The metaphysical world seemed to have diminished to a corpse a lot of scientists were now trying to gut. Anton was one for this forensic view of things. It infuriated me when he dismissed the belief systems of millions as rubbish. I sometimes asked him what he believed in and all I got was the inevitable reply—fate. I thought the metaphysical world was like a black hole that could transform everything. We would be torn to pieces if we passed through its space, but, unlike the black hole, we might be reconstituted on the other side and come to a new understanding about our nature. Anton called this naive. He said it was better to live knowing this was the finale without any of the old redemptive hopes. Making life acceptable on Earth is what we should be after, not preparing for an illusory world to come.
Charles saw me in Hohentor a few days later. He offered his condolences on my father’s death. He was recovering from his grief too and knew what I was feeling.
I felt this might be the moment to tell him about my recent experiences with Nicholas. He’d known about Nicholas’ problems and was happy things seemed to have worked out.
Their friendship had to survive any incidental difficulties, and it did this time too.
Then Charles spoke of my grief, disguised as it was.
‘My father died a long, long time ago. I never really got to know him as I should have. It’s only later on you realise your parents are human beings, not gods. We want them to be gods, but they are the gods who must fail. But I know you’ll be missing your father. Work hard. Work is the secret of human happiness. We work and are happy. It is simple. I have rather too much work at the moment, but I can’t complain.’
I was moved by Charles’ sincerity. It was a quality I so admired.
Charles was now looked after by one of the hotel porters, although porter is hardly the right word. He was young, but from the old school of German military discipline. He had been specially chosen for the job—nothing was too much trouble for Detlef. He performed any number of what would have been considered menial tasks without complaint. People in our group were meant to stretch their wings in different ways. I had certainly stretched mine, and in directions that left me feeling somewhat like Icarus.
We had to get back to Berlin soon because we needed to set up a rented house near the villa where the meeting of Carascaolo and his crowd was going to take place. Our nickname for C, as we often shortened it to, was Pineapple Head because he sported the most bizarre haircut. It looked like someone had attacked his hair with a motor mower. He was given to wearing loud shirts and had a generally greasy and disagreeable air. His first wife had disappeared. She’d had an affair and the hypocrite, who’d delighted a string of insignificant others, got into one of his rages and killed her during a drunken brawl in their home. Home is hardly the word though because this dwelling was a classic bad taste extravaganza. You would have had to wear sunglasses inside to ward off the gilt and mirror combo.
The house had featured in several home decorating magazines. Carascaolo had allowed his second wife to overspend and she couldn’t resist showing off the results. Which was good for us because we then got to see the disposition of rooms behind the front door and that could be helpful to us in the future. The Hammer filed away a lot of this kind of detail. A boatload of cocaine had been sent off to the States by the big C, but never through the doorway of this ersatz Versailles. C let others do the dirty work for him. As usual with such types, he had his squishy side. His fawning over dogs was well known. But even then, he’d drowned one of them in the pool when it bit him on the leg.
You could have been amused except that this was serious in a way most people didn’t realise. One of the things that used to annoy me in Australia was the admiration for people who were, basically, thugs. Since they were dressed in a little historical amnesia, there was an excuse for much self-indulgence. If one of these people had come to life, walked in through their front door and shot their family, it would have been a different matter. But when they belonged to the past, then it was OK to skate over their failings, their criminal behaviour often excused as larrikinism. Amnesia was sometimes bestowed on living Australians, mainly sporting types, who were let off the hook in a display of generosity not extended to others.
However, we took C seriously. There were extensive files concerning what he’d perpetrated over the last fifteen years, after his business really got going. We had leaks from someone in the U.S. Department of State setting down the murders and disappearances. They had even managed to assassinate a cabinet minister and you had to wonder what was going on when this could happen. It would have been all over for our mole in the Department if anyone found out where we were getting this information. I read up on C’s history and disliked him more with every page. Money must have corrupted those who worked for him because, from my reckoning, he certainly had minimal personal charm. He had forgiven himself his weaknesses. We could not.
But these criminals were still careful. They used code to send messages; our cryptographer Stephen had been spending months trying to unravel this code. His great hero was Frank Rowlett whom he believed to be the principal person behind the breaking of Purple, the Japanese military cipher used during the war. Stephen was methodical and patient, as you had to be in his job. Neither Thérèse, nor Anton, nor I would have been any good at this kind of work. You had to really concentrate. He only drank tea and, to relax, played chess. I took him on a few times and he always beat me. Stephen was good at the mathematics of cryptology, and few people were.
The villa we were planning to blow up was one of the most beautiful dwellings in what used to be East Berlin. It was a reminder of the pre-war years when people lived in style, before the currency declined. This place had once belonged to one of Germany’s leading poets. It was built after the Greek manner—the Germans were mad for Greek architecture and culture. There were original sculptures in the garden as well as fountains and enclosures where you could sit in solitude and contemplate the meaning of it all. I doubt if much contemplation had gone on since the new residents moved in, but from an aesthetic point of view, this was a lovely place. I don’t suppose C ever looked up at the literary quotations inscribed over each doorway, or knew the significance of the Winged Victory standing in a corner of the study. It made me angry we were going to have to blow up this villa. I didn’t care for the people who had to go, but destroying something that had succoured culture and been an object of love disturbed me. I had to accustom myself to the fact of its demise since we only had this single opportunity to destroy the whole network.
