The Ears of a Cat

by Roderick Hart

  Cooper didn’t like it either. She wanted to go home, pour herself a drink, stretch out on the sofa and pretend this waking nightmare wasn’t happening. But Lang had another destination in mind.

  ‘We should head for the local watering hole. Excellent coffee, even better cake.’

  Lang ushered Cooper through security, out of the building and onto the street outside, and as they walked together to the café, linked arms with her. What was going on here? The gesture felt less like an attempt to soften her up than an expression of fellow feeling. Tired through stress rather than exertion, Cooper watched a yellow tram glide by, wishing she was on it.

  She found herself on a barstool facing a brick wall. In more ways than one, she thought. According to Lang, the hanging lamps had an industrial look which was strangely effective.

  ‘In keeping with the brickwork, wouldn’t you say?’

  Cooper looked up at the large metal shades. ‘I suppose they are.’

  ‘So our officers searched your apartment this morning. They removed several documents and your laptop. I gather you don’t have a tablet. They saw no sign of one.’

  ‘But they saw the microphone you’d hidden under my sofa, right?’

  Lang noted the caustic tone; there was something here she might not know.

  ‘Excuse me one moment.’ Rummaging through a bag with bowed wooden handles, she retrieved a notebook and looked through it. ‘At no time did we place a microphone in your apartment. That would require a consent we didn’t have and hadn’t requested.’

  ‘Why do I find that hard to believe?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, perhaps you should tell me.’

  ‘Because, as I’m sure you know, you actually planted two. The police found one when they came to arrest my father but they missed the other.’

  Lang had been informed of the first but the second came as a surprise.

  ‘That would be the father who struck one of our officers with a brick earlier today?’

  ‘I’m afraid it would. How is he, by the way?’

  ‘In jail.’

  ‘The officer.’

  ‘In hospital. Fractured skull.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Why? As I understand it you want us all dead anyway.’

  Cooper, talkative till now, suddenly fell silent.

  ‘Anyway, it sometimes happens with large organisations that one hand doesn’t know what the other is doing. It might save both of us some time if you could tell me what you know about these devices.’

  Since that meant pointing the finger at the BND rather than herself, Cooper was happy to oblige. Lang’s face was impassive as she heard her out, but the more she heard, the more she detected the dark arts of Adalbert Pearson.

  ‘So while you were on holiday, a man claiming to work for Ökostrom talked his way into your apartment and bugged it?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘That’s exactly what happened. I’m not making it up.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘So I should hope. Whoever he was, that man was breaking the law.’

  This was a step too far for Ursula Lang, a woman who, even if she could find it, never aspired to plant her banner on moral high ground. There was a whiff of the sanctimonious about Catherine Cooper; too bad, since she seemed otherwise quite pleasant.

  ‘Not on a level with mass murder by way of a lethal virus, though, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Lang smiled. ‘We both know you do. Gudrun Grönefeld is presently in custody. Like you, she’s a woman of principle, so she was understandably appalled to learn that your interest was never in the creation of a vaccine but in the production and release of the virus. She feels betrayed, and betrayed people talk.’

  This sounded only too likely to Catherine, who tried to excuse her behaviour on a technicality.

  ‘I should point out that Fräulein Grönefeld approached me, not the other way about.’

  ‘Very well, but when she did, you lied to her.’

  ‘For the greater good.’

  Lang wondered how often over the years she had heard that one before.

  ‘Your studies have led you to this conclusion?’

  But as many do, Cooper had started with her conclusion and worked backwards from it in search of supporting evidence. Not that evidence was hard to find. It was all around her. Everywhere. All she had to do was look. Try walking along the concourse sometime; you couldn’t get moving for people, and vehicles, nose to tail, spewing out particulates and fumes.

  ‘You’re saying that all this human activity has an effect.’

  ‘It’s disastrous, catastrophic!’ In danger of showing a damaging depth of feeling, Cooper changed tack. ‘What will happen to Gudrun?’

  ‘You like her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She stole the virus from Breakout. We know how she did it now, but I believe she had no idea what you were up to, which will help her a lot provided you do the decent thing and confirm it.’

  Cooper was about to do just that when she realised it would only be possible if she admitted to what she’d been planning. This Ursula Lang would take some watching.

  ‘Perhaps I should have legal representation.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Well, what with microphones all over the place, an agent impersonating a utility worker to gain unlawful entry, and so on, it would be good to know my civil rights were finally being respected.’

  Lang could see she had a point but was intrigued by her direction of travel.

  ‘Civil rights matter to you.’

  ‘As they should to all. Some would say they are the bedrock of society.’

  Oh dear, Lang thought to herself, that pious note again.

  ‘And others would add that the most important civil right of all is the right to life, the right not to be deprived of it, for example, by the deliberate release of a lethal virus into the atmosphere by bio-terrorists acting on a particular worldview.’

  Taken aback, Cooper replied in English.

  ‘Okay, I see where you’re coming from here.’

