Frank Schätzing - Limit

He put his phone and then the palm of his right hand onto the scanner plate, said his name, and looked into the camera at the automated gate while the computer read his RFID coordinates. The system compared the data, identified him and let him through. Through the gates, the manned counters were lined up in a row. Two policewomen passed his luggage through the X-ray and asked him about the purpose of his visit. He answered in a cordial but somewhat distracted manner, as though his thoughts were elsewhere, at the next meeting. They wanted to know if this was his first time in Berlin. He said yes – and indeed he had never visited the city before. It was only when they handed back his phone that he let genuine warmth enter his voice, saying goodbye to them both and telling them he hoped they didn’t have to spend their whole day standing behind this counter. As he spoke, he looked the younger policewoman straight in the eyes, wordlessly telling her that for his part, he wouldn’t at all mind spending this lovely sunny Berlin morning with her.

A tiny, conspiratorial smile shot back at him, the most she would allow herself. You’re a good-looking guy and no mistake, it said, and your suit is wonderfully well cut, we both know what we’re after, thank you for the flowers, and now get lost. Meanwhile she said out loud,

‘Welcome to Berlin, Zhao xiansheng . Enjoy your visit.’

He walked on, pleased that in this country they knew the proper forms of address. Ever since Chinese had become compulsory at most schools in Europe, travellers could at least be sure that traditional Chinese first names and family names wouldn’t get mixed up, and that the family name would be followed by the right honorific. At the exit a pale, bald man with eyes like a St Bernard’s and hangdog jowls was waiting for him. He was tall, strongly built, and wore his leather jacket fastened all the way to the neck.

‘Fáilte , Kenny,’ he said softly.

‘Mickey.’ Xin gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder in greeting without breaking stride. ‘How’s the last remnants of the IRA?’

‘Couple of them dead.’ The bald man fell in step beside him. ‘I hardly have contact with them these days. Which name did you fly in with?’

‘Zhao Bide. Is everything organised?’

‘All in place. Had a hell of a delay in Dublin, mind you. Didn’t get in here until after midnight – what a shitty flight. Well, that’s life, I suppose.’

‘And the guns?’

‘Got them ready.’

‘Where?’

‘In the car. Do you want to go to the hotel first? Or should we go straight to Muntu? It’s still dark there, mind. So’s the upstairs flat. Probably still asleep.’

Xin considered. Already, a week ago, once his people had cracked Vogelaar’s new identity, Mickey Reardon had dropped by Muntu to check the place out for possible entrances. Alarm systems had been his speciality back in Northern Ireland. Since the IRA had fallen apart he, like many former members, was at work on the open market, and from time to time did jobs for foreign intelligence agencies as well, such as the Zhong Chan Er Bu. Ordinarily Xin liked to work with younger partners, but Mickey was in good shape even if he was in his late fifties; he knew his way around a gun and could navigate any electronic security system blindfold. Xin had worked with him several times before, and in the end had recommended him to Hydra. Since then he’d been on Kenny’s team. He might not be a towering intellect, but he didn’t ask questions either.

‘Off to the hotel quickly,’ Xin decided. ‘Then we’ll get it over and done with.’ He squinted up into the sunlight and swept the long hair from his brow. ‘They say Berlin’s very nice. Maybe it is. I still want to be out of here this evening at the latest, though.’

But Jan Kees Vogelaar wasn’t asleep.

He hadn’t shut an eye all night, which was only partly to do with the headache left behind by Yoyo clouting him with a joint of meat. It was much more to do with talking to Nyela and agreeing on a plan to flee to France for the time being, where he had contacts with some retired Foreign Legionnaires. While Nyela began to pack, he organised their new identities. That evening Luc and Nadine Bombard, descended from French colonists out in Cameroon, would arrive in Paris.

At half past seven he called Leto, a friend of theirs, half Gabonese, who had come to Berlin a few years ago to help his white father fight his cancer. Nyela had met him the day before on the city’s grand avenue, Unter den Linden. Leto had been in Mamba before the company joined the newly founded African Protection Services, and had helped them open Muntu. He was the only one in Germany they could trust, even if he didn’t know all the details of why Vogelaar had had to get out of Equatorial Guinea. As far as he knew, Mayé had been toppled by Ndongo, financed by who knew which foreign powers. Vogelaar had avoided setting him right on the matter.

‘We’ll have to disappear,’ he said brusquely.

Leto had obviously just got out of bed to answer the call, but was so surprised he forgot to yawn.

‘What do you mean, disappear?’

‘Leave the country. They’re onto us.’

‘Shit!’

‘Yes, shit. Listen, can you do me a favour?’

‘Of course.’

‘When the banks open in two hours’ time I’m going to empty our accounts, and then I’ll have a few things to take care of. Meanwhile Nyela will go downstairs to Muntu and pack whatever we can take from there. It would be good if you could keep her company there. Just to be on the safe side, until I’m back.’

‘Sure.’

‘Best thing is if you meet her up in the flat.’

‘I’ll do that. When do you want to leave?’

‘Right after noon.’

Leto fell silent for a moment.

‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘Why don’t they just leave you in peace? Ndongo’s been back in power for a year now. You’re hardly any threat to him any longer.’

‘He’s probably still not got over me putsching him out of office back then,’ Vogelaar lied.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Leto snorted. ‘It was Mayé. You simply got paid for it. It wasn’t anything personal.’

‘All I need to know is that the goons have turned up here. Can you be with Nyela by half past eight?’

‘Of course. No problem.’

An hour and a half later Vogelaar flung himself into the stream of rush-hour traffic. The traffic lights took so long to change they seemed to be doing it out of spite. He crossed Französische Strasse, made it as far as Taubenstrasse, squeezed his Nissan into a tiny parking spot and went into the foyer of his bank. The temple of capitalism was full to the brim. There was a huge crush in front of the self-service computers and the staffed windows, as though half of Berlin had decided to flee the city together with himself and Nyela. His personal banker was dealing with a red-faced old woman who kept pounding the flat of her hand against the counter in front of the window to punctuate her harangue; Vogelaar caught his eye, and gave him a signal to let him know he’d wait next door. He hurried over to the lounge, collapsed into one of the elegant leather armchairs and fumed.

He’d wasted his time. Why hadn’t he fetched the money the afternoon before?

Then he realised that by the time Jericho and his Chinese girlfriend had left, the banks were probably closed. Which didn’t make him any less angry. Really, it was archaic that he had to hang around here like this. Banks were computerised businesses, it was only because he wanted to carry the money from his account home as cash that he needed to be physically present. Glowering, he ordered a cappuccino. He had hoped that his banker would call him in the next couple of minutes and ask him to come back to the foyer, but this hope was dashed to pieces under the red-faced woman’s avalanche of words. All the other counters had queues snaking around them as well, mostly old people, very old some of them. The greying of Berlin seemed in full swing now; even in the moneyed boulevards a tide of worry backed up like stagnant water, the worry about old age and its insecurities.