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Authors: Peter Temple

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BOOK: In the Evil Day
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Next off was a middle-aged businessman, a man with a pinched and unhappy face who raised his head and sniffed the stale station air. After him came an elderly woman, an embalmed face, every detail of her attire perfect, then a family of four, the parents first. Once
Gastarbeiter
from Anatolia, Anselm thought, now wealthy. Their teenage boy and girl followed, citizens of nowhere and everywhere. The pair were listening to music on headphones, moving their heads like sufferers from some exotic ailment.

A woman was in the doorway. She was 30, perhaps, in black, pants, sensible heels, dark hair scraped back, charcoal lipstick. Her face was severe, sharp planes, not unattractive.

‘The woman,’ said Tilders. He had a mobile to his face, a long, earnest philosopher’s face, a face made for pondering.

Anselm half turned, sipped some
Apfelkorn
from the small bottle, swilled it around his mouth, felt the soft burn of the alcohol. He was on his second one. He was scared of a panic attack and drink seemed to help keep them away. He drank too much anyway, didn’t care except in the pre-dawn hours, the badlands of the night. The woman was carrying an aluminium case in her left hand, carrying it easily.

‘From the East,’ said Tilders.

‘Sure it’s just three?’

‘Don’t blame me,’ said Tilders. ‘This is not our kind of work. Is it on?’

Anselm drained the tiny bottle. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Blame’s all mine.’

Tilders spoke into his mobile. They followed the woman and Serrano and his bodyguard down the platform towards the escalator that led to the concourse. The woman kept a steady distance behind the men, people between them. On the crowded escalator, Zander looked back once, just a casual glance. Serrano had his head down, a man not interested in his surroundings, standing in the lee of his hired shield.

When they reached the concourse, Zander paused, looked around again, then went right, towards the Kirchenallee exit. The woman didn’t hesitate when she reached the concourse, turned right too, walking briskly.

The concourse was crowded, workers and shoppers, travellers, youths on skates, buskers, beggars, petty criminals, pimps, whores, hustlers.

Zander and Serrano were almost at the exit. Zander looked around again. The woman had been blocked by a group of schoolchildren on an excursion. She was ten metres behind them.

‘Getting late,’ said Anselm. This wasn’t going to work, he was sure of it.


Scheisse
,’ said Tilders.

From nowhere came the gypsy boy, moving through the crowd at a half-run, twisting around people, a wiry child in a drab anorak, tousled black hair, ran straight into the woman, bumped her in the ribcage with his shoulder, hard, bumped her again as she went back. She fell down, hit the ground heavily, but held onto the case.

Without hesitation, the boy stomped on her hand with a heavy Doc Martens boot, thick-soled. She screamed in pain, opened her hand. He grabbed the aluminium case with his left hand but she hooked an arm around his left leg.

The boy kicked her in the neck, stooped and punched her in the mouth, between the breasts, one, two, his right hand, a fist like a small bag of marbles. The woman fell back, no heart for hanging on. He was off, running for the exit.

No one did anything. People didn’t want to get involved in these things. They happened all the time and it was dangerous to tackle the thieves. Even young children sometimes produced knives, slashed wildly. Recently, a man had been stabbed in the groin, twice, died in the ambulance. A father of three.

But Zander was suddenly there, running smoothly, going around people like a fish. The boy’s start wasn’t big enough, the woman had been too close to Zander, it had taken too long to get the case away from her.


Scheisse
,’ said Tilders again.

Then someone in the crowd seemed to stumble, bumping a longhaired man into Zander’s path. The man went to one knee. Zander tried to avoid him but he couldn’t. His left leg made contact with the man. He lost his balance, fell sideways, bounced off the ground, came to his feet like a marionette pulled up by strings.

It was too late. The boy was gone, the crowd closed behind him. Zander paused, uncertain, looked back. Serrano had joined the woman, outrage and desperation on his face, both arms in the air. Zander got the message, turned to take off after the boy again, realised it was hopeless, stopped and walked back to Serrano. Serrano was enraged. Anselm could see spit leave his mouth, see Zander recoil. Neither of them looked at the woman, she’d failed them.

