Tom Mccarthy - Men in Space

“At the situationist show? Were you there?”

“Where?”

“That show, in the summer. By Mánes. There was a helic …”

“No, no. Listen: the Helicopter Murder happened in Průhonice Park. Just outside the city, to the south. A boy was found murdered, with his vital organs removed. Residents of nearby villages saw a helicopter descending towards the park, then taking off again half an hour later. That means that the doctor only had twenty minutes to perform the removal of the organs. Quite incredible: the helicopter must have had a mini operating theatre in it — or at least ice boxes, disinfectant, all the knives you need …”

“That’s horrible! Some kid just went out for a walk and …”

“Exactly. Do you want to see some parts? They’re in these trunks here, separated into groups.”

“Well … Shouldn’t we get back to the casualty room with the others?”

“We have lots of time, Nick. They have first to shave the eyebrow off, then clean the area, then stitch, then put a plaster over it. It’ll take them at least half an hour. That’s why the doctor in the helicopter must have been phenomenal.”

Angelika pronounces this phee- nomenal, all breathy. She takes him by the hand and leads him towards one of the trunks.

“Ready?” she asks him.

Nick nods apprehensively. Angelika swings back the trunk’s lid. Inside the trunk is a pile of legs: maybe ten or fifteen of them. They’re single legs, not pairs, cut off below the waist. They’re slightly yellow. Angelika lifts one out and holds it up.

“Right leg,” she says. “A man’s. Not so old. Maybe forty. Want to hold it?”

“No.”

“Go on. Just while I take my jumper off.”

She rolls it into his arms. It’s very light. She peels her jumper away from her torso, takes the leg back and returns it to the trunk. She closes the trunk, leads him to another one and opens it.

“Arms.”

They’re yellow as well. The fingers are taut, arthritic. The vrátná at AVU. Nick turns away.

“You’re not enjoying this, are you?”

“Well, it’s just that …”

“It’s OK, Nick. I just wanted to show you where I study. We can stop looking at the bits now.” She looks down, plays for a while with the buttons on her shirt, then asks him: “Who was that man in the suit tonight?”

“He used to be my neighbour. Anton. When I lived in Korunní.”

“Oh, that place. Yeah. I saw him earlier today, yesterday, in the gallery.”

“Who?”

“Him. Anton. In your friend Gábina’s dad’s gallery.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Working for Gábina’s dad? Fine. Thanks for putting me in touch. Hey Nick.”

“Yes?” The buttons are being undone now.

“I think your flatmate Ivan Maňásek’s a psychopath.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s just a little …”

“Do you know what he did to me tonight?”

“When?”

“Under the duvet.”

“No.”

“He bit me! He bit me on the leg. Just here.”

She takes Nick’s hand and places it to her thigh. Her flesh is sending a large amount of heat through her tights into Nick’s fingers. He leaves them there. Angelika’s staring at his face intensely.

“He doesn’t seem to have pierced through the fabric,” Nick tells her. “If I were you I’d …”

But she’s not listening, has already leant forwards and kissed him. He kisses her back. She pulls him to his feet and leads him over to the table where her coat is lying.

“On the autopsy slab?”

“Why not?”

* * * * *

… able to infer, from overhearing Subject’s end of a phone call received at 12:45 [twelve forty-five] a.m., that the artwork in question was almost certainly in his custody. I was, further, able to infer from his side of the dialogue that Associate Markov would be visiting his residence the following day in order to transfer the artwork to the studio of an artist, although why this should be done was not clear to me. On taking stock of the situation, I concluded that the best course of action was to enter Subject’s property that night, arrest him and recover the painting. Although I had 2 [two] colleagues with me, I nonetheless decided to radio Headquarters in order to request armed and uniformed back-up. To my great surprise, my request was denied — and I was instructed, moreover, that on no account was I to effect an arrest or to attempt in any way to take possession of the object. I was informed that this instruction had come “from the top”, although I must admit that it is no longer entirely clear to me who or what “the top” is any more.

I was told to return to Headquarters. On expressing my anxiety that this would leave Subject, and hence the artwork, unsupervised, I was informed that, besides myself and my team, 3 [three] more men were maintaining visual surveillance of Subject’s property. I did not know this, and wonder why I had not been told. Was this lack of coordination between sections of our reconfigured department accidental, or did it serve a purpose? On my return, I was sent straight to a room I had never visited before, a third-floor office whose newly plasterboarded walls and soft acoustics indicated to me that it had only recently been created. Here I found Lieutenant Forman seated behind a desk beside another man whose name and exact status I was not able to ascertain, but whose demeanour indicated to me that, alongside the Lieutenant, he was in charge of a body to which I was answerable: part of Interpol, perhaps, or perhaps a new body within the CCP created by the merging of several other bodies, divisions, departments, either on a permanent basis or temporarily, for the purpose of this particular investigation, or perhaps also of other ones connected to this investigation, or at least connected to investigations to which this one is connected. It is not for me to ask about such things, simply to answer when called: that is enough for me; I am satisfied with that. Lieutenant Forman and his new colleague asked me what I knew of Subject’s intentions for the artwork; I informed them that he intended to have Associate Markov transfer it to an artist’s studio the following morning. On learning this, the 2 [two] men asked me to leave the room, instructing me to stand by awaiting further instructions.

These came the following morning. The visual surveillance team of whose existence I had been appraised just hours ago had observed Associate Markov transferring a package, as foreseen, to a new location. This location, I was told, was an apartment building in Smíchov: Lidická number 5 [five]. Scrutiny of that building’s residents, I was further informed, indicated the presence there, on the top floor, of an artist, one I.P. Maňásek — an individual who, it turned out, had been placed under surveillance previously, during the period between February 1987 [nineteen eighty-seven] and November 1989 [nineteen eighty-nine]. I was to establish, or re-establish, an audio surveillance regime at his studio, and at any others which might subsequently transpire to fall within the orbit of his activity vis-à-vis the artwork.

I carried out this instruction with immediate effect: unable to find the files that might have indicated to me the location and transmission frequency of any listening device left over from the previous surveillance period, and aware in any case that any such device’s mercury battery would have corroded by now, I had men posing as engineers install 2 [two] drop transmitters in I.P. Maňásek’s studio, the repeaters being planted, due to the transmitters’ height, within the tops of street lamps. Signal-to-noise ratio was satisfactory, although not ideal, in part due to the presence of tram wires running through the area between repeater and listening station, in part to the proximity to my listening station of a body of water, viz. a carp tank; and I apologize in advance for any glitches in the recordings made at this location. In addition to the drop transmitters, a phone tap was installed. I also took with me a directional microphone.