“The Line passes about ten kilometres south of Poznań,” Fabio said quietly as they walked along the fence. “There’s no way they could have brought it through the city. They’d have had to demolish the place. As it was, they had to knock down a lot of buildings for the branch. It forks off just after the Line crosses the Warta and it ends just up there –” nodding casually to where the fence curved away into the city. “What you have is two sets of tracks with a fence running up both sides. Outside that there’s a cleared strip that’s continually patrolled and surveilled. It’s sown with sensors and, if the stories are true, with anti-personnel devices. Outside that there’s another set of fences–” he gave the fence they were walking beside a slap with the flat of his palm. “Smartwire. Passive surveillance devices. The whole thing is a little over five hundred metres across.” He brushed his palms together as if to knock off any dirt from the fence, and struck off at an angle to it, Rudi trailing in his wake. “How would you get in?”
Rudi thought about it. An outer fence that would detect anyone trying to climb it or cut through it. Then a hundred-metre dash across what was basically a death-strip with no cover, only to reach yet another fence. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not unless I could turn the fence and the cameras off and I had a map of the countermeasures on the other side. And even then I wouldn’t.”
Fabio nodded his assent.
Rudi looked at him.
Fabio looked at where the fence curved away. “About a kilometre from here, the fences draw apart and then curve back together until they enclose a teardrop-shaped space two kilometres across at its widest point. That’s where the marshalling yards and the diplomatic compound are. That’s where the Line’s border crossing with Poland is.” He dipped a hand into a jacket pocket, withdrew it holding a little plastic card between his fingers. “And that’s why your passport has a work visa for the Line.”
Rudi took the card. It had his photograph on the front, but it had someone else’s name. “I don’t remember having this photograph taken,” he said.
“Mm,” said Fabio.
“Have you been photographing me without telling me?” he asked angrily.
“All you have to do is keep watch,” Fabio told him. “You can surely do that?”
Rudi looked at the card again. “I look like a halfwit.”
“It’s a good likeness, I agree,” Fabio murmured.
Rudi put the card into the breast pocket of his denim jacket. “So. When do we go in?” he said. And then he realised Fabio was carrying his heavy attaché case. He hadn’t been carrying it when they left the hotel, and he hadn’t been carrying it a few moments earlier when he slapped the fence. Rudi looked around, wondering which of the other people wandering around the park had delivered it to Fabio. He hadn’t seen the pass, hadn’t even been aware of anyone coming within five metres of them. It was all done like magic. “Oh, no,” he groaned.
“MY NAME IS Rausching,” said Fabio, swinging his attaché case happily as they approached the border. “You call me ‘Herr Rausching.’ You’re my personal assistant.”
“I’m not exactly dressed for it,” Rudi grumbled, still annoyed.
Fabio shrugged. “It’s Saturday. You were going to a football match when I called you. You were shopping with your fiancée. You were taking your maybe dog for a walk. Anyone asks, make something up, I don’t care.”
“This might work out a little better if we had some time to rehearse,” said Rudi.
“You don’t get a chance to rehearse for life, do you?”
“Don’t we have legends?”
“Well, I do, certainly.”
Rudi fought an urge to stop and yell at the top of his voice, which would have been noticed by all the cameras mounted around the Line’s border post. “Are you insane?” he asked quietly.
Fabio sighed. “When you’re mugged and have all your money stolen, do you get a chance to rehearse?” he asked. “When one of your loved ones falls under a tram, do you get a chance to rehearse? No. When you’re in some godawful pocket nation and something goes cosmologically wrong with a Situation, will you have had time to rehearse? No.”
“I’ll at least have thought through the options beforehand.”
Fabio made a little pft sound of disdain. “You can never think through all the options. There are just too many. You’d go out of your mind trying to accommodate them all. Sometimes the only thing you can do is wing it.”
Rudi scowled. “Is this a test?”
