The Last Compromise

by Reevik, Carl

  Hans sat there for a few more moments, doing nothing but breathing, just like his boss next to him. We must look like two pale, I don’t know, whatever, pale people who just sit there, he thought. Pale, pale. Sitting there. I want to build a house on the old plot up the river. After such a century, the banks did it, why not me?

  Hans closed his eyes, then opened them again. The sudden dizziness had subsided. He cleared his throat, grabbed the glass again and remembered it was empty. He put it back down.

  He looked around. There was Tienhoven sitting next to him, and that was it. Everybody else had left, even the receptionist. The lobby was completely empty. As empty as the glass, oh my God, there’s only bullshit inside my head.

  Hans took a breath, and made a fresh attempt at formulating what seemed like the simple question. How about a little focus, Mister Tamberg? Yes, how about it.

  And so, let’s see. First, why had the attacker grabbed his wrist? Either he had wanted to confront him for some reason, but it seemed a strange way of doing that. Or he had tried to steal his phone, but that wasn’t entirely plausible either. Who grabs and steals a phone like that? Although maybe that was exactly how phones got stolen.

  The receptionist returned from wherever he had been in the meantime.

  ‘Can I please have another glass of water?’, Hans asked him. He had just started feeling a little better, and the extra water would maybe help even more.

  The only thought filling his mind during the wait for the water was that his phone hadn’t been a very valuable model. It had been relatively pricey when he’d bought it, but there were already newer and better models available by now. Then he felt a little guilty about asking the receptionist for water even though he, too, had seen what had happened. And about having ordered none for Tienhoven.

  When the receptionist came to bring the water, Hans said, ‘Thank you very much.’

  He offered the glass to Tienhoven, but the man just faintly shook his head.

  So Hans took a sip himself. Maybe not the phone, but what was inside the phone. Yes, much better. Okay, he would definitely hold on to the phone now. And he would definitely keep the box, wherever it had come from.

  He heard sirens outside. He craned his neck to see. A white police car stopped right outside the glass entrance to the lobby. Thin red and blue stripes along the length of the car’s body, a shield with a red lion on the door.

  Hans realised he quickly needed to make some choices about what he would do now, and he’d need to increase the speed of his thinking considerably, because the current performance was no good at all. He needed to check with Tienhoven what he would and wouldn’t say. Shit, he should have thought about this earlier, instead of just sitting around like a zombie.

  ‘Willem,’ he whispered. ‘What are we going to tell them? About what we were doing here I mean. And the BND.’

  Tienhoven shrugged absent-mindedly and said, ‘Clarke. He will know.’

  Hans almost rolled his eyes. Yes, the director-general will surely know, but he wasn’t here now, was he? For the moment Tienhoven was even more useless than Hans was.

  God, why hadn’t he just left? Like the American soldier had. Clearly he hadn’t wanted to hang around, talking to local cops as a member of the US Army in a foreign country. Hadn’t wanted to miss his flight, just so that he could find himself in the middle of a row about international jurisdiction between his heavily armed employer and a European grand duchy the size of Little Turd, Oklahoma. So he’d gotten the hell out. But Hans couldn’t have just left, not with Tienhoven falling off his damn chair.

  A policeman in a blue uniform emerged from the white car with the red lion and entered the lobby. He looked around with his hand resting on the pistol on his belt. When he concluded that this was neither an ongoing act of violence nor a hostage situation he relaxed a little.

  Hans was just Commission staff. He had no diplomatic immunity, this was not the United Nations. A crime had occurred on Luxembourgish territory, and the police would come and investigate. Hans wasn’t in a good shape at all, he could still vaguely taste the vomit at the back of his throat, and his elbow still hurt a little from the fall in front of the reception counter. But he was the only person from their group who had neither died nor disappeared nor completely passed out. He was the number one witness from the victim’s party. Something terrible had happened, so the default answer to the police would have been the truth. But they also had been in the middle of an investigation, one with implications from the top political level of the European Commission down into the exciting but shady world of foreign intelligence. Hans knew he was too junior an employee to speak on behalf of the Commission in this situation.

  The receptionist was back again, coming to meet the policeman. The two of them met right next to Hans’s and Tienhoven’s armchairs. They talked briefly in their own language. Then the policeman looked at Tienhoven, said something to him in that same language but got no response. The receptionist explained something to the policeman and he nodded. Then he said something to Hans, and was met with a blank stare, a shrug and a shake of the head. At least Hans was more responsive than his boss. The policeman repeated the same thing in French. The gist was that Hans should stay exactly where he was. More police cars with wailing sirens were already coming to a stop outside the glass door. Then an ambulance, sounding alternating siren horns, then more wailing police cars.

  Three uniformed policemen entered the lobby and were immediately met by the one who had been the first to arrive. The four of them hurried off in the direction of the hallway. Then two paramedics in bright orange jackets came in, carrying grey plastic suitcases with a red cross label on them. The receptionist pointed at Tienhoven, and the two, one man and one woman, knelt beside his chair and set about their highly efficient work. The woman loudly asked him his name, in French, German and English, while checking his pupils with a little flashlight. Meanwhile the man swiftly pulled Tienhoven’s arm out of his jacket sleeve, unbuttoned his cuffs, moved up his shirtsleeves and wrapped a blood pressure gauge around his arm.

