A Most Wanted Man

by John le Carré

  And Annabel, though dimly, if at all, understanding their larger purpose, was tacitly grateful for their guidance, realizing to her despair that she had become dependent on it. For as long as the three of them were hunkered together over the tape recorder, it was Erna and Günther, not Issa, who were her touchstone with reality, and Issa who was their absent problem child.

  Only when she walked the hundred-meter via dolorosa along the crowded pavement, and reentered Issa’s presence, did her stomach churn and her tongue become gluey with shame, and she longed to trample on every dirty undertaking she had given to her manipulators. Worse still, it seemed to her that Issa, with his prisoner’s powers of empathy, was able to sense her altered state and the extra confidence that, resist it how she would, she derived from being under their control.

  “Give him as much of yourself as you can, dear, as long as it’s from a safe distance,” Erna advised. “Just lead him gently to the water. His decision, when it comes, will be more emotional than rational.”

  Annabel had played chess with him, listened to music with him and, under Erna’s prompting, touched on subjects that even two days ago would not have been discussible. Yet curiously, as their relationship eased, she found herself a lot less willing to let him get away with his snipings at her Western lifestyle, and in particular his disapproving references to Karsten, whose expensive clothes he seemed only too happy to wear.

  “So have you ever loved a woman, Issa, apart from your mother?” she demanded, with the whole length of the loft between them.

  Yes, he conceded, after a long silence. He was sixteen. She was eighteen and already an orphan: a full Chechen like his mother, devout, beautiful and chaste. There was no physical expression of their feelings, he assured Annabel, only pure love.

  “So what happened to her?”

  “She disappeared.”

  “What was her name?”

  “It is immaterial.”

  “Disappeared how, then?”

  “She was a martyr to Islam.”

  “Like your mother?”

  “She was a martyr.”

  “What kind of martyr?” Silence. “A willing martyr? You mean she deliberately sacrificed herself for Islam?” Silence. “Or was she a reluctant one? A victim, like you? Like your mother.”

  It was immaterial, Issa repeated after an infinity. God was merciful. He would pardon her and receive her in Paradise. Nevertheless, the simple admission that Issa had loved at all represented an undermining of his defenses, as Erna Frey was quick to point out.

  “That’s not a dent in his armor, dear, it’s a hole!” she exclaimed. “If he’ll talk love, he’ll talk anything: religion, politics, the whole gamut. He may not know it yet, but he wants you to talk him round. The best way to help him is to keep tapping.” Followed by the habitual piece of sugar that Annabel had become dependent on. “You’re doing marvelously, dear. He’s very lucky.”

  Annabel kept tapping. Breakfast next morning, six o’clock. Coffee and fresh croissants courtesy of Erna Frey. They are seated in what by now are their usual positions: Issa beneath the arched window, Annabel huddled in the farthest corner, her long skirt pulled down to her clunky black boots.

  “Bombings in Baghdad again today,” she announced. “Did you put the radio on this morning? Eighty-five died, hundreds wounded.”

  “It is God’s will.”

  “You mean God approves of Muslims killing Muslims? I don’t think that’s a God I understand very well.”

  “Do not judge God, Annabel. He will be harsh with you.”

  “Do you approve?”

  “Of what?”

  “The killings.”

  “You cannot make Allah happy by killing the innocent.”

  “Who’s innocent? Who can you kill, and make Allah happy?”

  “Allah will know. He knows always.”

  “How will we know? How will Allah tell us?”

  “He has told us through the holy Koran. He has told us through the Prophet, peace be upon Him.”

  Wait till you’re sure his guard’s down, then go for it, Erna had advised her. She was sure now.

  “I’ve been reading a famous Islamic scholar. His name is Dr. Abdullah. Have you heard of him? Dr. Faisal Abdullah? Lives here in Germany? He’s on television from time to time. Not often. He’s too devout.”

  “Why should I have heard of him, Annabel? If he appears on Western television, he is not a good Muslim, he is corrupt.”

