Dead, suicide, gunshot, Toronto, Canada, 9 October 1993.
Gressor. Dead, drug overdose, Los Angeles, California, 7 October 1993.
Galuska. No trace.
Kaldor. Dead, apparent road-rage victim, Miami, Florida, 8 October 1993.
Macken. No trace.
Rossi. Dead, motor accident, Dallas, Texas, 14 July 1989.
Veldman. Dead, shot by intruder, Raleigh, North Carolina, 7 October 1993.
Early October 1993 was a really bad hair time for this bunch. Have some birth dates, could check horoscopes. Is this unusual mortality for a group of soldiers of average age forty? How would I know?
A good thing Baader didn’t read the logs anymore. He disliked frivolity. Except in its place. Anselm looked at his slice of view, not seeing it. Early October 1993 was certainly a bad time. They had been kidnapped on 5 October. Within a few days, Kaskis, Diab, and these five American soldiers, probably ex-soldiers, died violently.
There were two more pages from Inskip. The abbreviated biography of Donald Trilling, president of Pharmentis Corporation, fourth largest US pharmaceutical company.
Born Boston 1942, graduate of Stanford, PhD Cambridge, chemist, military service in Vietnam, founder of Trilling Research Associates of Alexandria, Virginia, developer of anti-depressants Tranquinol and Calmerion, consultant to the US Defense Department. Many more achievements. It was an impressive career, capped by the Pharmentis takeover of Trilling Research in 1988 and Trilling’s rise to head of the corporation. There was a quote from Time magazine in 1996: ‘…scientist, corporate strategist, and, as convenor of Republicans at Work, one of the most influential men in America’.
At the bottom of the page, Inskip had written:
Not just consultant to US Defense Department. Congressional hearing in 1989 told Trilling Research received Defense contracts worth more than $60 million between 1976 and 1984. No details. Classified.
May be more about this elsewhere.
Was this the Trilling? The only connection was that Bruynzeel and this Trilling were in the same trade, roughly. Bruynzeel and Speelman sold chemicals. Lourens was a chemist, like Trilling.
Bruynzeel said to Serrano:
Trilling’s connections, there’s no problem.
If it was this Trilling, what connections was Bruynzeel referring to?
With the US Defense Department?
And Serrano had said something to Spence/Richler about needing to worry because ‘the Belgian’s one of yours’.
Bruynzeel and the Israelis? Was this the Trilling? It was a thicket, hard to get in, easy to be trapped, no way out.
What exactly did Lourens do? He’d never bothered to find out. He swivelled to the machine.
There wasn’t much about Dr Carl Lourens on the electronic record. The Johannesburg Weekly Mail amp; Guardian had a 1992 story that the Office for Serious Economic Offences, a branch of the Attorney-General’s Department, was investigating his company, TechPharma Global, for currency and other offences under the apartheid regime.
The Johannesburg Star reported his death. It called him an importer of chemicals ‘with links to the South African Defence Force’. The report said:
The body was burnt beyond recognition in a fire that destroyed the premises of TechPharma Global outside Pretoria. Police said gas cylinders and chemicals exploded, making it too dangerous to approach the blaze. It had been allowed to burn out.
It was rumoured in 1993 that Dr Lourens would be charged with serious offences relating to the apartheid era, but these never eventuated.
A spokesman for the Attorney-General’s Department said yesterday that Dr Lourens had been questioned in recent weeks over allegations made by a former employee of TechPharma Global.
There was one more reference.
A man found dead of a gunshot wound to the head in a Sandton City carpark yesterday has been identified as Dr Johan Scheepers, 56, a chemist of Craighall Park.
Dr Scheepers was found with a pistol. He was a former employee of TechPharma Global, whose director, Dr Carl Lourens, died in a fire two days ago.Dr Scheepers had been assisting the Attorney-General’s Department with inquiries into the affairs of TechPharma.
Lourens, Shawn, this man, Serrano, Kael…he didn’t want to go through the list again. No end to the number of deaths. He was sick at heart and stomach and the twenty-four-hour logs were waiting.
Jessica Thomas, the name added to the Mackie file, had used a credit card to buy petrol at a stop on the A44.
