by Nick Louth
‘Sshh Saskia. Sshh, my darling. It may be inside her, but the fight hasn’t even begun. There are the best people in the world on this, you know that. And our daughter is a survivor.’
The last morning of the parasitology conference was devoted to river blindness, but even though it was only ten o’clock most delegates had already left. Max had spent a fruitless hour waiting in the lobby of the RAI Congress Centre, hoping to spot Henry Waterson, hoping to find out why he had driven out into the wastelands of Rotterdam to an obscure company called Xenix Molecular Solutions. Finally he gave up and went into the organiser’s office, where John Milward was stacking up bundles of unused agendas.
‘Hello, Max. Any news on Erica?’
‘None I’m afraid. Have you seen Waterson?’
‘No. Not for days. He may have left.’
‘Do you know where he was staying?’
Milward sighed heavily. ‘No, but most of the bigwigs stayed at the Golden Tulip, the Marriott, the Okura or the Hilton.’
Max thanked him and after twenty minutes working the phone he hit paydirt. Waterson was staying at the Marriott. The telephonist had put him through to the room, but there was no reply and Max hung up when the answering service kicked in.
The lobby of the Marriott was heaving with a coachload of tourists as Max arrived. He skirted around the back of them, keeping his bandaged hand in his pocket and walked up to the most junior looking woman at the reception desk.
‘Hi. I’m Henry Waterson. I’d like to check out.’
‘Room number?’ She didn’t even look up as she worked the terminal.’
‘Um.’ Max looked puzzled. ‘It’s either 466 or 646.’ He rummaged in his pockets as if looking for the key.
‘It won’t be written on your plastikey, Sir. Just one moment.’ She typed in his name and seemed to see what she was looking for. ‘Did you drink anything from the minibar?’
‘No.’
She printed out the invoice and gave it to him to sign. The room was 312.
‘Shoot, I even got the floor wrong. Too many hotel rooms in my life, that’s the trouble.’ Max patted his jacket. ‘Durn it. I think I’ve left my wallet in the room. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go away.’ The receptionist gave him a dull-eyed glare as he walked to the lift.
The drone of a vacuum cleaner greeted Max as he stepped out at the third floor. Waterson’s room was near the end of a long corridor. The chambermaid’s cart was just outside the next room, where a draught of cool air wafted through the open door. Max stepped back as a short middle-aged Filipina emerged, weighed down with bed linen and towels, and waddled back up the corridor towards the linen room.
Once she was out of sight Max listened briefly at Waterson’s room. No sound. He slipped into the next door room, and saw as he had hoped that the window was open. He looked out across the city and its glittering spires and the traffic, winking in the sunshine. Craning his neck out further he saw the methodical chambermaid had opened the window a few inches in every room she had cleaned, including Waterson’s, just five feet away to the left. Max pulled the window open to its full extent and took a deep breath. The bad news was that this was a modern hotel and the concrete sill beneath the window less than two inches wide, about half the width of his shoes.
Gingerly he eased himself out, turning around so he was looking back into the room, his feet sideways on the sill. With fingers on the window frame he was fine. But it was spanning the gap to Waterson’s window, now to his right, without the benefit of handholds that would be tricky. Carefully, he slid his feet right, shuffling along as far as he could while still gripping the window frame with both hands. Then he released his still bandaged right hand, face to the blank brickwork, stretched blindly until his sore fingertips made contact with the aluminium edge of Waterson’s window frame. Spreadeagled against the wall he slid his feet further right until they could go no further without him leaving hold of the window he had exited. Max took a deep breath and made the final commitment, swinging the free hand over his head. For a second he was holding himself only by the tips of his scabby, injured hand. Then he found a second handhold and made the last desperate shuffle until he could see inside Waterson’s room.
It was empty and tidy, but for a few clothes folded on a chair. Max slid open the window and hauled himself inside. On the circular table by the window was a sheaf of scientific papers. He flicked through but could see no mention of Xenix Molecular Solutions.
Inside the wardrobe he found a few suits and a natty executive attaché case. It was locked, but like most stylish luggage, security takes second place to looks. Max stood the case on its edge, stamped on it twice, and the thin brass locks flipped open. Inside was a cheque book, passport, pens, papers, airline ticket and a bottle of orange pills.
