The Alex Kovacs Series Box Set

by Richard Wake

  "But it gets better," Ruchti said. And then, after a sweep of the arm that took in the entire lobby, he said, "After dinner, this is the place where they all might mingle if they so choose. The Germans might be at one table, the British and French at another, the Czechs -- your countrymen -- at another, and the Chinese at another still. There might be a short bit of conversation between the groups, there might not -- you never knew. A newspaperman or two might be leaning up against the bar because this evening quadrille is well-known and respected throughout the journalism profession, a fertile fount of gossip and even the occasional fact, one never attributed to anything but 'sources' in the next day's paper.

  "And usually," he said, "often right at this very table, is a representative of Swiss law enforcement, whose job it is to keep track of all of the players from the various nationalities and to be seen keeping track by those players. That is the most important task -- being seen. The Swiss authorities want them to know they are being watched, because the last thing we want is for one of those players to end up lying in a gush of his own blood on Rennweg, with a bullet through his eye. Such things make the government ministers nervous."

  "And the bankers," I said.

  "Same thing."

  With that, his lesson for the day must have been completed. Ruchti stood to leave, groaning the groan of a man 20 years his senior.

  "Enjoy yourself," he said. "But it's too early for me. I'll be two blocks over, back toward the station, at Brunckhorst's. I can't afford to drink here all night. You must have a better expense account than the police."

  23

  I checked my watch -- five had become six, and six had become six-thirty, and only I knew that Ruchti had left me balls-naked in this crowded lobby bar. Since he made his exit, I had spent half of the time convincing myself that only he knew my secret. The other half of the time, I plotted my escape and wondered if I should go get my suitcase or just leave it behind when I fled.

  I didn't feel ready to play the game. I didn't feel ready to accept it as a game. I understood the adrenaline jolt might be similar to executing a goal-saving slide tackle -- I had felt it before, so I got that -- but a game? No. And with rules and courtesies and bows and polite little laughs out of a bad English drawing room comedy? Fuck no.

  Still, as I eyed up dinner groups as they left the bar -- some to La Terrasse, some to the Salon du Palais -- I made mental notes and came to harsh, reflexive judgments. It was only natural. Although, it was probably a bit overboard when I watched two 70-year-old ladies shuffling themselves into La Terrasse and muttered to myself, "Goddamn Nazi bitches." I mean, they were probably just two local grandmothers having a night out.

  I had ordered a third Manhattan and theatrically looked at my watch and mumbled something to the waiter about, "Meetings always running late," as if I needed an excuse for ordering a third drink. But the truth was, I was getting a little worried about my plan. What if the Nazi wasn't staying here? What if Tanner took the guy to his house for a home-cooked meal? I really didn't have a Plan B, other than maybe to sit outside the entrance to the national bank in the morning and see if big ears walked into the building with a companion. Then again, seeing as how I had no idea what the Nazi's name was, and given that my memory for faces was, frankly, shit, I'm not exactly sure what that would accomplish. Then again, I wasn't exactly sure what sitting in this bar was accomplishing, either -- until, that is, the table next to mine came empty, and two men sat down, one of them with a pair of ears that could block out the sun.

  I was sitting at a 45-degree angle from the table, with my back mostly facing it, so I didn't have to worry about making eye contact or anything. My biggest concern was appearing to lean over too far in an attempt to overhear what they were saying. Because the truth was, I couldn't hear anything. Or didn't I mention the lobby piano that was currently being played by a gentleman in white tie and tails? It was hardly intrusive but precisely loud enough to camouflage whatever you were saying from a table about 5 feet away. Which, I guess, was at least part of the point.

  Part of me wanted to walk over to the piano and give the guy a couple of francs with a request to take a break. But I decided to just stay put. I was nervous -- about Ruchti, about being a little bit drunk, about being so close to their table -- and the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself. I figured the thing to do was sit, and maybe catch a snatch of the conversation if I got lucky. If I had to, I could possibly ask the waiter what the Nazi's name was after they had left, pretending I recognized him from somewhere, maybe an old school chum from Wiesbaden or some such thing. We were probably about the same age.

