Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  She smiled.

  Brought her back, those kings did. Focused her. Helped her regain the loss until she was two hundred and thirty up. And rising.

  Wonderful.

  Wonderful too lying here without the nausea. She kept motionless, her body didn’t exist. No pain in her breasts, no pain on their skin. None of that queasiness in her throat. She lay still, she felt normal. Seemed such a long time since she’d felt normal.

  A pair of kings. Four straight diamonds. Three aces, a pair of black twos. The sort of luck you’d put money on. The sort of luck that opened a winning streak.

  What she needed. A winning streak that’d pay her gambling debts. Help her bring home Linda Nchaba and the intel to Henry Davidson. Prove her worth. With two nights up on the cards, maybe she was on a roll.

  Wondered if those logging her keystrokes had enjoyed her run. Maybe they’d scored too. Whoever they were. The telephone callers.

  Her thoughts drifted to the coming day. Detlef Schroeder. Amina’s story. With that, the nausea returned. Forced her out of bed, hand over mouth, her stomach convulsing. She knelt at the toilet bowl, dry-retching.

  She went through the motions, washing, dressing, eating toast with peanut butter for breakfast. This sudden urge for peanut butter. A little after nine thirty phoned Detlef Schroeder. Just checking.

  The old man coming on, ‘Of course, of course, eleven o’clock is fine. It is what we agreed. I am up for many hours already. I have pastries from the delicatessen, I have fresh coffee. If you prefer, I have bought Maria biscuits. Herr Schroeder is a thoughtful man, no? He has even been to the post office. Completed his morning chores. What do you call them? My little tasks. So I see you soon to tell you the rest about Amina. Remember, change buses in the Tiergarten. Be watching for the people in the shadows. Tschüss.’

  Vicki disconnected. The people in the shadows. The guy didn’t let up. Except there were people in the shadows. The telephone creeps for one, and maybe others.

  This time she changed buses in the Tiergarten. Six others had boarded with her; if the shadow people lurked among them, no one got off when she did. Vicki waited ten minutes alone in the white cold, wondering to what purpose. Neither the snood nor her coat enough protection against the fierce bite of below zero. In the next bus sat where she could see all the passengers. At each stop checked no one she recognised from the first bus got on. Didn’t ease her anxiety. Those watching her would know where she was headed, wouldn’t need visuals.

  At Zoo changed buses, got off at Savignyplatz. This time no young man muttering ‘Ja, ja, alles gut’ into his cellphone as she headed for Schroeder’s block. No one else she recognised on the street. For all she knew could be someone higher up the street in a parked car watching through binoculars. Could even be the passing pensioner with the wheelie shopping basket had a mic wired into her scarf. Her rheumy eyes not missing a moment. Vicki smiled. You wanted spooks, there were spooks everywhere.

  Buzzed Detlef Schroeder. Before he could answer, the door opened, a mother coming out, kiddie in tow. The kiddie whining, the mother in full outrage. Or so it sounded. Vicki stood back to let them pass. The joy of children.

  Crossed the courtyard to the hinterhaus, found the door unlocked. Went into the warmth of the building. How had Amina managed in this cold? Cold that hurt. Day after day under a low sky, no warmth from the sun, no sun. Like living in an ice age.

  All very depressing.

  She took the stairs slowly, wondering at her shortness of breath. Had to be the cold. Couldn’t be her condition. Not already. Not so soon. Then again, maybe she needed to phone today. Make an appointment next week with her gynae. Get the matter sorted asap.

  On the second floor, went left down the corridor. Expected to see Detlef Schroeder waiting for her. Would he be wearing the same jersey, the same shirt, the same suit pants? Undoubtedly. The way he smelt, he didn’t change clothes often.

  His apartment door ajar, a strip of light falling into the corridor.

  She knocked. Called out, ‘Detlef. Detlef. It’s Vicki Kahn.’ As if it would be anyone else.

  No response.

  Hesitated. Listened for the shuffling of his slippers. The clink of crockery. The snick of a kettle switched on. Could hear a television somewhere, the presenter’s insistent voice. But no sounds in Detlef Schroeder’s apartment.

  She pushed at the door. That smell of old newspapers, the dust in carpets, furniture, cigarette smoke, burnt toast raising her nausea. Swallowed.

  ‘Detlef? Mr Schroeder?’

  Expecting the papery rasp of his voice.