Two policemen arrived, one talking into his throat mike. The woman was on her feet, nose bleeding a little, blood black in the artificial light, her right hand massaging her breastbone. Her hair had come loose and she had to brush it back with her left hand. She looked much younger, like a teenager.

A third policeman appeared, told the crowd to get moving, the excitement was over.

The woman was telling her story to the two cops. They were shaking their heads.

Anselm looked at Tilders, who was looking at his watch. Anselm felt the inner trembling, a bad sign. He went over to the newspaper kiosk, bought an
Abendblatt
. The economy was slowing, the metalworkers’ union was making threats, another political bribery scandal in the making. He went back, stood behind Tilders.

‘How long?’

‘Five minutes.’

Serrano and Zander were arguing, the short man’s hands moving, Zander tossing his head, arms slack at his sides. Serrano made a dismissive gesture, final.

Anselm said, ‘I think we’re at the limit here.’

A tall man was coming through the crowd, a man wearing a cap, a blue-collar worker by his appearance. The throng parted for him. In one hand, he had the gypsy boy by the scruff of the neck, in the other, he had the photographer’s case, held up as if weightless.

The woman and the policemen went towards them. When they were a few metres away, the boy squirmed like a cat, turned towards his captor, stamped on his left instep, punched him in the stomach. The man’s face contorted, he lost his grip on his captive and the boy was gone, flying back the way he had first fled.

‘What can you do?’ said the man to the woman. ‘The scum are taking over the whole world. Is this yours?’

Serrano came up behind the woman. He was flushed, had money in his hand, notes, a wad, offered it. The man in the cap shrugged, uncertain. ‘It’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘It’s a citizen’s duty.’

‘Many thanks,’ said Serrano, taking the case. ‘Take the money. You deserve it.’

The man took the money, looked at it, put it in his hip pocket. ‘I’ll buy the children something,’ he said. He turned and walked back the way he’d come, limping a little from the stomp.

Tilders went on his way. Anselm forced himself to take his time leaving, found the car parked in a no-standing zone, engine running. In Mittelweg, Fat Otto, the man who had bumped the innocent commuter into Zander’s path, said, ‘Kid’s something, isn’t he? Deserves a bonus.’

‘Deserves to be jailed now before he’s even more dangerous,’ said Anselm.

His mobile rang. Tilders, the expressionless tone. ‘They got about fifty pages. Out of two hundred, they guess.’

‘That’s good. Get it printed.’

‘The reason it took three to transport the case,’ said Tilders, ‘is probably the diamonds.’

‘Ah.’

Anselm took out his mobile and rang Bowden International. O’Malley was in this time. ‘About fifty pages. Out of perhaps two hundred.’

‘Good on you. As much as could be expected. I’ll send someone.’

This is the moment, Anselm thought. ‘We’ll need the account settled in full on delivery,’ he said. ‘Including bonus.’

‘What’s this? We don’t pay our bills?’

Anselm closed his eyes. He’d never wanted anything to do with the money side. ‘No offence. Things are a little tight. You know how it goes.’

A pause. ‘Give our man the invoice. He’ll give you a cheque.’ Pause. ‘Accept our cheque,
compadre
?’

‘With deep and grovelling gratitude.’

Anselm put the phone away, relieved. They were sitting in the traffic. ‘Any takers for a drink?’ he said. Fat Otto looked at him, eye flick.

‘I’m offering to buy you lot a drink,’ Anselm said. He knew what the man was thinking. ‘Grasp the idea, can you?’

They went to the place on Sierichstrasse. He’d been there alone a few times, sat in the dark corner, fighting his fear of being in public, his paranoia about people, about the knowingness he saw in the eyes of strangers.

