The Anvil

by Ken McClure

  MacLean pushed the documents and the photograph under the glass partition and tried to look casual. It was difficult when he felt the clerk compare him to the photograph. The truth was he didn’t look that much like himself in the photograph let alone Keith Neilsen. He concentrated on the posters on the wall until the unsmiling man looked back down and continued writing. Why did post-office clerks never smile, he wondered. He looked along to the other queue and saw another dour individual stare balefully up at the customer he was serving. Were they trained to show no emotion? Did they practise that vinegar stare? Maybe that was why they closed the office for half an hour on Friday mornings. Staff training. He pictured a row of clerks with dead eyes being trained to say, ‘Next.’

  The thump of a rubber stamp broke MacLean’s train of thought and told him that he was getting his passport. The clerk slid the document under the glass and returned Keith Nielsen’s birth certificate. MacLean put the papers in his inside pocket and said, ‘Thank you.’

  The clerk looked through him and said, ‘Next.’

  MacLean and Tansy separated but met up for lunch together in a small cafe behind Princes Street. MacLean had been to a travel agent.

  ‘Any problems?’ asked Tansy.

  ‘None.’

  ‘When will you go?’

  ‘There’s a flight on Tuesday.’

  ‘Will I see you before then?’

  MacLean shook his head. ‘It’s best that we don’t meet again. Your friends might get suspicious.’

  Tansy opened her mouth to protest but MacLean held up his hand and said, ‘I have to be alone for a bit. I need to prepare myself. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’

  ‘You will take great care won’t you,’ said Tansy with sad eyes.

  MacLean nodded and smiled. ‘You bet,’ he said.

  MacLean spent the weekend in hard physical exercise. He wanted to feel fit for whatever the future held in store for him but there was also a therapeutic value to be had in pushing himself to his limits. It cleared his mind for the duration and freed him from the anxiety that was otherwise constantly with him. His training ground was the Pentland Hills, a range of hills skirting the southern fringes of the city.

  On Saturday morning early, MacLean climbed the steep path to the top of Turnhouse Hill and started running along the Pentland Ridge. He traversed its entire length, clambering over the tops of Carnethy, Scald Law, and East and West Kip before he allowed himself a break of fifteen minutes to eat his two chocolate bars and recover. Then it was all the way back again, fighting against the pain but courting it at the same time because it blotted out everything else. His level of physical fitness was acceptable but his mental state posed questions.

  Only a few months before, he had been on the verge of suicide. How complete was his recovery? His growing love for Tansy and Carrie had done much to heal the wounds but had he recovered sufficient grit and resolve to take on Lehman Steiner and all that might imply? He reluctantly had to conclude that there was no way of knowing. Just like in life no one really knows who is going to be a hero and who is going to be a coward until the real test comes. For most men it never does but MacLean suspected that, in the next week or so, he personally would be sitting the exam.

  He reached the end of his run and allowed himself to collapse exhausted on the slopes, high above Glencorse Reservoir, his chest heaving and his heart thumping against his ribs. He lay on his back in the rough grass and watched the clouds race towards the Firth of Forth. Visibility was good; he could see an oil production platform being towed out of the estuary towards the North Sea. It brought back memories.

  On Sunday, MacLean repeated the same punishing schedule, this time with the added burden of stiffness in his limbs from the day before. On the return journey along the ridge he altered his route to take him through a pinewood west of Caerketton. This would be his final self-imposed test. He was again close to exhaustion, a state when physical co-ordination was at its worst but that was what he wanted. Now he would see if Nick Leavey’s assertion that mental strength could overcome physical problems were true. All it needed was concentration.

  Making sure that he was alone, he chose a branch some three inches thick and standing two metres off the ground. He turned his back on it and closed his eyes for a moment, picturing where the branch was. Still with his eyes closed he took out a coin from his pocket and threw it up in the air in front of him. When he heard it land he whirled round on his left heel and struck out with his raised right foot at where he remembered the branch to be. His foot made contact and the branch broke with a loud crack and fell to the ground.