  “He’s nothing of the kind. He’s devout, he’s an ascetic and he’s a highly regarded Islamic scholar who has written important books on Islamic faith and practice,” she retorted, ignoring the sneer of suspicion that was already forming on his face.

  “In what language has he written these books, Annabel?”

  “Arabic. But they’ve been widely translated. Into German, Russian, Turkish and practically every language you can think of in the world. He represents a lot of Muslim charities. He’s also written extensively on the Muslim law of giving,” she added with innuendo.

  “Annabel.”

  She waited.

  “Is it your purpose in bringing to my attention the work of this Abdullah to persuade me to accept Karpov’s filthy money?”

  “What if it is?”

  “Then please take to your heart the information that I shall never do this.”

  “Oh, I do!” she retorted, losing patience with him. “I do take it to my heart.” Did she? Or was she faking it? She no longer knew. “I take it to my heart that you’re never going to be a doctor, or whatever it is you want to be today. And that I’m never going to get my life back. And that Mr. Brue is never going to get back the money he gave me to look after you, because any day now they’re going to come here and find you and send you back to Turkey or Russia or somewhere even worse. And that won’t be God’s will. It’ll be your own stupid, stubborn choice.”

  Breathing heavily, one part of her furious with him, another part ice-cold, she saw that he had risen to his feet and was gazing through the arched window at the sunlit world below him.

  If it comes naturally, lose your temper with him, Bachmann had advised her. The same way you lost it with us the night we pulled you off the street and made you grow up.

  Returning to the safe flat, Annabel found Erna Frey and Bachmann exuberant but undecided. Erna Frey’s praise knew no bounds. Annabel had done superbly, she had exceeded all their expectations, things had advanced far more quickly than they had dared anticipate. The question now was whether to let Issa sweat it out for another whole day or to bring Annabel back from the Sanctuary at lunchtime under a pretext and press home the advantage by presenting him with Abdullah’s books.

  But this was not to reckon with a sudden downturn in Annabel’s morale in the wake of her achievement. At first, in their absorption, they failed to notice her change of mood as she sat head in hand at the end of the table. They assumed she was breathing out after her ordeal. Then Erna Frey reached out and touched her arm, and she withdrew it as if it had been bitten. But Bachmann was not given to pandering to his agents’ moods.

  “What the hell’s that about?” he demanded.

  “I’m your tethered goat, aren’t I?” Annabel replied into her hand.

  “You are what?”

  “I lure Issa. Then I lure Abdullah. Then you destroy Abdullah. That’s what you call saving innocent lives.”

  Bachmann was round the table, standing over her.

  “That is total bullshit,” he shouted into her ear. “For as long as you play ball, your boy gets a free pass. And for your information, I do not propose to touch one hair of Abdullah’s venerable fucking head. He’s an icon of loving tolerance and inclusiveness and I’m not in the business of causing riots!”

  They settled for the lunchtime option. Annabel would make a flying midday visit to Issa, drop in Abdullah’s books, plead pressure of time and return this evening to hear his reaction. She agreed to all of it.

  “Don’t go soft on me, Erna,�
� Bachmann said, when they had seen Annabel into the yellow van with her bicycle. “There’s no space for it in this operation.”

  “Tell me one where there was,” said Erna Frey.

  Annabel and Issa were seated as usual at opposite ends of the loft. Evening had come. She had made her lightning lunchtime visit and deposited Dr. Abdullah’s three little books in Russian. Now she was back. From her anorak, she drew a sheet of paper. Until now, they had barely spoken.

  “I downloaded this. Want to hear it? It’s in German. I’ll have to translate it.”

  She waited for an answer and, receiving none, spoke loudly enough for both of them:

  “‘Dr. Abdullah is Egyptian-born, aged fifty-five. He is a world-renowned scholar, the son and grandson of imams and muftis and teachers. In his turbulent youth as a student in Cairo he was swept up by the doctrines of the Muslim Brotherhood, arrested, imprisoned and tortured for his militant convictions. On his release he risked death again, this time at the hands of his former comrades, by preaching the path of brotherliness, truthfulness, tolerance and respect for all God’s creatures. Dr. Abdullah is a reformist orthodox scholar who stresses the example of the Prophet and his companions.’”