Fabio shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He tipped his head to one side and looked at Rudi critically. “I’ve told you all the stuff I know about this business. Whether I’ve taught you anything, I can’t say. Probably not. But I’m going through the wire now, and I need you to come with me, and I need you to be at the top of your game, inadequate though that may be. Whether you go with me or turn round and go back to being a cook, I’m going through the wire now.”
Rudi looked at the little Swiss and tried to think back to the point at which his life had ceased to make sense.
“I told you,” he said finally, “I’m a chef.”
The border post was a featureless brick cube embedded in the wire of the fence. It was simple, unadorned by national symbols, although a nest of cameras and aerials rose from its roof. There was a single door, on each side of which stood an armed Polish soldier. To one side of the building a road the width of a motorway ran up to an enormous sliding gate in the fence. More armed soldiers stood at attention at the gate. The whole thing made the border post between Poland and Hindenberg look as inviting as an ivy-decked roadside auberge.
A queue of people snaked up to the door of the building, but Fabio just walked up the line and waved his passport at one of the soldiers guarding the door. “Afternoon, Piotr,” he said as he went past. “How’s the wife? Oh, this is Rocco, my personal assistant. I wouldn’t let him through, if I were you. Very dubious character, our Rocco, ha ha. Show Piotr your passport, Rocco, you halfwit.”
Conscious of the eyes of the guard on him, and a tidal wave of grumbling from the queue behind him, Rudi took out his passport and held it up. He attempted, but did not quite manage, a reassuring smile, but all Piotr did was wave him through and he followed Fabio into the border post.
Fabio was halfway down the narrow corridor beyond the door. Rudi hurried to catch up and give the little Swiss a piece of his mind, but as he did Fabio turned and said heartily, “Come on, Rocco, I told you to keep up, didn’t I? You think I’m paying you by the hour or something?” and Rudi realised that everything said and done in the building was being recorded, probably by instruments of obscene sensitivity.
“I’m sorry, Herr Rausching,” he said humbly, trying to build himself a legend from scratch.
The room at the end of the corridor was Polish customs and immigration. A single officer of the Polish border guard sat looking bored behind a desk, but he brightened up when he saw Fabio approaching.
“Good afternoon, Herr Rausching,” he said cheerily when Fabio and Rudi reached the desk.
“Good afternoon, Przemek.” Fabio was all goodhumoured motion and bonhomie, like a three-card monte expert. “You’re well?” Case in hand, patting his pockets to find his passport. “The family?” Case on desk, searching his pockets. “Good man, good man.” Extracting his passport and handing it over. “I spoke with my friend about Agata’s school the other day; we should hear something in the next week or so.” Patting the case. “Do you need to look through this? Oh, by the way, meet Rocco, my personal assistant. A criminal; you only have to look at him, don’t you? Ha ha. Give Przemek your passport, Rocco.” Case on floor.
Rudi handed over his passport. Przemek fed them both into a reader on the desk, checked the results on a monitor, handed them back and bade them both a good day. Fabio picked up his case and beckoned Rudi to follow.
Walking down the corridor beyond the room, Rudi had to fight the urge to turn and look back and wonder whether he had imagined what he had just seen. Fo
r a moment, he wondered if he was not, in point of fact, in the presence of greatness.
The next room was the Line’s customs and immigration. It was identical to the Polish one, except behind the desk in this room sat a small and very blond young man wearing a severe but very comfortable-looking black uniform.
“Lars,” said Fabio. “Good afternoon.” For Lars, he modulated his performance. Very little smalltalk, very little business with the case, no reference to his ‘criminal’ personal assistant. For Lars, as far as Rudi could discern, Fabio did the whole thing with body language. From an operational standpoint, it was a privilege to witness. How had the British ever been able to hold Fabio? Why hadn’t he just walked out of their country? “Yes, hello, Gerald. How’s the family? Good. I’m just going to Poland, okay? Fine. Good man. See you again sometime.”
Emerging into the sunshine on the other side of the building, Rudi felt his head spin for a moment. Obviously, Fabio had passed this way many times before, scoping out the jump, pressing the flesh, gently subverting the guards, but it didn’t alter the fact that he had just basically talked them both through a border on false papers and with nobody on either side of the wire examining his case. Rudi thought that, even if they hadn’t had passports, Fabio would have managed to get them through anyway.