Max snatched up the bottle, opened it and tapped out a handful. They were orange with a small blue dot, identical to those used by the guy next to him on the aircraft. There was no label on the bottle. He wrapped a dozen pills in a tissue and pocketed them, then resealed and replaced the bottle. Five minutes of effort could not persuade the attache case locks to re-engage, so he gave up and looked around the room to see what else he had disturbed. Papers were tidy, the window part closed. All he had to do was wipe off his dusty footprints from the window ledge. That done, he opened the door and closed it carefully behind him.
He walked rapidly back around the corner to the elevator. Waiting there was the disabled man that Max had carried up the stairs at the Erwin Hotel on his first day in Amsterdam. He was in a high tech wheelchair with a thin computer screen mounted on its arm, connected by a thick tube to a metal mouthpiece. His eyes swivelled up at Max and recognised him.
‘I guess this is more to your liking than the Erwin,’ Max said. ‘Going down to the ground floor?’
The man’s bony head twitched and his brown eyes crinkled. Letters began to click up on the screen. Yes. At least I can thank you now. I’m voiceless as well as rather helpless in the folding wheelchair. Mary-Anne had not realised the Erwin had no lift. This is much more suitable.
The elevator arrived and Max held the door open while the man drove his wheelchair in. ‘So what brings you to Amsterdam?’
Criminality. I specialise in understanding the criminal mind.
‘So that makes you a psychologist or a psychiatrist?’
A psychologist. I’m Dr Johan Grzalawicz of the University of Antwerp.
‘Max Carver. Good to meet you.’
My field is never short of work. Every day, some new fascinating event. Like you, Mr Carver. You are not Henry Waterson. Why were you impersonating him at the reception desk?
At one moment in timeless darkness John Sanford Erskine III awoke, knowing he would never see morning. A car hissed past, headlamps sweeping like a lighthouse the white ocean of the ceiling. In the following quiet he heard the pumps thumping in his ears, the rasping breath, the tired engines of existence. Now he knew this body was only something he had hired for the occasion of life. Very soon he had to give it back. It didn’t belong to him. What terrified him was imagining what was left of him afterwards.
A tiny high-pitched whine distracted him. A dark exclamation mark separated itself from the wall above his head and drifted down towards the heavy bare arm that lay across his chest. Alien head bent low, eyes like giant goggles, the mosquito landed gently amid the jungle hairs of his wrist, crawling until it found a way though to the skin. Paralysed, Erskine could not look away as the needle penetrated, as the mosquito’s body engorged with blood, its antennae twitching with desire.
Suddenly, Erskine understood. You bastard, he thought. Why didn’t I think of you sooner? I gotta get Penny, she could find him.
‘Penny! Penny!’ His voice, no more than a croak, disappeared into the empty air above him. ‘Penny. It’s important. I know…who it is.’
A dark blurry shape entered the room, and the mosquito flew away. The soothing voice seemed to come on warm wings from a hundred miles awa
y. ‘Sshh, now Mr Erskine. You’ve been dreaming.’
Erskine felt something cool dabbing his brow. ‘Penny?’
‘No, I’m the duty nurse. Penny can come in the morning, yes? When you feel a bit better.’
‘No! I’ve got…urgent…Penny!’
‘Try to sleep.’
‘No time left, no time. Must.’
The nurse unplugged the heart monitor and packed away the I-V drip stand, stripped the bed of its soiled sheets. She was surprised how strong a grip the patient had, in those last few seconds. Her fingers still tingled now, several minutes after the body had been wheeled to the hospital mortuary. There had been plenty of white coats around, considering it was the middle of the night, and they spent a long time trying to resuscitate him.
She wondered if he was famous. She hadn’t recognised the face. If somebody named Penny came to see him, she would tell her that it was her name that Mr Erskine had called out, at the end. Perhaps that would make her happy, or at least soften the pain.
