The Oktober Projekt

by R. J. Dillon

  Slowly it began to snow, as if the weather like his concern had made the same tortuous journey from Helsinki that served as a second home to Harry. He drove on, slowing down for the side roads, into a night drained of colour, washed down the gutters along with the swimming headlights. He swung into a street shuttered and deserted, kept going until he was under the tanks of a petrol dock blotting out the sky. And beside the swollen quays, just as he knew he’d find it, a marine bunkering yard stained with the rotten fingers of decline. He steered close to bitumen pipes running the length of a concrete pier. At its end a line of sheds, their timber walls buckled and cracked, window frames lying over squares of shattered glass. Turning off the engine he let down the window.

  He heard the whine of generators and pumps feeding a ship down river, he heard the rapid tattoo of dripping snow on oil drums as it swept off the corrugated roofs and burst gutters. He heard the voice that trampled across the years, following him as it always did from a café down an uneven cobbled court in Vienna, sometime home to curious travellers, artists, pimps and whores. Where one fine summer evening Harry Bransk had first met Nick Torr.

  ‘You’re late, Harry,’ observed Nick from the darkness of a doorway.

  With the car at his back Bransk moved cautiously forward, the old world his again and with it came the unknown; the promises made to be broken, the lies to keep you alive.

  ‘Hey, Nick, just like old times, huh,’ said Bransk, watching Nick step into the fuzzy light hanging in place of a door.

  ‘Is it?’ Nick answered, his voice sharp. Harry Bransk a fixer, a dealer, the purveyor of dreams, and as some claimed, an associate of the Devil himself. Bransk had a sturdy body, its muscles toned by a rigid fitness regime, and it was topped by a street fighter’s face marred in many skirmishes, while his eyes having grown too wise told of many victories. A face that served as a commodity for whoever paid the highest dollar it said, and Nick knew that Bransk always came with an unseen price. Harry also had an elegance about him that manifested itself in his taste for expensive clothes, but he wore them like rags.

  ‘So what brings you to my neck of the woods?’ Harry asked.

  Nick held up his hand, his palm flat to Bransk in a warning to step no closer, keeping Harry out in the open.

  ‘I’ve heard it told from a mutual friend that you’ve been fixing things for an acquaintance in London.’

  ‘I’ve let this person down in some way? The service I provided is not what they wanted? Tell me Nick? We have no secrets you and me. Or you finally come to pay what I’m owed, that it? Come to tell me the good days are over?’ Harry’s smile was a thin sharp slit worn carefully, an experienced street merchant who rarely squandered anything.

  ‘A mutual friend came to see you Harry,’ said Nick as Bransk listened patiently. ‘Wanted to buy an introduction for one of my officers, though unfortunately this officer met with an accident and could not continue.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Harry replied. ‘Not many people recover from having their face blown off, huh. Real mess so I heard,’ Harry added with a measure of caution, aware that old friends have a habit of becoming deadly.

  ‘Thing is, Harry, I think that someone sold my officer out, struck a different deal. I’m not saying it was you, but you’re sort of connected to it all, Harry. This makes me nervous, gets me thinking maybe Harry’s made one deal he shouldn’t?’

  ‘It’s regrettable, Nick, too bad huh, if that’s your opinion,’ said Harry, a man used to dealing with disappointment. ‘You here to pull the trigger, Nick? Because I have to tell you, okay, you got this all wrong.’

  ‘How wrong Harry?’

  ‘Some people do not have our understanding, okay. Making arrangements, okay, let’s start there. The people I deal with, they’re not always pleasant okay, they behave erratically. They make demands but never see the cost. I am in business, okay, I have to think of costs all the time. This is going to affect me badly, Nick.’ He tried a smile but it perished on his lips. ‘I’m taking a rough ride on all sides, Nick. Now this. It doesn’t make me happy that you’re expecting me to take all the blame.’

  ‘It’s a bad world, Harry and we’ve all got to take care.’

  ‘True, very true,’ he said, deeply pained, ‘Our mutual friend from London, not your officer, okay, the one who came to see me first, I can just about remember his request.’

  ‘I like you more when you cooperate, Harry.’

