Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

‘They sold you the debt.’

‘A fully documented debt. My point is, the Sud-Afs were scared of Lourens. One of the charmers said, this is after we’ve done the deal, bought the debt, he says, good luck and sooner you than me, pal, they call you pal this lot, he says Lourens is poison himself and he’s been in bed with even more dangerous people.’

O’Malley had the report out, looking at the first page. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

‘Thanks for the background.’

Without looking up, O’Malley said, ‘You aren’t a journalist anymore, John. That part of your life is over.’

Anselm walked down fume-acrid Sierichstrasse, thinking about what had been. Once his trade had been going to sad and violent places and telling their stories, telling stories of death and barbarism, selling the stories.

The occupation seemed to have chosen him and it was without glamour or reward. Still, there was a certain dirty-faced dignity and pride in being the person who went where other people didn’t want to go, asked questions they wouldn’t ask, saw things they would rather not see.

But that was gone forever. He didn’t need O’Malley to tell him what he wasn’t.

Kaskis once said of a famous New York Times reporter, ‘Covers wars from his hotel room. The dog’s gun-shy.’

Gun-shy, that’s what he was. He should leave Lourens and Niemand and films of Angolan villages alone.

As he walked down the howling street, he rubbed his useless fingers. My dead bits, he thought, the bits visibly and tangibly dead.

…HAMBURG…

Inskip saw him coming in and raised an arm, the wrist cocked, a pale and bony index finger pointing. Anselm went to his side.

‘I have entered the temple wherein all men’s secrets are known,’ said Inskip. ‘It was a fucking doddle. But Joseph Elias Diab’s file is marked ‘Out to Agency’. Permanently removed.’

‘What agency?’

‘Defense Intelligence Agency.’

‘There endeth the lesson,’ said Anselm.

‘Tilders wants you to call. Soonest. That’s about ten minutes ago. Beate put him through to me, why I cannot think. Carla’s here, she’s the logical person to take your calls. The senior person.’

‘Perhaps Beate favours you, dreams of the touch of your nicotine-scented fingers.’

He went to his office and rang Tilders. The line was strange, an echo, as if Tilders were in a tunnel.

Tilders said, ‘The present matter, there is something…’

‘Yes?’

‘Brussels?’

‘Yes?’

‘That person is dead, a suicide, in his office. A gun. Our party called him, they told him that.’

Bruynzeel dead. Anselm remembered the man’s voice, his wry, weary tone.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Bruynzeel, the account in Serrano’s Credit Raceberg, recipient of large loans.

A suicide.

He got up and found Tilders’ audiotape, DT/HH /31/02, put it in the machine.

Serrano at his hotel, talking to the Bruynzeel of Bruynzeel amp; Speelman Chemicals in Brussels.

Bruynzeel: They want what?

Serrano: Records. Anything. Everything.

Bruynzeel: You have records?

Serrano: No.

Bruynzeel: Well, just shut up. It’s all bluff. These things pass. Just keep your mouth shut. Trilling’s connections, there’s no problem.

Serrano: You can talk to him?

Bruynzeel: I’ll see. Things in the past, no one wants to talk about the past.

Anselm sat, touching the lost fingers, the Beirut fingers. Cold, they were always cold, like Fraulein Einspenner’s fingers when he held them.

Trilling’s connections.

Trilling. Who was Trilling?

Anselm called up the search engine and typed in trilling .

There was no shortage of Trillings. The search engine found 21,700 references.

Bruynzeel amp; Speelman Chemicals.

Lourens is a chemist by training… O’Malley said that. Perhaps Trilling was in the same line… A long shot. Anselm added chemicals to the search.

Too many.

Try drugs .

The first reference said:

Pharmentis Corporation president Donald Trilling tonight defended his company’s record on the pricing of drugs sold to the third world.

The phone.

Beate, sandpaper voice. ‘A Dr Koenig for you.’

‘Thank you.’

Alex.

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘How can that be?’

‘Can I say…what can I say?’

‘Say I could come around and see you. Or the reverse. Or anything.’

‘Come around and see me, I’ll say that?’

Anselm’s heart lifted and he closed his eyes.

‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘that’s very good. About when would that be? The time doesn’t matter much to me.’

‘Whenever your work is, well, after work, whenever. I’m at home, I’m here. So. Any time. From now.’

‘From now is fine. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Yes. That’s good.’

‘I’ll just settle the bill here, get going. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

A moment.

‘I could pick you up,’ she said.

‘No, I’ll get a cab, it’s easy.’

‘Fine. See you soon.’

‘Soon.’

He put the phone down.

This elation was stupid, he knew that. He saw her face. The phone rang again. Tilders, the dry voice:

‘Our friends are meeting again. The same place. In an hour.’

Kael and Serrano.

‘I have something new,’ Tilders said. ‘Worth trying perhaps.’

‘Two minutes,’ said Anselm. He rang O’Malley.

‘The person in Brussels is dead,’ Anselm said. ‘Apparent suicide by gunshot. Our friends here are meeting again. We can try.’

There was a pause. Anselm could hear background noises. Perhaps O’Malley was drinking Krug alone. A voice said, ‘British Airways flight 643 to London…’ ‘Sad news,’ said O’Malley. ‘But no thanks. I’m happy to stick with what I’ve got.’

Anselm said goodbye, sat for a moment. The light was going. He rang Tilders.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’

‘It is the same as the first time. I’ll call you.’

‘I’d rather not wait.’

‘Otto will pick you up outside in twenty minutes.’

… HAMBURG…

They sat in the Mercedes, parked at almost exactly the same place as the first time.

‘When?’ said Anselm.

‘Four forty-five,’ said Fat Otto. ‘A few minutes.’

Otto liked to speak English. He had once worked in England, in restaurants.

Under the ashen, dying sky, the lake was still, pewter, mist on the far shore. A lone swan came into view, imperious in its bearing.

The words came to Anselm from his father and he said, ‘And always I think of my friend who/amid the apparition of bombs/saw on the lyric lake/the single perfect swan.’

Fat Otto looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Edwin Rolfe. A poem.’

Fat Otto looked away, looked at his watch.

‘He almost missed this appointment,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Serrano. There was trouble about the hotel safe.’

Anselm’s mind had turned to Alex, the Italianate face, the full lower lip she sometimes bit when she was listening.

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Something about the keys.’

‘What’s that got to do with Serrano?’

Fat Otto’s mobile rang. He listened.

‘ Ja. Ja, alles okay.

’ ‘Serrano’s getting on,’ he said.

‘What have the keys got to do with Serrano?’

‘His briefcase was in the safe. He couldn’t get it while they were arguing about the keys.’

‘Briefcase? The same one?’

‘No, he has another.’ Otto looked at his watch again. ‘Paul has to get close with this new gadget.’