Next morning, after the water was delivered, we heard keys and conversation and many heavy boots. There were several voices, low in subservience. Above them was a slow and emphatic timbre which I imagined came from a well-fed frame. The footsteps approached our door. We could hear deep rasping breath. Anxiety welled up in me as I waited for the door to open, but instead the boots went past and ascended. A shadow fell on us, and we looked up to see an enormous man in fatigues staring down at us from the grille which acted as the roof of our cage. He squatted down, to observe us more closely. The bars groaned. We could not see his face, just a fleshy oval in the half light.
‘Welcome, western friends, to the capital city of the KPLA,’ the voice said, enunciating every word carefully. ‘Or at least, this is where we shall build it.’
Nobody spoke. We could smell the greasy sweat of the man above us, but our fear was a stronger aroma.
‘Give me your names and nationalities, who you work for and how long you have been here in our country.’
Sister Margaret began, declaiming her twelve years service to the Catholic Church with quiet pride and a steady voice. I went next, then Amy and finally Jarman. We were much less assured.
‘I want you to consider yourselves guests of the KPLA. I want to treat you nicely, so that you can tell the world how very civilized we are.’ He pronounced it slowly: sea-veal-iced. ‘The only problem is that we are a little crowded. My aim is to give you some space and comfort, some better food and a little exercise for your stay.’
There were some murmurs of approval from the cell. Sister Margaret spoke up. ‘Monsieur, we need some medicine for one of us. He has an infection with his foot.’
‘I will see to it. Antibiotic, yes?’
‘Yes, please.’ Sister Margaret found it hard to hide her surprise.
‘And the food would not earn a Michelin star, I think?’ He roared with laughter and, nervously, we joined in.
‘I shall see what I can do about that, but you must indulge me. It will take a little time. Later I hope to bring a lake tree city.’
We looked at each other mystified.
‘Electricity,’ he mused, ‘so we have light to read by, and hot water, air conditioning, refrigeration. What do you think?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Amy.
‘It will be good,’ he said with an emphatic nod, spattering us with droplets of sweat. As soon as he stepped away, I ran my sleeve across my eyes. It had not dared do it before.
‘May we ask your name?’ Sister Margaret called.
There was a pause. ‘I think you know who I am, Sister.’
‘Brigadier Crocodile?’
He laughed and walked away.
(Erica’s Diary 1992)
Max had no idea whether Grzalawicz would report him to the police, but he would certainly tell Waterson, who would discover the broken attaché case in no time. No doubt about it, that would be the end of bail. Speed was now essential. Going back to Der Ridder might be tough, but he had no choice if he wanted to find out what Joseph Gimbel could discover about Erica.
An hour before the rendezvous Max and Leo staked out the bar from bushes near the top of the highway embankment. Der Ridder sat at a T-junction opposite the slip road which ran steeply down off the highway, and Max could see anyone approaching it from the main road left or right, or from the highway behind.
Henk’s birdwatching binoculars gave a good view into the brightly lit bar. The barmaid was talking to a single customer, which Max and Leo agreed looked like the short beefy guy from the trio of thugs two nights ago. Just after 7.30 p.m. he left. There was no-one there until 7.55 p.m. when a stooped figure with a slow gait made his way along from the left. It was Joseph Gimbel.
Once Gimbel was inside they crept down the slope and crossed the road. Leo checked out the parking area behind, and the various outbuildings while Max went into the bar. Joseph was in his usual place, a newspaper open in front of him, a Blue Curaçao in his hand. He looked up as they walked over.
‘Hi, Joseph,’ Max said, and sat down. Leo checked the toilets and came back to sit where he could keep an eye on the main door.
‘Hey. Where’s de nice old jukebox gone?’ Leo pointed to a gap on the wall where the big Wurlitzer had stood two nights ago.
‘It’s being repaired,’ said the barmaid, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. ‘Nothing in this places works any more.’ She drew two big beers and brought them over. ‘This is on the house.’
Max shrugged and thanked her before turning back to Joseph. ‘So. What do you know?’
‘He’s got the woman,’ he said. ‘Erica Stroud-Jones she’s called, right?’
Max gasped. The bar was silent but for the dull rumble of big trucks on the flyover. ‘Where?’