“Still there, Rocco?” Fabio asked with a little smile. “Good man. Keep up.”
“Yes, Herr Rausching,” said Rudi.
“This shouldn’t take long, and then you can go back to your football match.”
“I was shopping with my fiancée,” Rudi said automatically, and then wondered where that had come from.
Fabio, though, nodded fractionally as if in approval. “You’ll give my apologies to...?”
Rudi said the first name that came into his head, “Danuta,” and then worried that he wouldn’t be able to remember it if the subject came up in conversation again.
“Danuta,” Fabio repeated. “Are you ever going to make an honest woman of her, Rocco?”
“Probably, Herr Rausching.”
“And you’ll invite me to the wedding? No nonsense about me being best man; I can’t stand all that stuff. I’ll just stand at the back and wish you well.”
“Yes, Herr Rausching.” At that moment, Rudi would have followed Fabio to the gates of Hell. Where Fabio would no doubt have talked his way past the Devil, and then back out again, without even getting mildly singed.
Instead, what he did was follow Fabio across a wide gravelled area to a modest three-storey stuccoed building with orange roof tiles. Beyond the building there was more fencing, and through this Rudi could see a rank of railway tracks and switching stations, and two huge turntables for turning locomotives around, and a single Line train, sleek and blue and green and thirty or forty cars long and powered, if you believed the stories, by twin fusion tokomaks, although fusion power was still an infant and basically explosive science.
Beside the front door of the white building was a modest little brass plaque. It read: Consulate Of The Independent Trans-European Republic. Fabio was standing at the door, looking up at a camera mounted over the lintel and blowing kisses. The door made a faint clicking noise, and Fabio saluted the camera and pushed the door open.
Inside was a modest little reception room with a blue carpet and white walls and several anonymous plants standing in earthenware planters around the edges. There was a blocky white sofa facing two blocky white armchairs across a low smoked-glass coffee table. There was a pale wooden reception desk built against the back wall, and to either side of it stairs rose to the next floor. By the time Rudi had let the door close on its springs and heard the electronic lock snap shut, Fabio was already at the desk and schmoozing the auburn-haired young woman sitting behind it.
“Hazel, my dear,” he was saying in heavily-accented English – a lot more heavily-accented than his usual English, “you know it does my old man’s heart good to see you.”
“Herr Rausching,” the girl replied. A native English-speaker, Rudi thought. She was thin and pinched-faced and wearing a neat charcoal business suit over a crisp white shirt. “Working on a Saturday?”
“Something which could easily wait until Monday, but which someone in Milan believes they must have today,” Fabio said sadly. He put his hand on his heart. “Everyone in a rush. Oh, this is Rocco, by the way, my personal assistant. He may be accompanying me occasionally in future, so he’ll have to be signed into the system.” He took from his pocket a little plastic box containing a square of plastic about the size of a postage stamp. “All his details are on there, so you don’t have to go through the tedious business of typing it all in.”
Hazel regarded the flash card in its plastic box dubiously. “It’s not very regular, Herr Rausching,” she said.
“I know, I know.” Fabio essayed a great Gallic shrug. “But what can we do? I’ve been waiting for his vetting reports to come back from Security for almost a month now so he can have permanent status, but you know how they are. Every ‘i’ has to be dotted, every ‘t’ crossed, and if you miss a single dot all the paperwork has to be done again. And in the meantime, I need his assistance, Hazel.” He struck his breast softly with his fist. “Hazel. Just this once, eh? Next week, the week after, the paperwork comes back from Security and he’s legitimate. All we’re doing is jumping the gun a little, that’s all. And anyway, a hundred years from now, who will care?”
Hazel looked at the box again. She looked at Rudi. Rudi smiled at her. She looked at Fabio. Fabio smiled at her.