  He was pleased; he moved on through the forest, picking out imaginary enemies in the form of branches to the left and right of him and making his feet deal with them. As he neared the edge of the wood he picked out four final ‘enemies’ all to be taken out within a self-imposed five-second window. He took one long deep breath and hit the first with an eye-level kick from his right foot, the second he struck with his left hand, the third with another right foot kick and the fourth and final branch succumbed to a blind strike from the heel of his right hand.

  MacLean emerged from the wood and found two hikers in red kagoules sitting less than ten metres away. They were in their early twenties and had stopped eating their sandwiches to stare at him. They had obviously witnessed his last ‘battle’.

  For a moment the three looked at each other, the two hikers motionless with their sandwiches in mid air, MacLean with his chest still heaving from the effort, unshaven, hair soaked with perspiration and with his sweat shirt clinging to his body. Finally, MacLean broke the silence. ‘Another fine day,’ he said and walked off.

  At four thirty on Tuesday afternoon MacLean’s flight landed in Geneva, its wheels sending up clouds of spray. It was raining, but then it usually was in Geneva. He paused for a moment at the head of the steps to look at the familiar terminal building and felt that in some ways it should have been like a homecoming but it didn’t feel like that at all. The universal greyness held a menace that reached out and caressed his skin as he descended the steps. The stewardesses smiled at the passengers but saw none of them. The uniformed passport controller took his document with an air of lethargy and asked the purpose of his visit. ‘I’m a tourist,’ said MacLean. The man waved him through with a casual wave of the hand. He was back.

  MacLean had time to reflect on the past on the ride into the city. The sight of familiar buildings and restaurants forced him to remember the career and lifestyle he had enjoyed before the Cytogerm affair. From being a top surgeon to roughing it on a North Sea oilrig had been a hard road to travel. The thought made him sad but not angry any more. There had been compensations along the way for a lost career but there could be no compensation for a lost life, he thought, as they passed the shop where Jutte used to like buying clothes. MacLean looked at the lifeless mannequin in the window and felt a stab of sadness.

  The taxi passed the Stagelplatz Hotel and MacLean looked up at it without emotion. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that personal feelings must not play a part in this. It was something that Doyle and Leavey had always stressed. ‘If you let it get personal, you can start digging your grave,’ were the words he remembered. ‘Identify exactly what it is you want, plan and execute. Don’t change the plan unless you absolutely have to.’ He had come to Geneva to obtain Cytogerm. That was the sole reason for his visit. There would be no lingering in Memory Lane, no settling of old scores.

  The cab stopped outside his hotel and MacLean paid the driver. It looked perfect; it was small, clean and anonymous. He checked in and made himself coffee in his room while he considered how best to contact Eva Stahl. He looked at his watch and decided against phoning. He would shower, change his clothes and go round to the last address he had for her. It was only three miles from the hotel and he needed the walk.

  The rain had stopped but the streets were still wet as MacLean started walking through the early evening crowds of well-heele
d, well-dressed people. Geneva had an elegance in the evening. He passed a brightly-lit cafe and savoured the aroma of coffee and cigar smoke that lingered round it. Someone opened the door and the sound of laughter came from within. It was a nice sound, thought MacLean but it could have been a million miles away.

  He found the street he was looking for and remembered that he had been there before on some social occasion, probably a party given by Eva and her husband. He hadn’t remembered because such occasions were all the same wherever they were held. The door to the building was open; he entered the hall and summoned the elevator to take him to the fourth floor but when he got out he couldn’t remember whether to turn left or right. He chose right and found the name ‘Stahl’ on the third door along.

  A man answered. MacLean remembered him as Eva’s husband and smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you will remember me,’ he said. ‘Eva and I used to work together.’

  Stahl moved forward to get a better look at MacLean. His movement and the impolite way he stared through narrowed eyes into MacLean’s face suggested that he had been drinking. It was just after seven in the evening.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I remember you all right.’