  ‘Detlef, can I come in?’ Stepping into the apartment, closing the door with a gloved hand. In his sitting room, the morning’s Berliner Zeitung on a chair. Next to it a mug of tea, half-finished. A stubbed cigarette in an ashtray. He’d been sitting there reading, waiting for her.

  ‘Detlef?’ Moving sideways towards the kitchen. Thinking, what if he’d had a heart attack, a stroke, pegged on the spot? All she needed. She edged round the kitchen door. Again that whiff of gas, sweet, lingering.

  Saw the kitchen as she’d first seen it: the pot of jam with the knife, the dish of soft butter. Breadcrumbs on the sideboard. Then the Maria biscuits on a plate. The tag of a teabag in the teapot. The heap of saucepans in the sink, two plates in the wash-up rack. A teaspoon with a squashed teabag on the draining board.

  Then the blood. Not much. A smear on a cupboard door, low down.

  Below it the body of Detlef Schroeder.

  ‘Chances are you’re going to see bodies, corpses.’ The nonchalance of Henry Davidson on an outing to the morgue. ‘Victims. The murdered. The human debris of car accidents. You’ll never get used to it. Mostly because you won’t see enough. Something disconcerting about a corpse.’ Henry Davidson, rolling back a plastic sheet, revealing a corpse on a gurney. Standing aside, smiling, like a magician. ‘Take a decko, chaps. Acquaint yourselves.’

  Acquainted herself now with the corpse of Detlef Schroeder. A small hole in his temple. Seemed he’d twisted away from the shooter. Kept his eyes open. Kept hold of a pen in his right hand. Had gone down against the cupboard, dislodged his teeth.

  Jesus.

  Vicki straightened, fighting the urge to vomit. Backed slowly away. Knew she should feel for a pulse, wasn’t going anywhere near him. The way he was lying, the awkward angle of his head, he had to be dead. She kept backing off.

  In the sitting room paused, took in again the newspaper, the mug. Instinct telling her, get out. Get out now. Training telling her, he was writing. What was he writing?

  Meant she had to return to the kitchen. She did. Forced herself down the short passageway between the rooms. Glimpsed through an open door his bedroom. A television screen flickering blue light in the dimness, revealing his unmade bed, a heap of clothing on a chair.

  On the table in the kitchen, a pad, nothing written on it. She tore off the top page anyhow, might be something visible there.

  Then got out. Pulled the apartment door closed behind her, the lock clicking fast.

  Went down the stairs, crossed the courtyard. Not hurrying. Anyone looking out would see a woman in a long coat walking purposefully. Nothing untoward.

  At the street door, raised the snood to cover her chin. Took a breath, opened the door going left down Kantstrasse. Still unhurried, the tremble of adrenalin starting in her hands.

  At the first bus stop, she waited. Three other people there: two elderly men, a young woman connected to her own world. They’d been there ahead of her. No one coming behind. Vicki stood aside, vigilant.

  In her mind, Henry’s injunction, ‘Anything untoward, you phone me. I am your handler, Vicki, I need to know. In the field you will not have the full perspective. You won’t know what’s going on.’

  Bloody right there. But how to phone Henry? Skype from the hotel room? They’d pick it up on their bugs. Call by cellphone, they’d have an intercept. Find a public phone. But where?

  Get out of Berlin, her fir
st priority. Change her flights. Catch the next klm out of Tegel. Doing that, they’d log her keystrokes, know exactly her plans. Jesus, they had her, every which way. Except the hotel would have a business room, a computer she could use. That problem solved. Get her through to Henry, too, on instant message.

  A bus came. She sat downstairs, behind the two men. The young woman strap-hanging. No one leaping on at the last moment.

  At Zoo changed to a 100. No one on the bus she recognised. Stayed that way until she got off at the Marienkirche. Her mind a confusion of Detlef Schroeder’s corpse, the smear of blood down the cupboard door. The smell of burnt toast. Henry Davidson’s ‘Anything strange you phone me.’ No, Henry, not this time. Too risky.

  Then all the whys. Why’d he been killed? Why just before her visit? Why was her hotel room searched? Why was her netbook copied, assuming it had been? Why was she being watched? Why the harassing phone calls? Had to be because of Linda Nchaba, because of the flash drive. That was a home matter. Unless it wasn’t. Unless there were international connections. Something on the stick that implicated powerful people in Europe.