Eventually, the wave of goodwill got the better of her. She snapped the flash card out of its box and slid it into a little box on the desk. She typed for a few moments on the keyboard in front of her, read her screen, typed some more. Then she looked at them both and smiled. “All done,” she said. She reached down below the desk and held up a little white badge. She clipped it to a lanyard and held it out to Rudi. “There you go, Rocco. Welcome to the family.”
Rudi looked at the card. It was still warm from the printer. It had his photograph embossed on the front, a row of gold contact spots along one of the short edges, and the name ‘Rocco Siffredi.’ He raised an eyebrow. “Thank you,” he said to Hazel.
“Good girl,” Fabio told her. “I always knew you’d come through for us. Didn’t I say Hazel would come through for us, Rocco?”
“You mentioned it, Herr Rausching,” said Rudi.
“Well.” Fabio picked up his case. “I owe you a favour, Hazel. Many thanks.”
“Not at all, Herr Rausching. Happy to help.”
“So. We’ll see you later. Rocco? Shall we? The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go back to Diana.”
“Danuta,” Rudi said, catching a gleam of wickedness in Fabio’s eye.
“Danuta?” Fabio asked innocently. “I’m sorry; I could have sworn you said Diana.”
Rudi shook his head. “Danuta, Herr Rausching.”
“Rocco has a fiancée,” Fabio stage-whispered to Hazel.
“Lucky Rocco,” said Hazel. She smiled at Rudi.
“This way, Rocco,” Fabio said, indicating one of the staircases. He waved goodbye to Hazel.
Halfway up the stairs, Rudi moved up close to Fabio and said very very quietly, “Rocco Siffredi was a porn star.”
“Was he?” Fabio replied, just as quietly. “Oh well.”
AT THE TOP of the stairs a corridor ran entirely around the first storey of the house, lined on the outside with windows and on the inside with ranks of numbered doors. Fabio led him to a door marked 73, took out a key card, and put it in the slot, and opened it.
Inside was a cosy little office with a desk and some easy chairs and another of those unidentifiable pot plants. A set of shelves supported a number of photographs of Fabio with his arm round a dumpy, wistful-looking woman in various outdoor settings. In the Alps. On a boat somewhere warm. At what appeared to be a Formula One motor racing event.
“Frau Rausching?” Rudi asked.
“Hannelor
e,” agreed Fabio. “Bless her.”
“How long have you been working here?”
Fabio looked at him for a moment, but if the office was bugged and anyone was listening, it might just be considered a legitimate question. “About eighteen months, on and off.”
Rudi nodded. Well, that was interesting. At least it explained Fabio’s occasional absences from Kraków.
“Anyway,” said Fabio. “Make yourself comfortable here for a moment. I have to pop down the corridor and consult with one of my colleagues. I’ll be back shortly.” And he left the office.
Rudi stood looking at the closed door for a minute or so after Fabio’s departure. He was surprised to discover that, on his first live Situation, he felt like a child brought to his father’s workplace.
Fabio had spent almost a week last month barking aphorisms at him. One of these had been, ‘In hostile territory, always assume you’re under surveillance.’ In the spirit of this, Rudi decided to behave like Rocco. Bored, a little resentful at being dragged away from Danuta (who in Rudi’s imagination had short blonde hair and a magnificent bust, just in case anyone asked.) He walked around the office. He looked at the photos again. Fabio and... who? Mrs Fabio? A stringer posing for some pictures in return for what looked like a fairly eventful holiday around Europe? Hard to tell, but he doubted there was a Mrs Fabio. He doubted anyone could stand Fabio long enough to get to the altar.
He went and sat behind Fabio’s desk and tried the swivel chair. He waved a hand at Fabio’s monitor and it lit up with a screensaver of a scruffy-looking Persian cat. There was no point doing anything else. He didn’t know Fabio’s passwords. And even if he did, and if, in defiance of tradecraft, Fabio kept anything interesting on the Consulate’s system, it would be encrypted, and everything else would just be part of Herr Rausching’s legend. It would be worth looking at, to backfill his own legend, but the securityware would be watching, and would wonder why he was looking at it.
Europe in Autumn Page 6