‘That’s gonna take me a while longer to find out. But it is Anvil. He’s not working alone, there’s some other guy.’
‘Is it Henry Waterson?’
‘I don’t know his name.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘No idea. They say that Anvil’s gone to ground with this guy, that’s all. He hasn’t been around for a while. Something big’s cooking.’
Max grasped him by the shoulders. ‘Joseph. I have to get that name. Okay?’
‘Here’s some photographs you might find useful. Take a look while I go for a leak.’ Joseph got up and went into the toilet. Max called Leo over and told him the news, then they started to sort through the pictures.
It took a couple of minutes to flick through. They looked like tourist shots of Amsterdam, and there was no-one Max recognised. ‘This is bullshit, Leo. These pictures mean nothing.’ Max looked up and saw they were entirely alone.
‘Where’d the barmaid go?’
‘I don’t know. But she took her handbag,’ Leo said.
There was a painful grinding of truck gears from the highway. Max looked at Leo and they suddenly understood clearly what was going on. ‘It’s a set-up,’ Max said. ‘I can feel it.’
Leo got out the Walther and looked through the door into the toilets. No sign of Joseph. Max was already heading for the main door before his brain recognised the sound. A roaring engine, revving to the maximum, rattled the windows and made the glasses hum on the tables. ‘Leo, get the fuck out. NOW!’
Max grabbed his companion and they ran. In a last glimpse through the bar window Max could see the looming tanker, driverless, thundering down the sliproad, the oil company logo emblazoned above the huge chrome radiator. They had made a few yards out of the door when it ploughed into the building with a roaring and grinding of metal. Max kept on running through the deafening sound and the rain of brickwork and timber, he kept on running when the flames erupted like an orange sea behind him and he kept on running when his clothes began to burn. He kept on running when he could no longer feel Leo at his side because he didn’t know what else he could do.
When there was no more running in him he threw himself on the ground, rolling on the damp grass an
d smearing mud over his scorched head. He lay on his back and looked up at the sky, panting. Mushrooming above him was a pall of black smoke. He clambered to his knees. Der Ridder was gone, swept away by an ocean of flames that ran along the road in both directions for a hundred yards, engulfing a dozen parked vehicles. One car had veered off the road and was burning brightly. Max uttered a little prayer for whoever was in there, and wondered at the cruel luck that had brought them to this infernal end while he had survived.
Where the bar once stood was a metal truck skeleton, wreathed in flames. Traffic had stopped on the highway and figures were beginning to descend the embankment. There was no sign of Leo, but through the billowing, scorched smoke Max thought he could see a tall man with a dog on a chain standing on the other side of the road. When the smoke next cleared he was gone.
It was a hot, humid evening when Professor Jürgen Friederikson stepped out into his garden on the outskirts of Utrecht. He was unseasonably dressed in a thick sweater over a heavy track suit, a woollen hat, leather gloves and long boots. From the vantage point of a small dyke that separated his house from the canal he watched an orange sun sliding behind a horizon that was as flat as a ruler. In an hour it would be dark. There was not a breath of wind, not a ripple on the water.
The professor took a deep breath. He was stifling in the thick clothes. He had not showered for twenty-four hours and when he lifted his arm, a waft of stale sweat assaulted his nostrils. Perfect.
The professor walked back to the house and returned with a book, a torch and three bulky objects. These he laid under a large apple tree. First was a large sheet of orange plastic which he spread out and carefully brushed. On that he unrolled a thick down-filled sleeping bag and a white mosquito net. He found the brass ring at the centre of the net and tied it to a branch of the tree. Once the hem was pulled out and four stones laid on it, he had created a pyramidal space around the sleeping bag, with a yard wide border of orange plastic beyond. The professor eased himself down to the ground and wriggled under the net. He took off his boots, rolled up his right trouser leg and undid the leather straps from his artificial limb. The dull metal limb he stowed next to him as he climbed into the sleeping bag and zipped it up to waist level. The hat, gloves and pullover he removed. The final touch in this piece of practical science was a pair of earplugs. Without them, the high-pitched whine of the insect siege he was about to provoke would keep him awake.