  ‘So we got the makings of an agreement,’ proposed Harry. ‘Okay, so now we need an arrangement, Nick, you know how these things work.’

  ‘I want what you provided previously, Harry, in good faith before I put any money on the drum.’

  ‘Come on Nick, I am caught in the middle, here. Why let misunderstandings divide warriors like us when the enemy never could? Tell me, Nick, why are you still involved with all this craziness?’

  ‘It’s in the blood, Harry, you know that.’

  ‘Okay, okay, you get your good faith,’ announced Harry. ‘Our first mutual friend wanted to prepare the ground for your officer. She was going to follow the trail I’d locate.’ He tried another smile without success.

  ‘Did the trail start at the Brazillia Casino by any chance Harry?’

  ‘You’re one hundred per cent ahead of me, here Nick, huh. Someone offering better terms than me?’

  ‘This is personal, Harry, Angie’s dead and it wasn’t natural causes.’

  As with all deals especially when agreeing terms, there comes a moment of extreme danger, and an inner sense told Harry that this was what he faced right now. ‘You think this is all connected, Nick?’

  ‘No doubt about it Harry.’

  Harry whistled, nodding thoughtfully he took in Nick’s news, which actually caused him to shiver. ‘Sure, it all begins at the casino, but I only gave your officer the facts, lit up the trail. I got no involvement in what happened to her,’ said Harry, making absolutely sure Nick knew whose side he was on. ‘What terms you offering now Nick, because if this is personal then things get tricky, know what I mean?’

  ‘Full payment on completion Harry, expenses and a retainer as of now.’

  ‘That’s a dumb deal, Nick, know that,’ offered Harry. ‘You don’t mind me saying that Nick, huh?’

  ‘I don’t mind Harry, but it’s all I’ve got,’ said Nick. ‘I want an answer by tonight or I’m going to expect you to disappear.’

  The snow ran into Bransk’s eyes but he didn’t wipe them, keeping his hands low by his side visible and still. Above them a helicopter hammered through the low cloud, and Nick withdrew into the shadow.

  ‘You’re going to tie up all the lose ends for me, Harry. I’m short on time, you want me to spread the word that you’re off the books, unreliable, a risk?’

  ‘Hamburg’s good to me, okay. I do plenty of business here with my regular clients. I have a lot to lose. I think perhaps you should know that,’ said Harry, sounding deeply offended. ‘Okay, okay, I accept your kind offer,’ Harry said, for once not absolutely sure of his ground or safety.

  ‘So what did you give my officer?’ Nick asked.

  ‘An introduction to someone who had access to inside.’

  ‘Do I get to meet them?’

  ‘That’s not possible, Nick, he’s keeping out of sight, okay, tucked himself away the day after your officer ran into that spot of trouble.’

  ‘What else do I need to know?’

  ‘The casino is sort of private, invitation or recommendation only,’ Harry said. ‘Blackjack, roulette, dice, whores and dancing girls go right across the scale; high-class, low-class, no-class.’

  ‘A single owner?’

  ‘One-man show, Nick, know what I mean. The whole lot is owned by a shrewd operator called Günter Blümhof, but if that’s his real name is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Background?’

  ‘Blümhof came from the rough side of the tracks, okay, and through some risky deals with persons unknown, he managed to get enough finance to buy h
is first club. This gives him the muscle to progress, not much, but enough. The Brazillia and his sideline of strip bars keeps his head above water pretty damn good. It’s a very capable operation and protects its privacy, okay. You don’t want to get caught asking any wrong questions, not here in Hamburg or you end up with no face.’

  ‘I need a way in, Harry, a recommendation to get me through the door.’

  ‘This is risky, okay. I sent your officer in there and look what happened.’

  ‘It’s not a request, Harry.’

  There are types of men in this world that Harry Bransk knew you could walk away from, forget them, ignore them and take on life with the same hunger. This he knew did not remotely apply to Nick Torr. In Vienna during a clandestine skulking meeting with an East German official threatening to defect, Bransk, young and too fierce, pushing for a move up the scales, broke all the rules in the book and a good few more. Attempting to land the East German himself, Bransk was lucky to escape with a knife wound in his arm as Nick finished the deal for himself, having no qualms in breaking the neck of Harry’s attacker, a Stasi thug who’d planned to bundle Harry across the Czech border.