  ‘Willem Tienhoven,’ Hans’s boss said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ His voice sounded weak but clear, even though the content didn’t make much sense.

  A third medic arrived, pushing a stretcher on wheels as more policemen entered the lobby.

  ‘We’ll help you up,’ the woman said to Tienhoven, sticking with English. ‘You probably had a myocardial infarction. We take you to the hospital now. Un, deux, trois.’

  The man and the woman lifted Tienhoven up and sat him down on the stretcher. The man grabbed his legs and lifted them onto the stretcher, the woman pressed down his upper body while the third medic, who had just wheeled in the stretcher, fixed a belt around Tienhoven’s waist.

  Hans got up, getting ready to come with them. He needed to stay close to his boss, not just to see that he was all right but to do what he had needed to do minutes ago. Get their stories straight. Just as he was about to follow the stretcher, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder that pushed him back down into his armchair. It was the policeman, the first one.

  ‘Veuillez rester ici pour l’instant, s’il vous plaît,’ he said to Hans.

  But there was no way he would stay here for a while. Hans showed the man his Commission badge, the normal one, and said, ‘I work with that man, we need to stay together.’

  ‘Stay here,’ the policeman repeated in English.

  Damn. The cop was right. Of course Hans had to stay. Some criminal investigators were no doubt on their way to question witnesses. The medics swiftly carted Tienhoven away, just as two men in white overalls hurried in the opposite direction, from the entrance towards the bathrooms. And so now Hans Tamberg, European Commission, anti-fraud department, was all alone in the increasingly crowded hotel lobby, with no boss, no script, no plan, and only a vague idea of what had actually happened.

  9

  Inspector Didier Becker sighed as he turned off the engine. The hotel was right there, so he wo
uld have to get out of the car now. The seat was far too low for him. He didn’t look fat, mainly because he had a short and massive build. But the truth was that his body was mostly soft dough. Getting out of cars, or climbing stairs, or waddling down a long corridor made him sweat. His thick neck was shaven, his dark hair kept short on the sides, too, so that he wouldn’t have to walk around with sweaty hair all day. He needed a car with higher seats. Or a van. But he was a criminal investigator, not an anti-riot policeman driving around in a van. He didn’t even have to wear a uniform. The car was a service vehicle, and in principle he could more or less choose one from the little car fleet they had. But the big fat SUVs were always taken, so he had to be happy driving the lean limousine with the low seats.

  He took another breath. His intervention wasn’t very urgent. Uniformed police had already arrived at the hotel, that much was clear. One ambulance was leaving, another one had just arrived. But if a real crime had been committed, the first hours were important, so he could hardly afford to be seen sitting around in his car right outside the crime scene.

  He checked the time on his wristwatch. It was a heavy thing, he hadn’t got used to it yet. It was a gift he’d bought for himself the week before, in anticipation of his own birthday. He made sure his electronic cigarette was in his breast pocket, and got out.

  When he passed the policemen guarding the entrance and entered the lobby, he saw plenty of blue uniforms, and a crime scene technician in white overalls who was slowly carrying a heavy plastic suitcase towards the hallway to the left of the far wall. That was where the scene had to be, that was the man he needed to follow. As he crossed the lobby, Becker observed the room and the non-uniformed people around him. The chairs to his left were empty. To the right, a pale young man was sitting in an armchair. An elderly gentleman was waiting at the reception counter which was unoccupied. Becker turned left at the counter and followed the white overalls into the hallway, a corridor to the right, two toilet doors to the left, both cordoned off with a plastic tape across the hallway.

  The door opened as the white overalls went inside, and Becker saw the brownish red mess on the walls. He made a physical effort to bend his knees and dive under the tape, stood upright and leaned into the men’s room.

  The last man in overalls was already bent over the suitcase he’d just brought in; two more technicians in white were kneeling next to the body. One of those two looked up, recognised Becker, got up and handed him a clean white plastic badge with a blue European flag, the picture of an unremarkable man and the cardholder’s name printed on it. Becker took out his notebook and copied over the name: Boris Zayek.

  The crime scene man put the badge in a transparent plastic pocket, knelt down and returned to his work without saying a word. Becker knew better than to disturb them at this stage. He closed the door, puffed while ducking under the tape again, and returned to the lobby.

  The gentleman was still waiting at the empty counter. One of the uniformed policemen came over to meet Becker.

  He pointed at the pale young man over in the armchair and said, ‘Moïen Inspektor Becker. De témoin ass mataarbechter vun de Kommissioun.’