  If that was so, not even Henry Davidson had guessed it.

  Crossing Karl-Liebknecht she glimpsed a man taking photographs, had a lens like a small cannon pointed at the church behind her. Angled quickly away from him.

  At the hotel, her cellphone beeped: message after message. Photographs of her entering Schroeder’s building, leaving Schroeder’s building, catching the buses, crossing the street with the church behind her. The last one: entering the hotel.

  Her phone rang, Henry Davidson’s name on the screen.

  46

  Saturday morning, Fish wondered, what point in trying the licensing authorities? His contact strictly a working-week man. Saturdays he’d be driving his wife to the supermarket. Fish tried the man’s cellphone anyhow.

  The guy came on. ‘What you want, Fish Pescado? This’s Saturday morning! Can’t you give a man a break?’ The man cheerful, relaxed.

  Fish stammered a ‘Sorry, but can you still do a find for me?’

  The man giving an exaggerated sigh. ‘Always the can you, can you, can you? Gonna cost you. Big time, big baggie.’

  Fish squatted in the shadow of the Maryjane, watched Janet scoffing her toast and jam. Told the man no problem. SMSed the number through.

  Janet said, ‘You a connected man, hey, Mister Fish. With all your contacts. Like a network through the city. That’s what I say. Mister Fish’s in the information business. You want to wheel and deal with Mister Fish, you got to have the dope. That’s the truth. Hey, Mister Fish, you maybe got a little stop to see me through the day?’

  Fish stood. ‘You never let up, Janet. Toast. Tea. A little stop. You want to move in?’

  ‘Ney, man.’ Janet released a toothless grin. ‘What Miss Vicki going to say about that? Find another girl in your bed. Ag, sis, Mister Fish, how can you think like that?’ Janet going off into a cackle.

  Fish’s phone rang, number withheld. He raised a hand to quieten Janet, connected, said a tentative hello.

  ‘I said I would phone.’ A voice Fish couldn’t place. ‘You going to meet me, surfer boy?’

  Joey Curtains.

  Bloody amazing. ‘We can meet. Sure, sure. Where you want to do that?’ Fish heading inside out of the wind.

  ‘You didn’t expect I would phone, hey?’

  ‘Best not to expect things.’

  ‘Best not to, my bru. That way there’s no disappointments. But now you not disappointed. I keep my word, surfer boy. So where you wanna meet? In a parking garage? Maybe on a highway? In a bioscope? Maybe on a beach?’ Joey Curtains finding this amusing. ‘How about there by you? Surfer’s Corner, we can look at the sea. That nice little café there. Where you were with the colonel’s wife.’

  Interesting. So Joey Curtains had been watching Cynthia Kolingba. Was probably the very same dude came snooping with a long lens, that’s how he knew he was a surfer.

  ‘You mean Knead?’

  ‘Ja, my friend, Knead. Where all the larnies drink their lattes.’

  ‘When?’

  Fish thinking, what was the angle here? What option was Joey Curtains working? Had to be something he was after.

  ‘Make it thirty minutes.’

  ‘How’ll I recognise you?’

  ‘You don’t have to. I know what you look like, surfer boy.’

  A shadow darkened the doorway, Janet holding out her mug and plate. ‘That was a short call, Mister Fish. You going for coffee there by Knead. Nice for you.’

  ‘You want to come?’ Fish distracted, searching through a cupboard drawer for his Astra. Small gun with a powerful bullet.

  Janet blushed. ‘No, man, Mister Fish, I’m not wearing my smart dress.’ Put the plate into the sink, kept hold of the mug.

  Fish took the Astra from the drawer, checked the clip, the breech, stuck the pistol into his belt.

  ‘Hey, Mister Fish, that’s a smart gun? You like a boy scout. Always prepared.’ Janet giggling. ‘That’s what I say, Mister Fish’s always one up. You know. Ready to fire.’ She held out the mug. ‘Before you go, one more cup for a poor woman.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Fish, ‘enough now. I’ve got to go, Janet. I’m going to be late.’

  ‘Quickly.’

  Fish dropped a teabag in her mug, filled it with kettle water. Got her out of the house, the door latching behind him. ‘You satisfied now?’

  ‘I’m going to sit here, drink my tea while you in Knead, Mister Fish. Enjoy.’