  ‘This is bad, Nick, you’re asking a lot, okay.’

  Listening intently, Nick had folded his arms and wore the same impassive look across his face as he had done that night in Vienna.

  ‘Is there something that you want to add, Harry? Something that I need to know?’

  ‘These people, Nick, well, they’re nervous, suspect everyone. This goes wrong and they going to hit us hard. You, me, maybe Petra, Jack, all of London’s representatives in Hamburg.’

  ‘You got options on this, Harry? You taking more than sides this time? Got something to settle perhaps?’ asked Nick, unfolding his arms, an act that somehow heightened the feeling of misgiving for Bransk.

  The snow had soaked through Harry’s overcoat. He could feel it on his shoulders, cold damp patches slowly spreading down his back and arms but he closed his mind to the discomfort.

  ‘Not this one. Strictly business all the way.’

  ‘The rules of engagement have changed now, Harry. You earn your fee and a bonus by making the arrangements, starting with getting me through the door tonight.’

  ‘Sure, whatever you want, Nick. Harry’s officially working for you, nothing’s impossible. I’ll see what I can do, where do I reach you?’

  ‘That doesn’t work like that this time either, Harry. You give me a number I can reach you twenty-four-seven.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Harry, taking out his phone.

  After Nick had stored the number on his mobile, he turned having nothing more to say. Walking to his car Harry opened up the collar on a heavy overcoat bought in Stockholm, and thought of how this deal could be his last, if he played it right he might even have enough to retire.

  Fifteen

  Casino Brazillia

  Hamburg, December

  Sometimes you needed to establish the facts and decide how much of you was evil, how much was good for no other reason than to prove a point; to italicize a right to freedom, to take risks because someone you loved had died. Just sometimes you behaved totally irrationally when revenge had got under your skin and poisoned your system. Nick was possessed of those very symptoms when he moved away from the antique shop, through a cold night loaded with snow and headed towards the port. The introduction provided by Harry carried as securely as contraband as he made for the river through brightly lit cobbled streets.

  Groups of Turkish Gastarbeiters smoked in doorways marginally lit; fathers doubled by manual work and tall fiery sons probing Nick’s intentions with wide hostile eyes, questioning his right to be in their territory. I’m passing through, don’t worry, Nick’s body language declared. His head bowed, his hands gripping the lining in his pockets as he read everything around him; the starched washing airing out of high windows, a violinist’s inflamed melancholic practise chords drifting away. At a restaurant open until four a.m., customers formed hazy dark profiles at round white damask covered tables. He strolled by a cinema showing Turkish films, unpronounceable names and gory segments on lurid billboards. Distance required; don’t stop, don’t tempt fate. He walked fast to the edge of the Reeperbahn and the Casino Brazillia, a mock Gothic castle with a fortified door.

  He pressed a buzzer and a door slipped its catch, an electronic invitation into a reception styled on Brazilian themes. Panoramas of Rio were screwed precisely down bare brick walls and he stood by the largest, Christ on Corcovado Peak by a door without a handle and a house telephone on a clear glass cube. Over it a printed proclamation: DIAL 400 AND WAIT. He obeyed and heard a badly played samba then a nasally ‘Yes?’

  ‘A friend of mine recommended the tables here,’ Nick said loudly, drowning out the digital band.

  ‘The name of your friend?’

  Tell them Herr Norkus recommended the place; he’s a big player in Hamburg, carries weight, Harry had told Nick. ‘Herr Norkus,’ Nick said without hesitation.

  ‘Wait please,’ advised the voice, the line going dead.

  The eye of a closed-circuit camera picked up his scent. Body heat, infrared censors? The technology of control, and he’d no idea who was deciding how valid his claim to be a friend of Herr Norkus really was. One nice big smile, show off your remaining teeth they might be discussing how to knock down your throat. What cover did you use Sally? Our fifteen minutes of fame, two shadows in need of a home. When the door opened it let loose a fast Latin beat and a twenty-year old groomed to wear an evening suit he’d already outgrown. Clean-shaven and smooth skinned, he walked stiffly as though a shotgun rubbed against his thigh.