  Becker sighed. If this witness really was from the European Commission, just like the victim was, this meant he would probably have to switch to English now. It wasn’t Becker’s strongest language. As far as languages were concerned, he considered himself a typical Luxembourger. His native language was Luxembourgish, a distinct Germanic language with lots of French loan words. The language of the heart, as they called it. His second, and preferred foreign language, was German. Like Luxembourgish, it was an official language in the country. Children spoke it at primary school. His third language was French, the third official language. The language used at secondary schools. But civil servants of the European institutions, unless they worked in a French-speaking department, or happened to be fluent in French or German, would normally prefer English. And Becker had to adapt to them, because he needed them to provide him with information. Young people and bankers were much more fluent in English than he was, he knew that. But he had a job to do all the same. At least Commission staff were mostly civilised people, even in situations such as this one. Not that such situations happened very often in Luxembourg, though.

  ‘Where did the ambulance go?’, Becker asked the uniformed policeman.

  ‘Kirchberg hospital. A man just had a heart attack in here. He and that witness over there work together.’

  Becker nodded and approached the witness.

  ‘Inspector Becker, criminal investigation, grand ducal police,’ he introduced himself. It was the long version. It couldn’t hurt to remind these Euro-people that they didn’t live in the clouds of European integration, but on the soil of a sovereign country. A small country, an open and multicultural country, but nonetheless a sovereign country.

  ‘Hans Tamberg, European Commission.’

  They shook hands, and Becker sat down heavily in the armchair next to his witness.

  He asked, ‘You prefer English?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’

  ‘You understand that I need to ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why did you come to this hotel?’

  ***

  Anneli picked up the phone on her desk. It was Viktor’s office number. He never called her on her mobile phone, and she never called him on his. Not that she’d called him much lately to begin with.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Anneli, it’s me. How are you?’

  For a moment she didn’t even know what to say. The truth was that she was slightly annoyed. Annoyed by his calling to ask how she was, even though they had only been together yesterday. But she put on a smile.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re not calling about Easter.’

  ‘No,’ Viktor replied. ‘Although that would be interesting, too. No, I call because I heard something happened at your place.’

  Anneli had heard the police sirens outside, but they were already mute now. Pedro from her unit had gone to have a look and returned with the news that police and an ambulance had converged on the hotel down the street. She and Ilona had just shrugged. They’d thought they’d read about it on a local news website later.

  ‘You mean the police?’

  ‘I think so,’ Viktor said. ‘I heard a colleague speak to someone from your building, there’s been some incident apparently.’

  It seemed he wanted to hear some gossip about something spectacular happening in Luxembourg for once, although that wasn’t much like him.

  She said, ‘Look Viktor, there are some police cars down the street, maybe they arrested someone, I don’t know. Why are you calling about this?’

  ‘I was worried. About you.’

  It dawned on her. She wasn’t annoyed by Viktor’s calling to ask her how she was. She realised that in fact she was annoyed by Viktor’s calling her to begin with.

  She had first gotten to know him as a fellow parent at school. He had been clear-headed and honest, and he had been interested in sharing love outside his usual daily life. He hadn’t wanted or needed to drain her of her energy.

  But this seemed to have changed. She had enough things to take care of herself, other people’s problems mostly. She didn’t need Viktor’s worrying on top of it all. That’s not what he was for, to the extent that she really needed him at all. If this was turning into a proper relationship, then she much preferred her actual husband.

  Viktor was her first extramarital affair, and he would also be her last.

  ***

  Hans had finished answering the first set of the investigator’s questions. It was much quieter in the lobby now, although there were still quite a few uniformed policemen present, and men in white overalls were walking back and forth between the entrance and the bathroom. Hans hadn’t seen any stretcher yet on which they would wheel the body out of t
he hotel at some point. Maybe they would take the emergency exit in the back.

  ‘Okay, Mister Tamberg,’ Becker said. They were still sitting in their armchairs. Becker leaned back in his and turned on his e-cigarette. He inhaled, exhaled a clear odourless mist, and apparently got ready to summarise once again the content of their conversation so far.

  For Hans that conversation had been a delicate balancing act between truthfulness and discretion. He had decided that right at the beginning. Confirm the undeniable, but first coordinate with the boss or, if necessary, the boss’s boss, before entering into any details about disappearing uranium, Russian defectors, and the Commission’s cooperation with the German BND. Zayek was dead anyway, whatever had happened, and Hans didn’t want to make a blunder that might have grave political consequences for the institution he worked for. Or for his career, for that matter. The simpler Hans’s story would be now, the easier it would be to elaborate later.

  Becker took his e-cigarette out of his mouth and started. ‘You work for the Commission’s anti-fraud department in Brussels. You came here on a mission with your superior and one other person in order to talk to another Commission employee.’

  If there is footage from security cameras, they will show Hans and three other men sitting around a coffee table.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your superior, Willem Tienhoven, was taken to the hospital with what was maybe a heart attack.’

  The call, the ambulance, the medics.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have brought the Commission employee here because?’

  People at the office building must have seen Zayek leave with Tienhoven and him. Probably even heard what they’d said through the office doors. The guard at the entrance would remember them.

  ‘Because we wanted to interview him. For an ongoing investigation. I am bound by confidentiality rules regarding the content.’

  Becker didn’t comment on this last remark. ‘And you couldn’t have done it somewhere else?’