We were lucky getting inside information. A laundry service provided fresh sheeting to the villa’s dozen bedrooms. We soon established a contact with one of the maids, Sylke, who came there when it was in use to change the linen. We offered an amount she couldn’t have earned in years of work. We could not, of course, tell her what we were planning. She was happy to live in ignorance. The usual architectural plans of the renovated villa had mysteriously disappeared from the council archives. What we needed were sketches of the cellar because we had to install listening devices and plant explosives there.
The solid foundations of the villa gave us a good basis for our plans—the explosive force would be upwards and would be contained because of those foundations. Sylke brought us her rough drawings of the cellar rooms. She was taking a chance because, even though C and the other narcoterrorists weren’t due for another week, there was still plenty of activity as the place was prepared for visitors. There was only one full-time resident, an old retainer who had worked on the property under previous owners. He seemed to have a hand in everything—gardening, cooking, shopping, repairs.
Thérèse joined us and at once made herself invaluable. On the pretext of making student enquiries about the poet who had lived there, she managed to get inside the front door of the villa and have some coffee in the kitchen. Then the retainer showed her the poet’s writing room. She wasn’t allowed to go downstairs, so it was just as well Sylke had managed to approximate pl
ans for the rooms below.
From Thérèse’s descriptions and the maid’s sketches we saw that the main explosive would have to be placed directly below the dining room.
I had to laugh at those who thought Thérèse passive, which she sometimes seemed. They were in for a shock. She had learnt the art of relaxing at the right moment, which I hadn’t, but God help anyone who underestimated her resolve when she decided to act.
Others managed to get under the villa. We were about one hundred metres up the street in a nondescript house where we could see what was going on. All the sound equipment was set up, and the explosives were put in place.
Since we always had someone on watch we decided we could enjoy a diversion from our routine. We went to have a look at Charlottenburg. I enjoyed walking through the elegant gardens most of all. It gave all of us time to unwind and see open space, which we missed after working together in that small house.
Locals came and walked with their children in these grounds. I thought how lucky they were to have this jewelled reminder of past splendours as their backyard. Later, inside, I stared at the regalia, the swords, crowns and jewellery. How little things had changed. Perhaps more people now had a fairer share of the cake, but the pursuit of power was still the prime consideration, whether by politician or drug czar.
I didn’t like Pineapple Head, but next to the others in the gang about to arrive in Berlin, he looked good. There was no exaggeration in what I had read about them. They were an appalling lot. I asked myself again what could have brought them here. Why were they taking such a risk. What did they expect to get out of such a meeting that they couldn’t get back home. It was Florian who came up with an intriguing answer, his analytical medical skill trumping our pragmatic conclusions about a possible new alignment of their drug cartels: maybe they were lonely. Since those involved came from Mexico and Bolivia, Colombia and Haiti, Bermuda and Venezuela, they hardly ever got together, or spoke to one another. They missed the company of like minds. When Florian said it, I thought it might be true. Hadn’t I really done the same thing. I’d been lonely too and my friendship with Thérèse and Anton had pulled me off the edge. But perhaps that was spurious psychology on my part.
I was somewhat daunted by the implications of what would soon occur. As usual, contentment was compromised by knowledge. You couldn’t grow without getting the corkscrew of conscience through your gristle. Wasn’t that what growing up was about—accepting and letting go, both, always, forever.
Later in the afternoon we went to look through the Egyptian Museum. In the gloom I detected the same power plays, millennia old. The monumental stone weighed down on me. As they were, so should we be, though we would not be memorialised. Our deeds could bring a little justice into the world. My violent, improbable world.
They started to arrive. First along was Pablo, given to bragging about his exploits, which now we could listen in to. Where were the other security agencies, I wondered. If we could get our hands on this set-up, why couldn’t they. Perhaps they had and we just didn’t know about it, but I certainly didn’t see any signs of activity in the street leading to the villa. The most unusual person in the bad hand of cards shuffling up to the villa’s porch was ‘Jonty’ Squires. Long-time resident in Bermuda, he was one of the main sources for the distribution of cocaine in the United States. Beneath the jaunty (thus Jonty’) exterior lay a bedrock of avarice. Most people who met him enjoyed his company. But like keeps to like, and the rest of them were equally disreputable. On a fashion note, I had never seen so many men wearing so much bad jewellery. Less is more was not an idea they espoused.
Anton had ascended into his Delphic mode. I knew him well enough by now to recognise the signs. At first there was a certain detachment, long silences. This was followed by an obsessive checking of details. Then he became short-tempered and was inclined to sarcasm. Finally came the leopard-like concentration before action ensued. I understood his mood changes, but I have to say they made him pretty unbearable, especially in the latter phase when he tended to say things he didn’t really mean, expressing himself with alarming intensity.