  MacLean felt embarrassed as Stahl continued to stare at him without saying anything.

  ‘You’re the one who changed her face and made her beautiful.’ The word was a sneer.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ asked MacLean.

  The man threw back his head in bitter laughter. ‘Wrong?’ he exclaimed. ‘What could possibly be wrong?’

  ‘Perhaps we could talk inside?’ suggested MacLean.

  Stahl took a step back and brought his arm down in front of him in a mock bow. ‘Come in dear Doctor, the least I can do for the man who turned my wife into a whore is offer him a drink.’

  MacLean did not go inside. Instead he said, ‘Can I take it Eva no longer lives here?’

  ‘Eva no longer lives here. We were divorced two years ago.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she is living now?’ MacLean asked, determined not to be swayed from his objective.

  ‘Not the slightest,’ slurred Stahl, adopting an expression of smug satisfaction.

  ‘Then I’ll say good-night,’ said MacLean turning on his heel and starting back along the hallway.

  ‘Don’t you want to know all the details?’ Stahl called after him.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied MacLean without looking round. Stahl was of no further use to him.

  MacLean had a drink in a hotel bar while he considered what to do next. If Eva had remarried or was living with someone else then he might never find her. On the other hand, if she had not remarried and had her own apartment she might be in the phone book.

  There was an Eva Stahl listed at 67, Rue Martin. MacLean scribbled down the number on the edge of a beer mat and dialled from a booth in the hotel lobby. His hopes rose when a voice he thought he recognised said, ‘Eva Stahl.’

  ‘Is that the Eva Stahl who used to work for Lehman Steiner?’ asked MacLean.

  ‘I work at Lehman Steiner. Who is this please?’

  ‘Sean MacLean.’

  There was long pause before MacLean heard, ‘Sean? Is it really you?’

  MacLean assured her that it was.

  Eva sounded quite emotional. She made several false starts before managing to say, ‘Sean, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear from you. I had no idea what happened to you. They told me you had some kind of nervous break-down but when I tried to find you, you’d already left Geneva.’

  ‘Can we meet?’ asked MacLean.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Eva enthusiastically. ‘How about this evening?’

  ‘I hoped you’d say that,’ said MacLean. They arranged to meet by the floral clock in the Jardin Anglais in an hour. MacLean was only ten minutes away; he had another drink.

  When MacLean saw Eva approaching he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of professional pride. She was wearing a dark blue suit, which emphasised her fairness. Her hair was swept back and clasped revealing the classically beautiful contours of her face. Eva noticed him appraising her. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘Stunning,’ replied MacLean and meant it.

  ‘And all thanks to you,’ said Eva. She took MacLean’s arm and they started to walk. ‘Do you really mean that?’ asked MacLean.

  ‘Of course I do,’ replied Eva. ‘Why would you think otherwise?’

  MacLean told her of his visit to her old flat.

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Eva. ‘You’ve been speaking to Peter and he told you that I was the whore of Babylon?’

  ‘Something like that,’ agreed MacLean.

  Eva sighed and said, ‘It’s ironic really. There never were any other men while I was married to Peter. I loved him; I didn’t want anyone else but he simply couldn’t come to terms with the way I looked after the operation. He became pathologically jealous and suspicious. If I was late in getting home it was because I was seeing someone else. If I had to change my shift it was because I wanted to be with “him”. If we got a wrong number on the phone it was “him” finding out if I was alone.’ It finally got so bad I couldn’t stand it any more; I had to leave him and find a place on my own.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Peter and I are divorced.’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’

  ”The answer to your next question is, yes, there is somebody new in my life. His name is Jean-Paul and we’re very happy.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said MacLean. ‘How about Lehman Steiner, you said you still work for them?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ replied Eva. ‘Is that why you’re here? Are you coming back to work for them too?’