4
…HAMBURG…

 

IN THE closing deep-purple light of the day, Anselm turned the corner and saw the Audi parked across the narrow street from his front gate. He registered someone in the driver’s seat and the jangle of alarm went through him, tightened the muscles of his face, his scalp, retracted his testicles.

He kept walking, feeling his heart drumming, the tightness in his chest. Not twice, not in a quiet street, not in a peaceful country. It wouldn’t happen to him again. To him, no. Not here, not to him. No.

Just one person in the car, a man, there was another car further down, a BMW, empty.

The driver of the Audi got out. Not a man, a woman in a raincoat, shoulder-length hair, rimless glasses she was taking off.

‘John Anselm?’

He didn’t answer, eyes going to the BMW, back to her car.

‘Alex Koenig,’ she said. ‘I’ve been writing to you.’ She closed the car door, opened it again, slammed it, came around the front. ‘Damn door,’ she said. ‘It’s a new car. I was about to drive off.’

A shudder passed through him, an aftershock. He remembered the letters. Doctor Alex Koenig from Hamburg University had written to him twice asking for a meeting. He had not replied, thrown the letters away. People wanted to ask him questions about Beirut and he didn’t want to answer them.

‘I thought you were a man,’ he said.

‘A man?’

‘Your first name.’

She smiled, a big mouth, too big for her face. ‘That’s a problem? If I were a man?’

‘No,’ said Anselm. ‘The problem at the moment is how you got this address.’

‘David Riccardi gave it to me.’

‘He shouldn’t have done that,’ Anselm said. ‘You stalk people, is that what you do?’

She had a long face and a long nose and she had assumed a chastised look, eyelids at half-mast, a sinner in a third-rate Italian religious painting. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you that impression.’

‘Well, goodbye,’ Anselm said.

‘I’d really like to talk to you.’

‘No. There’s nothing I want to talk about.’

‘I’d appreciate it very much,’ she said quietly, head on one side.

He was going to say no again, but for some reason—drink, loneliness, perversity—he turned, unbalanced by liquor, and held the gate open for her.

In the house, standing in the empty panelled hall, taking off her raincoat, she looked around and said, ‘This is impressive.’

‘I’m glad you’re impressed.’ He led the way into the sitting room, put on lights. He rarely used the large room, with its doors onto the terrace. He lived in the kitchen and the upstairs study. ‘A drink? I’m drinking whisky.’

‘Thank you. With water, please.’

He poured the drinks in the kitchen, gave himself three fingers. When he returned with the tray, she was looking at the family photographs hung between the deep windows. She was tall, almost his height, carried herself upright.

‘How many generations in this picture?’ she said, turning her head to him.

Anselm didn’t need to look. He knew the photograph. ‘A few,’ he said, sitting down. He was already regretting letting her in, offering the drink. What had come over him? He didn’t want to answer questions, didn’t want her prying. ‘What can I do for you?’

She sat opposite him, in the ornately carved wooden chair. ‘As I said in the letters…’ ‘I didn’t read your letters. Unsolicited mail. How did you know where to send them? Riccardi?’

‘No. I only met him a few days ago. I asked the news agency to forward the letters.’

‘Kind of them.’

He hadn’t worked for the agency since before Beirut, hadn’t spoken to anyone there in a long time, five or six years, had never received anything in the mail from them. How would the agency know his address?

‘Why would they do that?’ he said.

She shifted in her chair, recrossed her legs, long legs. She was wearing grey flannels and low-heeled shoes. ‘I’m a psychiatrist. I told them I was doing research.’

‘That’s a good reason is it?’ He drank half his whisky and couldn’t taste it, wished he’d made it stronger, the bad sign. ‘Psychiatrist. Is that a special licence to invade people’s privacy?’

Alex Koenig smiled, shrugged. ‘I spoke to a man, I told him I was researching post-traumatic stress disorder suffered by hostages and that I very much wanted to talk to you. It was just a request. I would write to you. You could say no.’

‘I didn’t respond. That’s no.’

‘Well, I thought they hadn’t forwarded the letters.’

BOOK: In the Evil Day
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