Thérèse meanwhile settled into her own pattern of preparedness. She stayed closer to her normal street self, only more apprehensive and alert.
I understood Anton was the expert here. He was professional. I was still shedding my banking carapace, some of which had already been frightened off me by recent experiences.
One day in the villa gardens there was a sudden fluxing of colour. Butterflies were breaking from their chrysalises, opening their wings to dry in the warm spring sunshine. Where would they be going? Migrating to some distant place, driven by instinct to reproduce, then die. Were we like that? Just as well three-quarters of the earth’s surface was water, otherwise Homo sapiens wouldn’t have survived. There were already far too many people, but they were manageable, just. As it was, nations couldn’t get the answers to the food, health or education questions right, even in the so-called democratic West. What hope would there have been if, when we split from our ape ancestors, we’d been able to conquer and degrade even more land. Yet the butterfly had simply carried on through hundreds of thousands of years, undergoing metamorphosis on a tree trunk or cave wall. Where was our metamorphosis, mine especially. Perhaps it came with love, the gold chariot taking you beyond the detritus of the daily grind. Charles said work was the clue. I thought it might better be called duty. Could it have been a combination of love, work and duty. Perhaps that was our butterfly moment, when we cast off the selfishness and money-grubbing, the status race, the need for expensive toys, technological marvels, the horrible bling of capitalism’s prime.
Anton told us the full quota had now arrived and soon enough the first assignment of call girls turned up to help the mood along. We were listening in, but so far there had only been banter. Pablo was telling everyone he’d recently bought a new yacht and was in the process of having the crew trial it around the Adriatic. It had been a special commission with imported timbers and bathroom fittings. Probably another example of vulgarity. But then came the interesting part. He played some DVDs made on board this yacht.
We listened in amazement. Here were people who had no business being on board the yacht of a thug. What was the finance minister from Betel Nut doing associating with this crowd. I made notes as the DVDs progressed, detailing incidents I thought significant.
Anton got back to Charles to let him know what was happening.
Later that evening an orgy ensued at the villa. I didn’t disapprove of these shenanigans—I would have been a hypocrite if I had. But we had to listen to their carryings-on, which wasn’t pleasant.
My energy levels had been fluctuating in recent weeks. Some days adrenaline had me up and about, almost frenetic. At other times I was lethargic. I psychologised this must have been a coping mechanism for dealing with the strange lifestyle I’d adopted. Anton and Thérèse were both better at managing their energy levels than I was. The problem then was adjusting to others’ moods in our cramped living conditions. Altogether there were seven of us.
What do you do with sound files in which the only thing heard is bedroom noise. That was the boring part of this assignment, listening at all hours of the night to see if any important information would be passed on. Fortunately, we took it in turns to keep the night watch, so the pain was shared. Occasionally we got a suggestion of character, but not much more. It was the DVDs of the yacht they’d played that seemed most significant. We couldn’t yet identify the person who came up all the time, but everything pointed to a member of the State Department. We didn’t want to believe someone from there had turned, but anything was possible in this worst of all possible worlds.
We played our recordings over, trying to identify that recurring voice. We couldn’t pick it, but one of our group said he thought he remembered it from an old documentary. A voice recognition analyst was summoned from Munich and we were told it was fairly certain we were listening to Sumner Priestnall, a former l
awyer from Tennessee now working at a sensitive post in the United States administration. This was alarming news, for it meant someone at the highest levels in the government was now in the pay of several of the worst people to crawl out of the ooze. A thorough check on his past revealed payola, compromising sex stuff (par for the course, and not all that interesting) and a spell in a detox clinic. Finally, there was a fairly good run on a number of committees before the move to the State Department where he’d become an admired advocate for racial integration and prudent financial strategy. But if our information was correct, he’d been corrupt for a long time. If he was coming—and the suggestion was that he would be arriving soon—then he’d be departing too. But how come our mole in the Department hadn’t found out about him?
Priestnall was seventy-three. He walked with a limp he said was from a wound he’d received in the army but which we read had come about when he fell down the stairs in his home during one of his alcoholic periods. His liver was said to be pretty damaged. Generally, he wasn’t in good health.
Types such as Priestnall were common, but it was alarming to think someone from the State Department was now associating with our nearby friends. I knew one of the guests a few doors up was Tonton Jacmel. He took his name from the town in Haiti where he was born, a choice the local population had no cause to thank him for since it was a perfectly respectable place distant from all the political strife in the capital. He came from the ranks of the Tonton Macoutes, the political group that had arisen from a diabolical combustion of Francophone political interference and Voodoo shamanism. His rampages on behalf of the Duvalier family were legendary in the Caribbean. He was infamous for once wrapping a victim in barbed wire and then watching him bleed to death. It was believed he could put spells on people and even his glance was feared by the local populace. He had any women he fancied, sometimes even raping wives in front of their husbands. He was hated, but this simply added appeal to those who could use him to get rid of enemies.
Hammerhead Page 10