  And again waited: “Are you listening to me?”

  “I prefer the works of Turgenev.”

  “Is that because you refuse to make up your mind? Or is it because you don’t want a stupid unbelieving woman bringing you books telling you what a good Muslim does with his money? How many times do I have to remind you that I’m your lawyer?”

  In the speckled half-darkness, she closed her eyes and reopened them. Does he have no sense of urgency anymore? Why should he bother with big decisions when we take all the small ones away from him?

  “Issa, wake up, please. Devout Muslim people everywhere ask Dr. Abdullah for advice. Why won’t you? He represents a lot of important Muslim charities. Some of them send help to Chechnya. If a wise Muslim scholar like Dr. Abdullah is willing to tell you the right way to use your money, why the hell won’t you listen to him?”

  “It is not my money, Annabel. It was stolen from my mother’s people.”

  “Then why don’t you find a way to give it back to them? And while you’re about it, really become a doctor so that you can go home and help them? Isn’t that what you want to do?”

  “Does Mr. Brue regard this Abdullah favorably?”

  “I shouldn’t think he knows him. Maybe he’s seen him on television.”

  “It is immaterial. The opinion of a nonbeliever in regard to Dr. Abdullah is of no significance. I shall read these books for myself, and with God’s help form a judgment.”

  Was his last barrier finally falling? In a moment of unexplained dread, she prayed it was not.

  It was another age before he spoke again: “However, Mr. Tommy Brue is a banker and may therefore consult this Dr. Abdullah from a secular perspective. First he will establish with the assistance of other oligarchs whether the man is regarded as honest in his secular dealings. The oppressed people of Chechnya have been robbed many times, not only by Karpov. If he is honest, Mr. Brue will then propose certain conditions to him on my behalf, and Dr. Abdullah will interpret God’s commands.”

  “And after that?”

  “You are my lawyer, Annabel. You will advise me.”

  The little restaurant was called Louise and it was number three in the Maria-Louisenstrasse, which was the main artery of a cozy urban village of antique shops and health shops and shops for grooming the many rich dogs that inhabited this desirable neighborhood. Back in the days when Annabel had reckoned herself a free soul, Louise was the place where she had liked to roost on a Sunday morning, to drink latte, read newspapers and watch the world go by. And this was the place she had selected for her appointed tryst with Mr. Tommy Brue of Brue Frères Bank, in the confidence that he would not feel ill at ease in such a well-heeled and protected environment.

  At Erna Frey’s suggestion she had proposed midmorning as the hour when the restaurant was at its least busy, and Brue most likely to be available at short notice. Because as Erna had rightly said, if your Mr. Tommy’s any sort of banker at all, he’s sure to have a luncheon appointment. To which Annabel did not reply, as she might have done, that from everything she suspected of Brue’s feelings, he would have passed up lunch with the president of the World Bank in order to accommodate her.

  Nevertheless at her own suggestion—made to herself, on a whim, after a long, unimpressed stare into the mirror—she decided to dress up for the encounter. Mr. Tommy Brue would like her to. Nothing over the top, but he was a good man and in love with her and he deserved the compliment. And it would be nice to present herself to him as a Western woman for a change! So to hell with the gear forced on her by Issa’s Muslim sensitivities—her prison uniform, as she was beginning to think of it—and how about her best jeans for a change and the white cross-banded silk blouse that Karsten had bought for her and she’d never worn? And her new, not-so-clumpy shoes that were okay to bicycle in as well? And while she was about it, a bit of makeup to brighten up those sickly cheeks and pick out the hidden highlights? Brue’s frank enthusiasm when she had called him from the captivity of Erna’s flat, first thing this morning after seeing Issa, had really touched her:

  “Marvelous! Fantastic! Well done, you’ve talked him round then. I was beginning to feel you’d never manage it but you have! Just name the place and the hour,” he had urged. And when she’d hinted at Abdullah, though not mentioning him by name because Erna thought it would be premature: “Ethical and religious concerns? Dear lady, we bankers deal with them every day! The vital thing is, your client claims. Once his claim is settled, Frères will move heaven and earth for him.”