  I did need at least to make an attempt at memorizing his face. So I did manage, at one point, to lean over and tie my shoe and take a peek. As it turned out, memorizing it would be easy, because the big Nazi looked very much like my old neighbor from Vienna -- that is, if Rudolf Kreizburg was about 10 years younger, and sported some kind of mole on his neck that was about an inch in diameter and must have been a bitch to shave around every morning. They were quite the freak show, mole and big ears. If I were properly introduced to them, I don't know what I would have stared at first.

  So I sat there, sipping the Manhattan, waiting them out. They ordered a second drink, and I ordered a fourth, along with my bill. They were going to have to eat soon. And, as it turned out, the piano player did take a break just as they were drinking up. I did get to hear a little bit.

  "...it's a couple of hours," Tanner said,

  "My driver or yours?" the big Nazi said.

  "Mine. But maybe it would make sense for yours to follow in your car. That way, you'll be starting that much closer to home."

  "We'll be done then?"

  "Yes, I'm pretty sure," Tanner said. "I just want you to see how it works. You can inspect the procedures and suggest any changes you think necessary, although I'm confident you will be satisfied. If we need to speak further about anything, there is an office we can use there. Then you can be on your way."

  Then they swallowed their last swallows and stood up. The Nazi motioned toward the waiter, mimicking signing his signature with his index finger on the palm of his hand. The waiter rushed over with the bill and a breathless "Herr Steiner," and Herr Mole Steiner signed the bill, and he and Big Ears Tanner made their way to La Terrasse. Of course. Goddamn Nazi bitches.

  After they had left, I asked the waiter, "Is that Ernst Steiner? I went to school with an Ernst Steiner, and I haven't seen him in 20 years, and he looked a little like him. But, you know, 20 years and four Manhattans..."

  The waiter smiled that you-are-a-smudge-of-shit-on-my-shoe smile that they all must perfect before being accepted for employment.

  "Matthias Steiner," he said.

  "Perhaps he is Ernst's brother," I said.

  24

  I had a name and a face. I had the fact that they were going to drive someplace for a meeting the next day. I had that the someplace was closer to Germany than Bern was. I also had four Manhattans in my system and had long since abandoned the idea of eating a proper dinner. So I decided to go up to my room and call down to the kitchen for a sandwich.

  The obvious thing to do was try to follow them to wherever they were going, although I really had no idea what I might see when I arrived. After all, a private meeting here would likely be followed by a private meeting at the next place. It isn't as if they had plans to advertise what they were doing, even if both sides probably were able to justify it to themselves -- the Germans, obviously, and the Swiss because, well, they were Swiss.

  The truth was, even if I learned nothing more, I had learned a few things -- and the name of Matthias Steiner most of all. When I got back to Zurich, Gregory could send it along in our next message to London, and it would add to the picture. As Groucho once told me, "This business tends to be less about the snapshots and more about the tableau." This would be another little piece, like filling in a jigsaw puzzle.

  The sandwich -- cold, rare roast beef, sliced
thinly and piled on brown bread, horseradish on the side, accompanied by a pickle and a beer -- filled my stomach as my mind churned. I was less drunk and determined to see at least the outside of the place where Tanner and Steiner were meeting the next day. Of course, I had no idea how early they were leaving, which meant I would not be getting much sleep.

  But following them would mean having to hire a car at the last minute. I needed to go down to the front desk and speak to someone there, even if it was almost 11. The desk clerk said the concierge was off for the night, but that he would be able to get a few phone numbers for car hire businesses if I didn't mind making the arrangements myself. I said that was fine, and he walked over to the concierge's desk and began rifling the drawers, searching for the numbers.