  Which was fine by Lang, provided she couldn’t also see where she was going, a prospect likely to plunge her into silence. And much like Chancellor Merkel, a woman who understood English perfectly well, she preferred not to speak it unless she had to.

  ‘Auf Deutsch, Frau Cooper.’

  ‘Seen clearly, as it will be in the end, we’re acting in the public good. There’s no way we’re criminals, absolutely none!’

  Lang considered this claim and found a damaging way to concede it.

  ‘As you wish. Not criminals, then. Terrorists. Much longer sentences.’

  But Cooper knew an empty threat when she heard one. The facts were on her side, and facts were surely what counted in the eyes of the law. Not that her eyes helped Justice much as she perched on top of the courthouse in a blindfold.

  ‘Might I remind you, Frau Lang, that I have not committed any act of terror, either here in the Federal Republic or anywhere else for that matter.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear that, of course I am, and I should say that I am not myself a lawyer.’

  ‘That is painfully obvious.’

  ‘Nevertheless…’

  Lang had come across Catherine Coopers before, people of principle who discounted her years of experience in favour of their own belief that the world worked as they thought it should rather than as it actually did.

  ‘Nevertheless, you appear to be unaware that under the law of 2009, the intention to commit an act of terror is in itself a crime.’

  Assuming that Lang was making it up as she went along, Cooper challenged her to name the statute she was referrin
g to. Lang’s reply, though it would not be the last, was the first time she heard of the Law for the Prosecution of Preparation of Serious Atrocities of Violence. Cooper didn’t like the sound of it at all. In the act of raising her cup to her lips, she put it back down on the counter and looked at Lang in disbelief.

  ‘So you’re mind readers now. You presume to know what innocent citizens like me intend to do before we do it!’

  ‘Mind reading doesn’t come into it, my dear. Phone calls, letters, emails, social media posts; all of these may show evidence of intent, surely you can see that. Take the messages between yourself and Miss Saito over the last few months.’

  Lang could take them if she liked; they were encrypted.

  ‘Ah yes, so they were. The balloon’s gone up. That was encrypted. Correct me if I’m wrong but I seem to have read it.’

  Cooper was shaken by Lang’s direct quotation of Saito’s last message, a woman who had told her that encrypted messages could only be cracked by a quantum computer yet to be invented. She changed tack but failed to pick up the wind.

  ‘If what you say is true, this law is an offence against natural justice. For example, I might intend to eat a pear but have an apple instead.’

  ‘Intentions can change.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And that will be your defence?’

  Anyone observing these women sharing a coffee might have taken Cooper for Lang’s younger sister. Her complexion was clearer, her skin more firm, but in other respects they were similar. Neither showed the slightest interest in style; both were thoughtful women engaging in serious discourse. Though Cooper, unlike Lang, hoped to manifest her thoughts in action.

  Lang’s phone rang, her question still hanging in the air.

  ‘Werner… I see… when was this…? Good. Thanks for letting me know.’

  She ended the call and turned to Cooper.

  ‘We all have our weaknesses, don’t you think?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Miss Saito has a weakness for fish.’

  Ignorant of Saito’s recourse to the tranquillity of the aquarium, Cooper assumed that Lang was referring to sushi.

  ‘In her case, no, she’s into neon tetras.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t think you do. She was evading arrest quite successfully – until last night, when she made the mistake of returning to her apartment to clean their tank and feed them. We have yet to discover where she’s hidden the sample you sent, but it’s only a matter of time.’

  Spoken in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster, Lang hoped the fake call from Vogt might tempt Cooper to talk. Worth a try, perhaps, but Cooper wasn’t a fish and didn’t take the bait.

  ‘I can’t help you with that. Honestly. I really don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s troubling me, Catherine: you wouldn’t even if you could. To be clear, the position you’re in now leaves you two choices. Either you help us…’

  ‘Or I rot in prison for the rest of my life. Yes, I know.’

  Cooper’s attempt at the threat Lang was holding over her was said so easily that Lang knew she didn’t take it seriously.

  ‘What happens from here on depends on the route you choose now.’

  Cooper needed longer to think it out. Her best way forward was admitting to things Lang already knew, which would confirm her good faith while harming no one. But what, exactly, did Lang already know?

  ‘For a start, I shall require the passwords for your mobile phone, laptop and email accounts.’

  The counter they were sitting at was close to the entrance, customers constantly coming and going behind them. Cooper found the ceaseless activity distracting. She also felt that with every exchange she was losing ground.

  ‘So, your weakness, Catherine. Not fish, I take it.’

  To Lang, it was obvious. Cooper had the ability to analyse a problem but assumed that for every problem there must also be a solution. One could not exist without the other. All she had to do was figure out what it was, and when it came to human population she had.

  ‘I’m really not sure.’

  Lang sat in silence for a moment, filleting cake with a fork, before Cooper came up with the answer.

  ‘I suppose it would be my cat.’

