Frank Schätzing - Limit

‘Suspiciously so, if you ask me.’

‘Conjuring Ndongo up out of nowhere, and then the logistics of the attack. You can’t plan something like that in four weeks.’

‘I agree with you. The coup was prepared just in case Mayé said the wrong thing.’

‘Which he did—’

‘Excuse me, Owen,’ said Diane’s voice. ‘May I interrupt you?’

‘What’s up, Diane?’

‘I have a Priority A call for you. Yoyo Chen Yuyun.’

‘No problem,’ said Tu. ‘I’ve told you everything I needed to anyway. Keep me posted, okay?’

‘I will. Put her through, Diane.’

‘Owen?’ Yoyo’s voice came through, embedded in street sounds. ‘Nyela got out of the car in the city centre. I followed her for a bit; she was looking in the shop windows and speaking on the phone. She didn’t look particularly worked up or concerned. Two minutes ago she met a man, and now they’re both sitting in the sun in front of a café.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Chatting, having a drink. The guy is dark, but not black, perhaps mixed race. Around fifty years old. You saw the photos of Mayé and his staff. Did any of them look like that?’

‘There aren’t that many photos. And none of them show all of his staff. There’s always someone or other next to him, but you could try searching for the list of his ministers that died during the attack.’ Jericho tried to remember the pictures. ‘None of them had that skin-colour, I think.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Keep at it. How are they acting around each other?’

‘Friendly. A little kiss when they met, a hug. Nothing extreme.’

‘Do you have a rough idea where you are?’

‘We drove over that river twice – the Sprii, Spraa, Spree – one crossing right after the other. The café is in an old railway station, one built in brick with round arches, but nicely renovated. Wait a moment.’

Yoyo marched along the brick façade and looked out for any markings, street signs or the name of the station. Hordes of people were streaming down from the steps of the subway station. Owing to the beautiful weather, the forecourt looked as if it were under siege: young people and tourists were pushing the turnover in the numerous pubs, bars, bistros and restaurants sky-high. Clearly Nyela had led her into one of the hip quarters of the city. Yoyo liked it here. It reminded her a little of Xintiandi.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Jericho. ‘I think I know where you are. You must have driven over Museum Island.’

‘I’ll be able to tell you in a second.’

‘Okay.’

Yoyo spotted a white S on a green background. Next to it, something was written in light green lettering. She opened her lips and hesitated. How did one pronounce s , c and h one behind the other?

‘Hacke – s – cher – Mar—’

‘Hackescher Markt?’

‘Yes. It could be that.’

‘Okay. Keep your eye on both of them. If nothing happens here I’ll come and join you.’

‘Okay.’

She ended the call and turned round. The station was excreting an even bigger contingent of travellers, most of whom seemed to be trying to catch up on the time they had lost. The rest, chattering away, spread out amongst the folding chairs and tables of the outdoor eateries, on the hunt for free seats. Suddenly, Yoyo found herself staring at a battery of backs. She stuck her elbows out and pushed her way forward. A waiter circled over like a fighter jet and made a move to run her down. With a dart, she managed to escape behind a little green and yellow tree. Scribble-covered boards were obstructing her view. She ran out past the tables into the square, and approached the café with the blue and white striped awning, under which Nyela and the light-skinned black man were sitting.

Were supposed to be sitting.

Yoyo’s heart skipped a beat. She ran inside. No one. Back out again. No Nyela, no companion.

‘Shit,’ she mumbled. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

But cursing wouldn’t bring them back again, so she rushed back out onto the main street, to where Nyela had succeeded in securing a parking place in rush hour and where she herself had parked the car beneath a strict ‘No Parking’ sign.

The Nissan was gone. Breaking down both physically and mentally, she ran on, issuing pleading looks in all directions, up and down the street, begging fate for mercy, just to curse it the very next moment, and then finally gave up, out of breath and with sharp pains in her sides. None of it helped. She had cocked it up. All because of a lousy sign. Just because she had insisted on being able to tell Jericho where she was.

How was she supposed to tell him this ?

A lighter-skinned black man around fifty years old. Jericho tried to imagine him. He could fit in with Nyela in terms of age.

Andre Donner?

Indecisive, he looked over at Muntu. It was all quiet. The lights were out, as far as he could tell through the mirrored glass anyway. After a few minutes he pulled out his mobile, logged into Diane’s database and loaded the photos of Mayé they had found on the internet.

Almost all of them came from online articles about the coup. The whole thing had made waves only in the West African media, where sumptuously illustrated biographies of the dead dictator had appeared as a result of the putsch: Mayé on a visit to a waterworks, Mayé inspecting a military parade, Mayé orating, patting children’s heads, flanked by oil workers on a platform. A man who, even in the pictures, oozed physical presence and narcissism. Anyone who managed to make it into a picture with him seemed strangely out of focus, insignificant, overshadowed, irrelevant. Aided by the captions, Jericho identified ministers and generals who had died in the coup. The others pictured remained nameless. What united them was their dark or very dark skin colour, typical of the equatorial regions.

Jericho loaded the film which showed Mayé with Vogelaar, various ministers, representatives from the army and the two Chinese managers at the conference table. He zoomed in on the faces and studied the background. A uniformed man sat two seats behind Vogelaar, following the Chinese presentation with an arrogantly bored expression; he might have passed for lighter-skinned, but then again it could just have been down to the effect of the overhead lighting.

Was one of them Donner?

He looked up and stopped short.

The entrance door to Muntu was open.

No, it had just swung shut! Behind the glass, a tall shadow became visible and disappeared into the reflections of the building opposite. Jericho suppressed a curse. While he had turned his attention to the idiotic task of trying to recognise a man he had never seen amongst a group of complete strangers, someone had gone in over there. If he really had gone in, that is, and not opened the door from the inside. Hastily, he pushed his chair back, tucked away his mobile and walked outside.

Was it Donner he’d seen?

He crossed the street, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in through the small window. The restaurant lay in darkness. No one to be seen. The only thing of note was a blue flicker from a defective emergency light, behind the small windows in the swing doors that led to the kitchen.

Had his senses been playing tricks on him?

No, there was no chance of that.

He pushed against the door. Cool, stagnant restaurant air wafted towards him. He glanced quickly around at the tautly pulled tablecloths, the motionless ferns and the bar. From the other side of the swing doors he heard a machine start up, possibly an air-conditioner. He froze and listened. No more sounds. Nothing to suggest that anyone was here apart from him.