  Leaning on the front desk, I picked up a brochure advertising tours and tastings at a nearby winery. I thought it might be a fun trip for Manon and me -- a night or two here at the Bellevue, along with some wine and whatnot. I thought, maybe in the spring, if we weren't at war. There was always that caveat now: if we weren't at war. Then I immediately remembered that we still had not received instructions from Groucho about our next move. Well, maybe Gregory had in the last day.

  I looked over, and the desk clerk was still foraging. Then I saw behind him, the lobby bar. It was well after dinner, well past the let's-have-one-more crowd. Bern was buttoned-up early -- all of Switzerland was -- and this was likely the scene that Ruchti had described. Two guys were leaning against the bar -- maybe the newspapermen that he had mentioned. And, not surprisingly, there was Ruchti himself, his back to me, at the same table that he and I had shared a few hours earlier. A couple of other tables, mostly of twos and threes, were likely populated by the spies that Ruchti had said would be mingling there, seeing and being seen on their comfortable turf. There was even a table of Chinese, as he had said.

  And then I saw, and it took a second for it to register. Sometimes, when you see somebody out of their normal context, it can take you a bit of time to put a name to a face. That wasn't the problem here. The issue, in this case, was the inverse, or the converse, or the reverse -- I never could keep those straight. But sometimes, when you see a familiar face in an unfamiliar setting, it can take you a second not to recognize the face, but to recognize that the context is all wrong.

  Eventually, though, it hits you. And it hit me, my sudden happiness and surprise turning to something much darker, when I saw Manon, laughing it up in the bar with two men in dark suits, men who were not rug manufacturers at a trade show in Geneva.

  25

  "The construction will be first-rate, as good as the working people of Zurich have ever experienced," Mark Grosvenor said. A Brit who somehow landed here in the mid-'30s, he owned a construction company. He was a decent guy with a lot of personality, more fun to have a beer with than to do business with, to be honest. His latest project was an apartment block on Schweighofstrasse, out in a working neighborhood. He was hoping that Bohemia Suisse would provide a piece of the financing.

  "Toilet and tub in every unit goes without saying. Kitchens with new appliances -- gas stoves and electric iceboxes."

  We were having lunch at Veltlinerkeller. I had the knockwurst with sauerkraut and a pilsner. It was my favorite meal in Zurich, I think mostly because of the mustard that came with the knockwurst. There was just something about it -- a tang, a spice, something. I once asked the thousand-year-old owner if he could let me take some home with me, or at least identify the special ingredient, and he looked at me as if I had asked to sleep with his daughter.

  My favorite meal and I couldn't taste it. Two days after seeing Manon with the spies of Bern, I was still pretty much in a fog.

  "Nice hardwood floors," Grosvenor was saying. "Not the cheap stuff that warps on the first humid summer afternoon. Quality wood, and owners who pre-pay before construction begins will have their choice of finishes."

  I did my best to nod occasionally. After a professional lifetime of acting like I was listening when I really wasn't, I rarely got caught. Of course, I had seldom been in a position where the woman I thought I loved was actually hiding this huge secret -- that she was a spy, and that our relationship might very well have been built upon her spying on me.

  "Pre-construction or after, we'll paint for the new owners, pretty much whatever color they want," Grosvenor said. "We'll have faux marble wainscoting in the common areas. And for customers willing to pay 10 percent extra, the men will be able to receive a free weekly blowjob from a woman who lives in the basement."

  I heard it, but not soon enough. My reaction was apparently too slow.

  "Am I boring you, mate?" Grosvenor said. "What's the matter. For the whole lunch, you've been even less focused than usual, which is saying something."

  I made up something about coming down with a cold. By the end of the lunch, we shook hands on a deal for me to provide 25 percent of the financing. I had already read the prospectus and a copy of the plans, and it was a decent opportunity for the bank. Walking over, I told myself that I wouldn't go more than 20 percent. But then I just didn't care.