  ‘Herr Norkus is a valued member,’ he declared, doubting if Nick ever would be.

  ‘He said that I would enjoy your hospitality.’

  ‘That is true,’ he smiled but didn’t appear happy. ‘We are not one of Hamburg’s most exclusive casinos, but confidentiality is our ultimate aim,’ he said with gravitas, guiding Nick down steep carpeted stairs. How many people have had accidents here Nick wondered, a nasty fall, a broken neck? Anything violent arranged within reason.

  The attendant produced a registration card and looked bored by the routine, manoeuvring it aesthetically on a polished steel and smoked glass desk. Carefully he explained which lines should be filled in. When Nick had lied in ink signing himself as Herr Greiz, the attendant recited the menu of the casino which covered three levels. The first devoted to mini-roulette, black jack and baccarat, the second a cabaret show based on the Rio theme, the third an informal bar where guests if they so desired, could select a companion for the evening. He yawned while Nick decided.

  He chose the bar as a starting point; three he recalled was a magic number.

  Curling in a crescent in a lighter shade of red, the bar surrounded a sunken dance floor that Nick crossed self-consciously, his back exposed to whoever he supposed had been told to watch him. A waitress pushed through the crowded tables, she wore no top her small breasts shining in the houselights. Setting a paper roundel and a glass of champagne in front of him, one of her breasts brushed his left cheek.

  ‘With the compliments of Herr Blümhof,’ she smiled.

  Was he being offered her or the drink? ‘He is very generous.’

  She shrugged, pouting moist crimson lips. ‘He hopes that you enjoy your visit,’ she added looking to the end of the bar.

  ‘I will try my best.’ Nick followed her gaze.

  Short, light on his feet, Blümhof waved over with professional charm. He had a rugged angular face, his hair receding fast above his temples revealed a hint of grey and was immaculately cut. Dressed in a black suit, casual black shirt, his age was a mire of contradiction, though Nick guessed it being nothing above forty-six. He smiled as he walked away, a healer bestowing a cure on the shoulders of a worthy few with one light touch, making his way through a door marked ‘Privat’, which somehow signalled a CD to play, shaking couples onto the dance floor.

  ‘Tell him
thanks,’ Nick said sipping the tepid champagne. ‘I’d like someone to share my table.’

  ‘You have a preference?’ she asked, tired of smiling.

  ‘Franziska, if she’s available,’ he said, wondering what sort of charms she possessed for Galgate to fall under her spell.

  In ten minutes Nick had a female friend but it wasn’t Franziska. Bubbly and eager for him to spend money she’d grinned at the barman as she flounced over, her hips swinging playfully all the way. No, Sabine didn’t know why Herr Blümhof was so magnanimous to him she laughed, leading him out for a dance. No, Sabine did not know why Franziska was not around. Sabine rubbed herself into his crotch, but knew no other answers.

  ‘Tell me about Blümhof?’ Nick asked, back at his table refusing another dance.

  ‘Me?’ Sabine acted surprised at every question that came her way; a delaying gap to decide whether it was safe to continue. In her twenties her long flowing Titian hair made her face seem too plain. She’d tried hard to lessen her stubby nose and dimples with foundation and blusher but it had gone on too thick. This guy Greiz worried her, his attitude, those rugged looks. He belonged to a different group of men who never paid for her body.

  ‘You worked for him long?’ Nick missed his own glass out when he poured from a bottle of Spanish champagne Sabine insisted he order.

  Sabine giggled, Greiz’s serious eyes wouldn’t let her rest. ‘More than I should, but everyone’s got to pay the rent,’ she said dreamily, keeping time with the smoochy music.

  ‘He treats you badly?’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Fine, who’s counting,’ she said, carelessly resting his hand on one of her breasts. ‘You do what makes you feel good in here. No one’s going to say a word. We’re all here for drinks and fun.’

  She sulked when Nick withdrew his hand.

  ‘Get many important visitors?’

  Souring her lips Sabine twisted a silver ring round her middle finger. It was fashioned in a belt complete with buckle, and he wondered if it symbolised possession? Of her or someone else?