by Chris Petit
The alien space with its lethal contents was a manifestation of the size of the mystery they faced. The racked calibrations, the precise technology, the inhuman neatness and the destruction it could cause, twinned with the mess and devastation of the crash zone, emotional and physical.
The storage bunkers were no library, Angleton decided, more a cathedral of malign intent.
Import–Export
Joost Tranter looked casual waiting for Collard in the hotel lobby.
‘Hello, sport,’ he said. Collard almost laughed. They went and sat in Tranter’s car, a new 7-series BMW with a set of golf clubs on the back seat. Tranter said he was thinking of hitting a few at the range later. Collard had no idea where Tranter lived or his personal circumstances.
‘Are you up to this?’
His tone made clear he didn’t think Collard was.
‘Ask Churton.’
‘It’s me who has to make sure you don’t go soft on us.’
Tranter stared unblinking, provoking Collard. He produced a manila folder and took out a document.
‘So we understand what is at stake.’
It was a sworn statement by Collard’s secretary Lotte saying she had organized Collard’s travel arrangements to attend the Baghdad Arms Exhibition in 1987 to cultivate Iraqi sales contacts met previously in London. When she had questioned the legality, Collard boasted the system was foolproof and told her to do as ordered because everything was authorized.
‘We both know this is a pack of lies. I can prove it by picking up the phone and speaking to Lotte. My diary would prove I wasn’t there.’
‘She’s gone on a cruise.’ Tranter grinned amiably. ‘First prize in a competition. You wouldn’t begrudge her that?’
The statement continued, claiming he had involved Lotte in a series of phantom transactions that used the company as a shell for invisible orders. The actual contracts did not appear on company books but all official documentation and export papers named the company as the provider, with false end-user certificates stating legitimate destinations such as Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Cyprus rather than Iraq.
Lotte’s statement said that Collard had blackmailed her with a ‘gift’ of £10,000 to pay off her husband’s chronic gambling debts.
Collard stared at the paper, guilty that he had known so little about her personal problems. He supposed that part was true.
Tranter passed over another sheet. Collard read that he had been cultivated by the Iraqi procurement agency in Stratford Place. Names of contacts were listed. The document’s summary portrayed him as a fantasist whose head had been turned by the prospect of illegal profits. These were held in several accounts at the BCCI bank and in the Bahamas. He had manipulated people by claiming he was working for the secret services.
It was laughable and pathetic, and terrifying.
Tranter said, ‘Call it my insurance that you don’t mess up the meeting.’
‘Call it blackmail.’
‘Take a swing at me.’
‘So you can demonstrate your superior physical skills.’
‘You’re looking at five to seven years. In fact, we’ll make sure you get a judge who gives you the full seven.’
‘Go fuck your veldskoen.’
Tranter was too well controlled to react.
‘Take the meeting, don’t mess up and this disappears.’
Collard, speechless, was incapable of arguing.
Tranter said, ‘I’m not going to appeal to your patriotic nature or any of that bullshit because I know it’s personal. If you want to find out what happened to your son, catching Nazir is the way.’
Collard wondered how much of Tranter’s irritating, sanctimonious South African accent he could take.
Tranter looked at his watch, an expensive, sporty thing that probably kept time in perpetuity.
‘Now we go back to your place and call Nazir.’
Tranter drove the short distance to the house without asking directions, leaving Collard with the uncomfortable impression he had been there before. He made no comment about the heavy padlock on the front door. In the hall, the light on the answerphone blinked.
Tranter asked, ‘Where’s the bog?’
Collard pointed down the hall and played the one message. It was Nick’s voice, very distant and distraught and hard to make out, the message over almost as soon as it had begun.
Tranter used the toilet without bothering to shut the door. Collard thought of the police dog shit. He rewound the tape, aware of the cistern filling and Tranter padding around, checking rooms.
Collard replayed the message, straining to hear Nick.
What he said was, ‘I love you very, very much.’
Nothing else. Tranter strolled into the hall, hands in pockets. Collard was full of shock at the sound of Nick’s voice. He resented Tranter’s spoiling presence.
‘Do we get a cup of tea?’
‘No milk.’
‘No problem, sport.’
Collard set the trap for Nazir, calling the number he was given. He spoke to an answerphone with no message and recited as instructed: ‘I have good news from Artemis which must be delivered in person.’
Afterwards, he asked, ‘Who the hell is Artemis?’
‘It’s the old open sesame. There’s every chance Nazir will name the Tropical House in the Botanical Gardens in Frankfurt for the meeting.’
‘How do you know?’
Tranter looked slick. ‘It’s like a card trick. The person the trick is being played on always believes he has a choice.’
Collard supposed they had watched Nazir long enough to know his moves. Perhaps he felt the cold.
Tranter said, ‘The Tropical House has two buildings connected by a gangway. Enter by the main south entrance but leave by the gangway that takes you to the north exit. Keep walking away from the main gate across the gardens and go out by one of the far exits. Take a taxi back to the airport. Check the information desk for any message in the name of George Howden. If there is none, wait. We’ll book your flight when we know the time of the meeting. A prepaid ticket will be waiting at the airline desk.’