  After seeing Manon in the lobby bar, I never hired the car, never followed Tanner and Steiner to wherever they were going. Instead, I checked out of the Bellevue Palace on the spot and told the kid behind the desk to ship my bag. He told me it would be a few minutes before he could make up my bill, and I just dropped some francs on the counter and told him to ship the bill with the luggage. And then I wandered out of the hotel and in the direction of the train station, buying a small bottle from the next bar along the way. I was pretty sure -- no, I was confident, given the configuration of the lobby -- that Manon had not seen me.

  The next morning, I was beyond useless. Because the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that the whole relationship had been a sham, that I was not Manon's lover but her target. Thinking back on it, the entire thing had been just a little too coincidental. Seeing her at the bank retirement reception had been one thing, but her suddenly befriending Liesl on the same day strained credibility for anyone doing their thinking with their big head. Which I wasn't.

  Concluding that I was the target was one thing. I almost got used to the idea after about 24 hours. The other issue: who was she working for? I assumed it was France. I prayed to God that it was France -- although, as with the prayer I said on the day Michael Landers was murdered, I wasn't sure exactly how effective a prayer would be that included the phrase, "Just please don't let her be working for the fucking Nazis."

  The damn diary on Marta's desk had another meeting for me after the lunch with Grosvenor -- a drink at five with Thomas Koerner, president of Bank du Lac, another private joint like Bohemia Suisse, a place that was about as big and as influential. That is to say, not very.

  Koerner was on a kick to have the small, private banks join together into an association that would give us more leverage in our dealings with the big two, Kreditanstalt and Bankverein. That this was a surreptitious aspiration went without saying. He never met with more than one other private banker at a time, so as not to offer even the slightest hint of a conspiracy. Because the truth was that, if they found out, the big two would castrate Koerner in the middle of the Paradeplatz and sell tickets -- and we all would buy one. We might buy two, just to demonstrate our fealty to the current structure.

  "But aren't you tired of sucking at the hind tit?" Koerner always said, before his first drink was empty. This time, he said it before the first drink even arrived. His idea actually had a small bit of merit, provided the association was large enough. The problem was, we were dealing with bankers here -- and let's just say that bankers are significantly more loyal to the columns of figures in their ledgers than they are to the truth. There was no way to trust that the association would hold together -- and as it collapsed, there would be carnage. It just wasn't worth the risk.

  Which is what I always told Koerner. Except for this time, I didn't have the energy. I just let him talk, which he much enjoy
ed.

  "The older directors at Kreditanstalt will never go for it, but I know two of the younger vice presidents, and they know the world is changing, and..."

  I zoned out and kept thinking about Manon. I had accepted that she was a spy and that I was probably her target. But the smallest part of me wondered. It all went back to her guffaw when I asked if she was going to tell her family about me. Oddly, even counter-intuitively, that very hurtful laugh was my main hope. I figured that if I was her target, and she was desperate to keep me close and interested, that she never would have laughed at that question. She would not have risked it. She would have invented some plan to tell them at Christmas dinner or something, layering loving detail upon loving detail.

  So that's where I was, clinging to a hurtful moment as my greatest hope. After extricating myself from Koerner, I returned home and called Manon, because that is what I would typically do after she returned home from a trip. My hand shook as I dialed the number and my voice cracked as I said hello. Manon sounded a lot better than she had before she left. I could hear the life in her voice immediately. I wondered if she could hear the hollowness in mine.

  I asked her how the trade show in Geneva had gone. She said it had been fine, and told a story about two of the rug manufacturers -- one portly, one with a hairpiece, "a rug man with a rug" -- competing with each other to bed one of the display models hired for the show. It was a funny story. A week earlier, I would have laughed.

  26

  My booth at Cafe Fessler. Another meal that I did not taste -- fried perch with little round potatoes and green beans, a dish that Gregory actually thought the kitchen did well. "I could have served this one in Vienna with a straight face," he said. But, again, I couldn't enjoy it. I couldn't enjoy anything.