  56

  On her second and last night in the doorway with Ofelia Adefume, Saito had trouble finding a position comfortable enough to relax in without cramping up. Ofelia was large and space was limited. She listened to her as she slept, breathing steadily but not deeply. Perhaps this was a function of insecurity, the fight or flight response just below the surface, ready to react in an instant to attempted robbery or unprovoked attack. This was no way to live. Life on the streets wasn’t for her; she realised that, but it wouldn’t last long. And in this particular doorway there was also a dog to contend with.

  Hostile at first, T-Bone was showing signs of accepting her; which was fine, but making up to her, as he was doing now, was something else again. Since she was awake and Ofelia was not, the animal had turned to her for attention, though, to her nose, T-Bone could have done with a bath or, failing that, a vigorous dry shampoo. She considered spraying him with a quick blast of Vera Wang, but out of respect for his keen sense of smell decided that would constitute assault.

  In the small hours traffic was minimal. So were passers-by. The few she saw were night workers and people making their way home from late-opening bars. None of them showed any interest in two vagrants in a doorway, apart from the drunk who stopped for a moment to sing them a song. Tonight the bottle let me down. She believed him, it evidently had, so why was he still hugging it to his chest as if his life depended on it? Pretending to be asleep, she didn’t respond. He grew bored and staggered on. Good. She needed peace to think things out.

  She knew she was going to die. Everyone did. But rather than fade away, high on morphine under a palliative care regime in a hospital or nursing home, she intended to rise above the futile indignity of the terminally ill and use her death to make a point through action. She was thinking in this way because her recent experience of Pearson led her to believe that time was running out. He’d leant on Munoz and tried to rape her, heavy events in themselves, and in the process, to strengthen his hand, had revealed how much he knew. In her opinion, far too much to be acting alone. He’d said as much to Munoz.

  So the plan taking shape within the group, the larger plan, must be abandoned: with the enemy on their heels, there was no longer time to complete their preparations. Burkina Faso. Yes. A distant dream. Had she ever really been there? Her memories of Ouagadougou played in her head like a silent film which someone else had shot. And now, though she hadn’t been there, Ofelia featured in it too, as an added extra in a non-speaking part. She’d probably achieved this through her clothing, colourful enough to fit the bill without costing the wardrobe department a cent.

  If anything was to be done, Saito would have to do it herself. Only she had the biological bomb. Working out where to set it off was easy; working out how was another matter. The obvious move was to stand in the middle of a crowded concourse and smash the flask. Though that would have the desired effect, she would infect herself in the process. The incubation period being what it was, Homeland Security would have several days to track her down before she died. And when they did, guess what, they might find a way to keep her going, indefinitely, on life support. She would end her days in a secure facility with a tube up her nose, fit for nothing. Since this was unthinkable, the only solution was covertly to release the virus in a public place then take her fate in her own hands. Though not by hara-kiri, which would disfigure her body and leave unpleasant stains on her clothes.

  Ofelia moved in her sleep and her dog looked up hopefully. Too bad, T-Bone, nothing doing. Saito knew how he felt. It was disappointment all round as she faced the fact that any outbreak she brought ab
out would be limited in scale, the dead being replaced in a year or two by the human tendency to breed. This would be a major setback all right, but unlike some of her fellow countrymen, she had no interest in heroic failure. The event, when it occurred, must morph from the planned mass cull to a one-off sensational event designed to ram home the point. One way or another, retiring or not, she, Saito, would have to hit the headlines to ensure that point was heard.

  The outline of a plan already taking shape, she was considering how best to flesh it out when a prowl car passed at walking pace, a searchlight briefly directed into the doorway. Since she wasn’t holding a screwdriver or a cell phone, the officers assumed she was unarmed. And since she was unarmed, she must be harmless.

  57

  In response to his latest complaint, the orderly unlocked his door and walked in.

  Pearson wasn’t happy. ‘You took your time.’

  Over the past few days, in reaction to the increasing number of his gripes, the orderly’s response time had slowed. Eventually, the “guest” in room thirteen would get the message. Pearson had been standing at the window looking out at freedom beyond the walls. The secure facility he now found himself in was in no way comparable to the plush surroundings of the Riverside Clinic.

  ‘Even you must realise by now that I haven’t shown the slightest sign of infection – not even the common cold, let alone avian flu.’ He relinquished the window and moved to his bedside chair. ‘High temperature? No. Aching muscles? No. Persistent headache? No. Loss of appetite? No. Trouble sleeping? Well, yes, but only because I’m trapped in this hell hole.’

  ‘Symptoms are a matter for our medical director; he’s scheduled to visit with you tomorrow. And Mr Pearson, I told you before, this symptom stuff is way above my paygrade.’

  Pearson laughed. ‘What I’ve been trying to figure out, Lester, is whether there is anything at all which isn’t above your pay grade.’

  Used as he was to dealing with difficult patients, some of them violent, Lester found sarcasm easy by comparison.