  MacLean shook his head and took his time in answering. He had to be careful because he did not want to involve Eva in the nightmare any more than necessary. On the other hand he had to tell her something if he expected her to help. He told her that it was imperative that no one at Lehman Steiner should know he was still alive let alone here in Geneva. For the present he was using the name, Keith Nielsen.

  Eva looked puzzled but agreed to keep his secret. MacLean asked her about Cytogerm.

  ‘That was all over before you left,’ protested Eva.

  ‘And you haven’t heard of it since?’ persisted MacLean.

  ‘Of course not, it was lethal, remember? I was one of the lucky ones.’

  MacLean nodded and realised that he’d have to tell her more. ‘I think Lehman Steiner might still be using it,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why and I don’t know what for but I’m pretty sure they are.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’ asked Eva.

  MacLean told her of the fate of the Cytogerm team and watched her eyes fill with horror. ‘I knew Kurt had died but I didn’t know about the rest,’ she said. ‘God, this is terrible.’

  ‘The only thing we had in common was the Cytogerm project,’ said MacLean.

  ‘And you’re back here to expose them?’ asked Eva.

  MacLean shook his head and said, ‘No, Eva, I need to get my hands on some Cytogerm and I need it badly.’

  ‘Surely you’re not going to use it?’ gasped Eva. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’

  ‘There’s no other option in this case,’ said MacLean, ‘I promise you.’

  Eva looked at him and saw the pain in his eyes. ‘Tell me,’ she said gently.

  MacLean told her what had happened to Carrie, how he felt the ‘accident’ was his fault.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Eva, giving MacLean’s arm an extra squeeze. She said that she would make enquiries about Cytogerm.

  ‘Oh no you won’t,’ exclaimed MacLean, horrified at the thought. ‘You mustn’t even mention it!’

  ‘But how can I find out anything if I can’t mention it?’ protested Eva.

  MacLean asked her if she remembered a man called, Von Jonek.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ replied Eva with a wry smile. ‘That was one of the few times I ever saw you really angry. He came to the clinic didn’t he?’<
br />
  ‘He came for the Cytogerm files,’ said MacLean. ‘Did you ever see him again?’

  Eva thought for a moment then said, ‘Do you know, I believe I did, but for the moment I can’t think where. Is this important?’

  MacLean said that it was. He had reason to believe that Von Jonek’s whereabouts might be the key to finding Cytogerm. ‘The company told me that he was some kind of archivist but I didn’t believe that. He had more than a historical interest in Cytogerm, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So you would like me to find out about Von Jonek?’ said Eva.

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ said MacLean. ‘But please be careful. Don’t ask questions of anyone directly. Try to use computer files and lists.’

  ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do. Anything else you want to know while I’m at it?’

  ‘I’d like to know if Lehman Steiner have a project code-named, Der Amboss.

  Der Amboss,’ repeated Eva. ‘The anvil.’

  ‘So I believe,’ said MacLean. Again, don’t ask any direct questions. Just see what you can pick up.’

  Eva nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Any current gossip or scandal,’ said MacLean.

  ‘From the nurses’ locker room?’ asked Eva with a smile.

  ‘Where else?’ agreed MacLean.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I know you will,’ said MacLean with affection.

  ‘Come to dinner tomorrow night?’ suggested Eva. ‘You can meet Jean-Paul and I can tell you what I’ve managed to find out.’

  MacLean agreed readily and made a note of her address.

  As he lay in bed, MacLean reflected on his first day in Geneva; he was well pleased with the way things had gone. The only sour note had been struck by Peter Stahl and he considered briefly that he might bear some responsibility for that situation. On the other hand, it was only a vague recollection but he thought he could remember not liking Stahl the first time they had met. Perhaps he and Eva would have broken up anyway. Apart from that there was no room left in his head for any more guilt. Space was at a premium and Stahl didn’t even make the queue. He started to think about tomorrow and hoped Eva would remember where she had seen Von Jonek and under what circumstances. With what he could recall of Von Jonek’s features swimming before his eyes, he fell asleep.