  In another man of his age, such enthusiasm might have made her apprehensive, but after her lackluster performance on the last occasion they had spoken, she felt intensely relieved by it, even ecstatic. For wasn’t the whole world dependent on her behavior? Wasn’t her every word, smile, frown and gesture the personal property of those who owned her: Issa, Bachmann, Erna Frey and, at the Sanctuary, Ursula and the whole of her former family, all of whom deliberately avoided her eye while covertly observing her?

  No wonder she couldn’t sleep. She had only to put her head on the pillow to experience in vivid replay her day’s many and varied performances: Did I exaggerate my concern for the Sanctuary switchboard girl’s sick baby? How did I come over when Ursula suggested it was time I put in for some holiday? And why did she suggest it anyway, when all I’m doing is keeping my head down and my door closed, and giving every impression of going diligently about my duties? And why is it that I have come to think of myself as the proverbial butterfly in Australia, which only has to flap its wings to start an earthquake on the other side of the earth?

  Back in her own flat last night, fired up by Issa’s agreement to make his claim, she had revisited Dr. Abdullah’s website and watched extracts from his television appearances and interviews, and she was very pleased indeed to know that Günther Bachmann did not intend to harm a hair of his venerable fucking head, not that he had any hair to harm anyway: he was small, bald and twinkly—and erhaben, a favorite word of her divinity teacher at boarding school that had drifted back to her, suggesting the sublime. His sublimity, like Issa’s, encompassed everything she wanted to hear from a good man: purity of mind and body, love as an absolute and recognition of the many paths to God or whatever we may choose to call Him.

  It puzzled her, she had to admit, that he made no reference to what others might perceive as the downside of Islam as it is practiced, but his benign, scholarly smile and quick-witted optimism effortlessly overrode such carping criticisms. All religions had believers who were led astray by their zeal and Islam was no exception, he had said; all religions were subject to misuse by evil men; diversity was God’s gift to us and we should praise Him for it. In the circumstances, she liked best Abdullah’s references to the need for generous giving, and his moving references to Isl
am’s wretched of the earth, who were her clients as well as his.

  Mysteriously comforted by these scattered thoughts, she fell at last into a profound sleep and woke up bright and ready.

  And she felt comforted again when she saw Brue’s unexpectedly happy face as he breezed through the glass doors of Louise’s restaurant and stepped towards her with both hands held out to her like a Russian. She even had a spontaneous urge to ditch the restaurant and give him a coffee back in her flat, just to show him how much she valued him as a friend in need, but then she counseled caution on herself, because she had a feeling that she was keeping so much inside her head that, if she let go at all, everything would come tumbling out at once, and she would immediately regret it, and so would all the people she owed her loyalty to.

  “Now what are we having? Well, I don’t think that’s quite me, is it?” he said, pulling a comic face at her glass of vanilla-flavored milk, and ordered himself a double espresso instead. “How are the Turks, by the way?”

  Turks? What Turks? She knew no Turks. Her mind was in so many other places that it took her a moment to retrieve Melik and Leyla from the faces crowding in on her.

  “Oh, fine,” she said, and glanced rather stupidly at her watch, thinking they must be in the air by now, and on their way to Petersburg. She meant Ankara.

  “They’re marrying off my sister,” she said.

  “Your sister?”

  “Melik’s sister,” she corrected herself and heard herself laughing hilariously with him at her slip of the tongue. He looks so much younger, she thought, and decided to tell him. So she did, and with a come-on look that she was immediately ashamed of.

  “Good lord, do you really think so?” he replied, coloring rather sweetly. “Well, I’ve had a bit of rather good family news, to be honest. Yes.”

  The yes apparently to indicate that he wasn’t at liberty to say any more at present, which she completely understood. He was an honorable man, she knew, and she really hoped they could become lifelong friends, though not of the sort he probably had in mind. Or was the thought in her mind rather than in his?