Ian Hocking - Flashback

‘Perfect,’ said Saskia. ‘We’ll have them after the fondue. Why don’t you help Danny solve his engineering problem?’

‘I’m freelance now,’ said Hrafn. ‘He can’t afford my rate.’

‘Like you can afford mine,’ called Danny.

The room filled with masculine noises as Karel and Hrafn directed Danny’s attempt to hook the chandelier on its chain, and amid this distraction Saskia considered her feelings for Jem. The oil lamps on the sideboard made unfamiliar contours of her face and Saskia thumbed her fringe and asked, ‘Why so quiet, Schatzi ?’

‘Why not?’

‘Talk to me.’

Jem took a huge breath. Her chest shuddered. Finally, her eyes stopped on those of Saskia. ‘Danny has you in his little spell, doesn’t he?’

‘No, he does not,’ Saskia replied. She smiled to underline the ridiculousness of the notion.

‘I thought we had something different.’

‘We do.’

‘That we were special,’ said Jem, turning away.

Saskia said, ‘We are.’

Inspector Karel Duczyński had been their greatest asset in the hours following the rescue from Tolsdorf’s hut. Despite suspension from his official position, he had retained the informal currency of a police officer and his colleagues had responded well to his claims—extraordinary by any standards—that the four were victims of a stranger whose name they were never told; a stranger who had hijacked and stolen an ambulance, murdered an elderly woodsman, and, unaccountably, signalled his location to the authorities so that his hypothermic captives could be rescued.

It had proven more difficult to explain to the interrogators in Munich why all four of them had travelled to the crash site. The fictions were essentially truthful: Hrafn, as Investigator-In-Charge of the DFU team, was acting on a tip provided by Duczyński. Duczyński, in the hope of clearing his name, was following a lead provided by Danny. Danny was concerned for his sister. Jem had been overcome by a compulsion to visit the crash site, where her good friend Saskia Dorfer had died, and taken refuge in the woodland hut. A wild goose chase with a tragic climax. Who was the hijacker? Nobody knew. Who was Mr Self, the man who had called in the search-and-rescue helicopter? Nobody knew. The police investigators had been frustrated, but the trail was too cold and their stories consistent.

Of Dorfer, there had been—of course—no trace, and perhaps never would. The crushing forces of the impact were tremendous, after all.

‘The ichor infests him,’ Saskia said, watching her guests eat. ‘It has become part of his body and his mind. He wants, I think, to die, but the ichor stops it.’

‘How?’ asked Hrafn.

‘Perhaps it can control his muscles,’ said Karel. ‘Just as Cory can control the factor.’

‘His magic wand is a separate issue,’ replied Hrafn. He seemed uncomfortable. Saskia knew that his scepticism had pushed him to the edge of the group. She touched her lip with a napkin. Now, she decided, was the time. She took a manila envelope, which had lain next to her empty plate since the meal began, and slid it across the table.

‘Hrafn, look at this. Read the addressee first.’

‘Just your name.’

‘OK. Open it.’

Hrafn checked Saskia’s expression, then shook a leather gauntlet free from the envelope.

Danny chuckled. To nobody in particular, he said, ‘Hand delivered, I see.’

‘Jesus, Saskia,’ said Jem. ‘If he knows we’re here, then we’re done for.’

Saskia said, ‘I don’t doubt that Cory has known, perhaps precisely, the location of each of us since the moment he rendered us unconscious and escaped the Bavarian National Forest.’ She lifted her wine and considered its colours in the light.

Karel and Danny shared a look of exasperation, and Jem stared fiercely at her plate. Only Hrafn appeared undisturbed. Saskia took a mouthful of the Chianti and smiled wetly; her raised eyebrow invited his questions.

‘You said this dacha had been abandoned,’ Hrafn said. ‘That it was untraceable.’

‘It was.’

‘And yet.’

‘Please,’ said Karel. His blue-bowed skewer lay unemployed. He turned it anticlockwise on his plate. ‘I am concerned, Saskia, that this conversation has a… layer, if you will, of half-truths. We have all made sacrifices. We deserve disclosure.’

‘Spit it out, Saskia,’ said Danny. ‘Is this the glove that Cory took from the captain of the Star Dust ?’

She turned to Hrafn, who seemed to debate whether he should handle the glove. Finally, he took it. He rubbed the stitching. ‘The workmanship is similar to that of old flying gloves,’ he said. ‘The liner is silk, for example. But there’s no label.’

‘You are correct, Danny,’ said Saskia. ‘That glove was worn by Commander Cook.’

Hrafn cleared his throat.

‘Do you still doubt, Thomas?’ she asked.

‘Thomas, excuse me, was the only disciple with any sense,’ he replied. ‘I want to be sure. I can accept that some distortion of memory has occurred. We have Jem’s example of that. But I’ll believe Cory’s story when I see empirical evidence of it.’

Danny replaced his wine glass loudly. ‘What other evidence is there apart from the empirical?’

‘The logical,’ said Hrafn, looking at Saskia, challenging her. ‘That which we can derive.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Danny. ‘You’ve been booted off the investigation and you’re grumpy. We understand that. But you’re taking your scepticism too far.’

‘Am I? Did that man Cory not strike you as a zealot, Danny? Turn on the television. Listen to the myths we weave for our terrorists. What do we have here but a fabrication? He was obsessed by a song called Stardust , composed by Hoagy Carmichael. Shall I name another of Carmichael’s compositions?’

‘What?’

‘ Georgia On My Mind ,’ said Hrafn. He paused to let the guests consider his words. ‘Was Cory ever Georgian? It could be bullshit, just a handful of ideas thrown together. It’s what spies call a ‘legend’, no more genuine than the Englishman Wilberforce or the German Wittenbacher.’ Hrafn stared at them all. ‘Cory left us with words, nothing more.’

No-one said anything. Hrafn had touched the heart of their anxiety: that the fictions were deeper, more fundamental than even Cory knew. The silence drew on until Hrafn lowered his eyes to the table. There was something apologetic in the tilt of his head.

Quietly, Jem said, ‘You only had words from me.’

‘And we believe you,’ said Hrafn. His face softened. ‘Absolutely.’

‘And me?’ asked Saskia. Another silence greeted this. Saskia let them wait. She was as indifferent as a teacher duty-bound to deliver a bitter lesson. ‘Your perception is correct. Cory’s identity was undoubtedly constructed by Jennifer Proctor. Who knows what half-remembered poems and songs inspired her?’

She could see that they did not know what to say. There was a moment, though brief, in which she wanted to drop a cryptic remark. Instead, she pulled open a small drawer in the table and produced a newspaper. She pushed it towards Karel.

‘This is a copy of The Buenos Aires Herald , a daily newspaper. It’s an archive duplicate from 1947.’

Karel began to thumb through the pages. His attentioned switched between the newspaper and Saskia.

‘What am I looking for?’

‘STENDEC,’ she said.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘STEN for stentor , the Latin for ‘herald’. That’s the newspaper.’

‘I see.’

‘Next, D for the fourth page of the classifieds.’

Karel turned the newspaper over and worked his way from the back page. Hrafn, on his left, leaned in.