Tranter whistled flatly while he waited for Collard’s call to be returned. He seemed used to waiting. He made no effort to pass the time with small talk. He got on Collard’s nerves.
‘Do you know an American called Sheehan?’ Collard asked after an hour.
‘Who’s that, sport?’
Tranter shook his head at the description. His expression gave nothing away.
Collard wanted only to play Nick’s message. It was what he had despaired of getting: proof heard with his own ears. He was desperate to know more. Nick had sounded so distressed and lost.
After another hour he asked, ‘What if Nazir doesn’t call?’
Tranter laughed for the first time. ‘Then it’s the slammer for you.’ He pronounced it ‘slimmer’.
‘Are you a spy?’
‘Import–export, “old sport”.’
‘Like James Bond.’
‘Not like James Bond.’
‘How long have you been involved with Six?’
‘Don’t be naive.’
Tranter went back to whistling. His taciturn presence made Collard want to brain the man.
At last the phone rang.
A woman’s voice coolly confirmed Collard’s appointment for 3.30 the following afternoon. She spoke English with a slight accent and asked if he knew the Tropical House in the Botanical Gardens in Frankfurt.
Collard thought whatever choice Nazir had, he had made the wrong one.
She gave precise instructions of where to meet in the Tropical House.
‘Please be on time,’ she said and rang off.
‘Well?’ Tranter asked.
‘You were right.’
Tranter looked smug and produced a tourist map of the gardens.
‘Show me where exactly.’
‘In that alcove there is a bench.’
Collard pointed to the wrong alcov
e, thinking any extra time on the day might be vital. He was increasingly concerned that the trap was for him as much as Nazir.
‘I need to make a call,’ Tranter said.
He dialled and spoke without preliminaries. He hung up a minute later and told Collard his airline and time of flight.
‘Terminal One. Economy.’
‘One way or return?’
‘You’re a very funny fellow. Well, that’s it. Good luck.’
Tranter insisted on shaking hands. Collard wondered whose plan he was ultimately part of. He was sure it didn’t end with Churton.
‘There you go, sport. I’m going to hit a few golf balls. Make sure to get a good night’s sleep, and, don’t forget, mum’s the word.’
‘What, no safe house, no minders?’
Tranter ignored the sarcasm.
‘You’re on your own now, chum. You know what you have to do. I’ve gone over the terms and conditions and explained the small print. Go and do your job and we tear up the contract. We’ll give you back seven years.’
Tranter gave a tight grin to let him know what he had just said passed for a joke in his book.
Finally rid of the man, Collard played Nick’s message over. As upset as Nick sounded, Collard hoped the call had been prompted by contacting Fatima Bey and learning of his message.
Fatima Bey’s number rang unanswered. Collard supposed she was out collecting her child.
He watched the day cave in. A headache came on while he waited, willing Nick to call again. He didn’t turn on any lights in case he was being watched. Fatima Bey’s number rang unanswered until long after any child’s normal bedtime.
He walked up the hill stopping off at the Europa supermarket for aspirin. The bright light hurt his eyes. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw Stack looking lost in one of the aisles, an empty shopping basket in her hand. He would have avoided her but she looked up and saw him.
They held an awkward conversation that left everything unsaid. She asked how he was and he answered that he was fine apart from a headache. She gestured at the empty basket and said she could not decide what to buy for supper. They talked of eating together, as though they were a normal couple who had run into each other, then made gentle excuses. He still desired her and wished they had met under different circumstances, at another time. When he had first seen her standing in the aisle, beset with indecision, he was sure her heart was in the right place, and his suspicions were wrong. He wanted nothing more than to trust her, realizing that was impossible. He walked with her while she selected a few items and they stood together at the checkout. He wondered if she knew yet about Tranter’s material. When it came to paying she was short of five pence, which he gave her.
They stood awkwardly in the street, pretending they weren’t saying goodbye. Stack said she had go and left quickly. Once she paused as if she wanted to turn back, then she walked on faster.
The Tropical House
Collard ignored Tranter’s instructions and caught the first Lufthansa plane from Heathrow, leaving from a different terminal than his appointed flight. Passport Control waved him through. He had spent a restless night, failing to reach anyone on the phone, including Lotte and Round, and he fell asleep in the departure lounge. Evelyn had been home but drinking and incoherent. Every avenue Collard’s confused thoughts went down led him back to Round: Round had proposed Collard bring his company in under his umbrella and introduced him to Tranter, then at the Midland Bank, promoting an aggressive lending policy for exports, as a result of which Collard was forced to set up a subsidiary company to expand into foreign sales, against his wishes but overruled by Round, who brought in Tranter as a consultant.
Collard jerked awake in time for the last call on his flight. He collapsed again on the plane and his anxieties surfaced in fretful dreams until he found himself being shaken awake by a stewardess and told to fasten his seat belt for landing. He stared out of the window at the cold ground rising up.