TIME OF EVENT: 12.42 a.m., Thursday, 13/10.
The CLIENT NOTIFIED box was ticked. TIME: 3.27 p.m.,Thursday, 13/10.
In the COMMENTS box, Jarl had written: Checked long delay in central transaction recording-Amex computer problems, system down.
Lafarge looking for Niemand. Was Niemand with Jessica Thomas? Why not, she had picked him up on her bike. Lafarge looking for the film Niemand had. Dead soldiers. Dead Tilders.
Anselm’s mind was sick of the puzzle, slid away to Alex. She had left the bed before dawn. He had woken but kept still, lying on his side, eyes closed, listening to her dressing, the fabric sounds, pulling, sheathing. She had come to the bedside, bent over, tried to place a soft kiss on his face, and he had taken her, caught her, pulled her down to him.
‘This is over-compensation,’ she said in his chest, breathless. ‘You don’t have to prove anything. It works.’
‘It’s not doing anything.’
‘Are you sure? Let me check…’ Riccardi. He should have spoken to him earlier. What did Riccardi know?
68
…LONDON…
‘We’re pretty much in a holding pattern,’ said Palmer. The small windowless room on the top floor of the embassy was overheated, and it made him feel tight in the chest.
‘It’s getting close for me, Scottie. I’d hoped things would be tidy by now.’
‘I’m not taking this lightly.’
‘No, I know you’re not. What help have our friends given you.’
‘Some. They’re on the case. Could hear something any time.’
‘Not a big country.’
‘Big enough. Plus there’s water around it.’
‘Is that a thought?’
‘We’ve got it covered, I hope.’
‘There was something in Hamburg.’
‘Yes. People did some housekeeping.’
‘Simpler ways, surely?’
‘They apparently thought it would be more surgical.’
‘They think Hiroshima was surgical. Sorted out the clown problem?’
‘An all-professional show next time.’
‘Call me any time.’
‘I will.’
‘And not a loose thread, Scottie. Not a fucking thing.’
‘Understood, sir. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Scottie.’
Palmer dialled the other number. There were two rediallings.
‘Yes.’ It was Casca.
‘The present matter, sir,’ said Casca. ‘We put together a bunch of stuff, bits and pieces, mostly from the one place. It adds up and it’s not helpful. You might want to do something about it, sir.’
‘Tell me.’
69
…HAMBURG…
Riccardi sounded groggy, as if woken from a deep sleep.
‘What time’s it?’ he said.
‘It’s morning,’ said Anselm. ‘What sort of hours are you keeping there? Still up all night?’
‘Yup but now I’m getting paid for it. Got a job. Night job.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘In a call centre. I answer customers’ questions about software problems. From all over the world.’
‘What do you know about software?’
‘Fuck all. I’ve got an FAQ sheet, that won’t do it, I say we’ll get back to them.’
‘Do you?’
‘No. How you been?’
‘Alive. Listen, there’s something I want to ask you. Kaskis had a photograph.’ Anselm described it.
‘Yup. I saw it. The guy, he was in it.’
‘Diab?’
‘Yup. Diab. That woman get hold of you?’
‘In every sense. Did Kaskis say anything about the picture?’
He could hear Riccardi yawn, a sound a bear might make in spring.
‘She’d be an A1 fuck, I thought. Good legs. See her legs?’
‘She appeared to have legs. She was walking. What did Kaskis say about the picture?’
‘I turned it over and on the back was written SD and a date, I can’t remember, 1980-something, early eighties.’
‘SD?’
‘I asked him and he said, “Special Deployment, Sudden Death, the funny guys”.’
‘Slowly, I’m slow. Say that again.’
‘Special Deployment, Sudden Death. That’s what he said. And he said, “There but for the grace.” It stuck in my mind.’
‘I’m amazed. Drugs are doing you good. You asked what he meant?’
‘He said, just people who don’t exist.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yup. Wildly talkative, Kaskis, notice that?’
‘I did. He said, “But for the grace”?’
‘That’s what he said. Listen, you raking over all the shit again? Baby, it’s history. Get on with life. Take drugs. Get a job in a call centre.’