  Fish tried to start the Isuzu, the engine reluctant. Hunnah, hunnah, hunnah. Gave it a rest. Saw Janet grinning at him. ‘Give petrol, Mister Fish, give petrol.’

  He gave petrol, fired the ignition again, this time it caught. Heard Janet call out, ‘Don’t be scared. Be prepared.’ Mad Janet, a pain in the butt, still she’d been useful.

  Going over the bridge, his cell rang. Fish pressed it to loudspeaker, got a background of Carly Simon, ‘You’re So Vain’. Long time since he’d heard the song. Talk about clouds in your coffee. Talk about being with some underworld spy.

  ‘Got all you want here, Fish Pescado,’ said his contact. ‘Like I said, gonna cost you plenty.’

  ‘When doesn’t it with you guys?’

  ‘Hey, you want this? Treat me nice, polite. Saturday morning, bru. I’m out here with the wife doing together things, shopping, you know. You should try it.’

  Fish pulled into a parking bay, kept the engine running. ‘What you got for me?’

  ‘Big baggie, we talking?’

  ‘I said.’

  ‘Just want to hear it again.’

  Fish catching a sniff. Imagined the guy in some hyperstore among the TV displays staring at a wide flat-screen. Back-pocket cash payment, no doubt. These guys coined it. But who’s complaining?

  ‘So, what you’ve got is your three-series BMW. Oldish model: 2009. Manual. White, very nice. No accidents. Bought at an auction.’

  ‘Good to know,’ said Fish. ‘How about the owner? His address?’

  ‘How d’you know he’s a he?’

  ‘A guess.’

  ‘Very pee-eye. Nice one. You got a paper ’n pencil handy like a good investigator?’

  Fish let it go. Told him sure, jotted down the name, Joseph Curtains, an address in Parklands among the up-and-coming. Said, ‘I owe you.’

  ‘A big baggie.’ Then: ‘What’d you get, Fish, a 50-inch screen? This’s one of those with wi-fi. Pricey, but it’s only money.’

  ‘Someone pays you too much,’ said Fish.

  ‘Not you,’ the guy cut back. ‘For you I do charity work.’

  Fish keyed him off, thought, Joey Curtains might dis the larnies, but he was aspiring. One of the new bourgeoisie.

  47

  ‘Change of plan, Vicki,’ said Henry Davidson into Vicki Kahn’s ear. Vicki slipping her phone under the snood. Walking into the warmth of the hotel. Thinking, what now? Keeping her cool about the killing of Detlef Sc
hroeder. Being the professional, listening, engaged.

  Henry Davidson speaking fast, ‘Want you out of there, chop-chop. Can do? Where are you, anyhow? In some museum admiring the ancient artefacts? In a gallery before a modern marvel? Sorry to spoil your cultural safari. Another time, eh? Bound to be another time. Always another time. So where are you? What sort of timeline are we talking to have you out of there?’

  ‘I’m going to ring you back,’ said Vicki, pleased to hear her voice so calm. Like she had this whole number nailed down: dead bodies, nausea, the tremblies, dealing with it all like a pro. Except that was the front. Behind was a little girl terrified.

  ‘No, uh-uh, we have to talk now,’ said Henry Davidson. ‘No time like the present. Doesn’t matter if you’re standing there in front of a Kienholz installation or wandering through a Modigliani retrospective. Now, Vicki.’ Henry Davidson paused. ‘So how long are we talking? Two hours? Three hours? Four hours max? Got to have you away this afternoon. This evening. Now the thing is this, Vicki …’

  ‘I’ll ring you back. I’m going to ring you back. Give me a minute.’

  A pause. Henry wising up. ‘I see. Alright.’

  Vicki pressed off the call. Made her way between tourists in the lobby to the business alcove, her phone ringing. Answered, ‘I’m going to Skype you, Henry.’ Disconnected before he could say a word. Her phone buzzed again, she keyed it to voicemail.

  Henry’d be puce above his cravat, his blood pressure in the red band, his toupee flipped sideways, couldn’t be helped.

  At a computer brought up Skype, logged through to her account, her contacts, typed a message to Henry Davidson: ‘Detlef Schroeder shot dead.’ Waited. One, two, three minutes. When was he going to answer?

  Then: ‘Get out now. Phone me from Schiphol. Go.’

  So encouraging to be in the hands of a decisive handler. So to the point.