Fatima Bey’s number still rang unanswered. He had plenty of time to check her apartment, so he caught an airport bus into the city then a taxi whose driver looked about nineteen and played a tape of Pink Floyd’s ‘Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun’. It left Collard wondering what he had done to be so punished. Pink Floyd was followed by Jethro Tull. Collard prayed for the journey to end. His directions got them there after a few wrong turnings.
The driver said in English, ‘Have a nice day.’
He called Fatima Bey from a call box. Her phone rang. He was certain she was not picking up. He walked past the same dog shit, several days older. He rang her outside bell. No one answered. He waited around for someone to leave or enter. Ten minutes later he held the door for a harassed mother with unruly children and let himself in. He took the lift and rang the bell to Fatima Bey’s apartment. There was no letterbox to look through. The floor had three other apartments. He got no response from any of them, and guessed their occupants were at work, though he felt like he was being watched through one of the spyholes.
He hung around the back stairwell, checking Fatima Bey’s flat at intervals.
On one occasion he found two youths loitering shiftily on the stairs. They swore loudly at him and for a moment he thought they would attack him. He shouted back in English, glad of the release, until they retreated, grumbling.
There was no sign of Fatima Bey. The hours crawled by. Collard looked at his watch. It was past two o’clock. He stared at the dial trying to work out the reason for his wild panic. He realized he had forgotten about the hour’s time difference and not put his watch forward. There was less than half an hour to get to the Tropical House.
He tried the apartment for the last time, expecting the usual lack of response, and heard instead the sound of approaching footsteps on the wooden floor. Something was already wrong. Whoever was answering the door wore heels. Collard remembered the rigmarole of being made to remove his shoes. Fatima Bey had worn thick woollen house socks.
The door opened. He supposed the woman with the bemused expression was Fatima Bey’s flatmate. She spoke no English and was clearly German with her pale face and flaxen hair. The pierced lips and ears and elaborate braiding made her an unlikely companion to Fatima Bey.
The desperation he associated with dreams inhibited his efforts to communicate. The name Fatima Bey meant nothing to the woman. Collard decided he must have made a stupid error, like muddling the floor or the apartment.
She kept the security chain on, which prevented him from seeing in. In very broken German he managed to say something that approximated to his having been there only days before.
His desperation must have been evident because she undid the chain and held the door open for him to see.
The place was the same. Missing were any of Fatima Bey’s personal effects, as though she were another phantom presence. Collard wondered if there was a parallel world to which he had been given bizarre access since the day of the crash.
He left in a daze. Failure to find a taxi further delayed him until he flagged one down with ten minutes to spare, nervous of all the things he had refused to consider.
Nazir might also be using him as a lure. Nor could he discount the possibility Churton and Tranter wanted him to be arrested with Nazir as further evidence of his involvement in that shadowy underworld. He could see the front-page denouncements in the press. How naive he had been. He had seen Nick distorted out of recognition by Sheehan and Tranter was in the process of rewriting his own past. Innocent people confessed to crimes they didn’t commit; Lotte for example. He saw how embracing the lie might be the easier alternative.
He reached the Botanical Gardens with four minutes to spare. A problem not foreseen was finding enough German money for the taxi fare. He shoved a note into the driver’s hand and didn’t wait for change. A group of twenty or so teenage school children delayed him at the entrance, their supervisor in protracted negotiation at the pay booth. A girl with a face like a young vixen gave him the finger
as he pushed past. He glared, knowing he was wrong to draw attention.
Down to his last marks, he had barely enough for admission. He could not believe he had not checked. The most elementary organizational skills had deserted him.
The garden was arranged in strict geometric paths connecting the different plant houses. Passing the big, ornate nineteenth-century Palm House he seemed to be a solitary person in an empty park. The fact that somebody was bound to be watching made him as self-conscious as a bad actor.
He walked into the Tropical House two minutes late. It was as Tranter had described: two modern clusters of glass, consisting of different interconnected spaces, joined by an enclosed elevated gangway. After the sterility of the outside, he found himself in an exotic state of chaos with an abundance of lush vegetation growing to thirty feet. The hot clamminess was like having flu; the heavy silence reminiscent of days spent ill in bed. Nazir had chosen well. The immediate sensation after a few steps in any direction was of uncertainty and disorientation.
Nazir was not at the appointed spot. Collard waited then searched the other rooms. The cruel contortions of the desert cacti added to the unsettling effect. His ability to think became threatened. It was like being the victim of a perceptual trick whereby a contained space became limitless. His first sign of human life was an elderly couple who smiled warily, like survivors of a catastrophe.
He stumbled on, through muggy rooms, eerily muffled, except for the loud drip of condensation. An occasional figure loomed out of the greenery, none Nazir. He remembered Nazir’s habit of sending intermediaries and started to look out for Bauer or Marisa, the interior designer, or Bobby, the tennis player.
He returned to the original spot, marked by a bench in an alcove surrounded by a thick curtain of greenery.
A man waited, standing with his hands in the pockets of his raincoat.
