‘Another sars?’ His father’s voice interrupted his fantasising.
‘Sure.’ He glanced at the amount of beer left in his father’s bottle and was relieved to see that he was on his good behaviour, sipping it slowly, making it last.
As his father rose and headed to the bar there was a flurry of movement at the door and the subject of Martin’s musing swept in. Ginger, her teased-up red hair flecked with rain, held the door open and ushered in a stranger. Silence engulfed the room like a wave. After dark, midweek, lousy weather and someone had driven into Keynes?
‘Everybody! This is Malcolm,’ she announced. The man, mid-thirties, obviously from the city, glanced around nervously, a look on his face as though he had walked into a waxworks display that had suddenly come to life.
‘Hi.’ The voice was pinched and a little too high-pitched.
‘Unfortunately Malcolm’s car has run out of gas.’
There was a general sigh in appreciation of the unfortunate nature of the situation.
Ginger beamed, playing the house, playing the moment. ‘I told him that fortunately the general store sells petrol.’
Nods of agreement and someone called out, ‘Exactly right.’
Ginger paused for quiet then, winking at Old Jack and Mary, continued, ‘Unfortunately, it seems that the general store is closed and won’t be open until tomorrow.’
‘Yes, tomorrow . . .’ came the chorus.
‘So,’ Ginger worked herself up for the climax, ‘Malcolm has agreed to stay here for the night.’
There were cheers all round as Ginger guided her catch to a table and, not wanting to let him out of her clutches, signalled to Flecker-eye for previously unheard-of table service.
Martin was disappointed that Ginger hadn’t come over to say hello but sensed that something else was happening. He turned to his father to ask him what was going on but his father pre-empted him, touching him on the arm and whispering, ‘I’ll order us a couple of chops and chips. I think we’re in for some fun.’ He wasn’t wrong.
It took Ginger Mick less than three drinks to get Malcolm up the stairs. As she shepherded him in front of her she turned and made a furtive bow to the crowd below, giving them a thumbs-up. She vanished from view and there was a scurry of activity. Martin watched in amazement as a blackboard was rapidly erected at the back of the bar. Peter Svoboda, being the most agile, clambered up on a chair and hooked a string to a small ring hanging down from a hole in the ceiling. Flecker-eye had moved quickly from behind the bar and was collecting bets from the patrons.
‘What is it?’ Martin asked, pointing to the object now hanging from the string. It appeared to be a large penis cut from plywood and painted in gaudy Day-Glo pink.
‘Shh, just watch.’ His father took five dollars from his pocket and pressed it into Flecker-eye’s hand. ‘Number three.’
‘Why does everyone rate poor Malcolm so low?’ Flecker-eye feigned innocence.
Behind the bar the dart scores had been erased from the blackboard and replaced with a large zero at its centre, above and below which ran a line sectioned off with small marks scaled from one to twenty in both directions. The penis — Martin was now convinced that it was such — was suspended alongside the central zero. Drinks were recharged and the bar fell silent. Mrs Hong made a rare appearance from the kitchen and signalled to Martin’s father that he would have to wait for the food until the fun was over. She handed Flecker-eye twenty dollars and took a stool at the bar.
For a while nothing happened but then there was a murmur of excitement as the wooden penis shuddered then lurched up and down. All eyes were on it. As it came to life, Peter Svoboda, who was positioned beside the blackboard, added a mark in blue chalk at the upper and lower points reached. For the first few minutes it bounced up and down between the one and two . . . then a cheer from Martin’s father as it touched the threes. But that was as good as it got. Unfortunately five people had bet on the same number, however his father still pocketed fifteen dollars and bought them both another drink when their meal arrived.
A little later Ginger came down, followed a few minutes afterwards by a flushed Malcolm, blissfully unaware of the entertainment he had provided. He took a seat near the Teschmakers and Ginger joined him.
After the meal and his father’s second bottle of beer, Martin was getting bored. Ginger had ignored him all evening and he was finding the smoky atmosphere tiring. But just as he was about to tug at his father’s sleeve and suggest they go, Ginger came over and, bending down, slowly planted a big kiss on his cheek.
‘Can I borrow your dad for a moment, hon?’
‘Sure.’ She could have anything she wanted.
For a moment Malcolm looked miffed as he saw Ginger heading up the stairs with another man. But then he saw the wooden penis.
‘Just watch.’ Flecker-eye had appeared beside him, a wicked grin on his face.
Peter Svoboda returned to the scoreboard and with a theatrical flourish produced a piece of different-coloured chalk — red. The penis came to life, jerking up and down between the numbers two and three. Then a cheer went up as the tempo increased and Svoboda was making red chalk marks between five and six, then seven and eight. Finally, as the bar cheered hysterically, the penis hit a huge ten. A large red chalk mark underscored the triumph, the only thing redder being Malcolm’s face as he suddenly realised the significance of the small blue marks beside the number three.
Years later, visiting his father in the hostel, Teschmaker asked him about the incident.
‘Did you really . . . you know . . . with Ginger Mick?’
‘Did I ever! The two of us jumped up and down on that bed until we thought the frame was going to break.’ Alexi laughed at the memory and then doubled over with the cough that was soon to kill him. ‘She was something, wasn’t she?’
‘You never . . . you know?’
‘With Ginger Mick? No, son, she was your girl. I never even took my bloody shoes off.’
Father’s shoes . . . brothel-creepers.
Have I changed that much? Teschmaker stared into the now highly polished bathroom mirror, trying to find answers in the face that confronted him. He looked older than he felt, but then he had thought that for at least a decade. Yet somewhere behind the mask was the boy who had boulder-hopped up the creek beds with his father, sat in the Miners’ Rest and blushed each time he caught a glimpse of Ginger’s cleavage. The same eyes had been bewitched by Jane . . . Eyes that were now, he reminded himself, a lot older. A fact which had been brought home to him by Sarah Norrby, Jane’s best friend and business partner, who not only hadn’t recognised him but had barely given him a second glance when he called in unannounced at the registered office of Strategic Options Proprietary Limited.
The office was a compact modern two-storey building in the middle of the new Angus Street development in Lincoln. It had been a squalid inner-city housing estate until a decade ago, when the investors had moved in, relocated the tenants to the suburbs, and revitalised the area. After a short tussle with a feisty receptionist Teschmaker had managed to get ten minutes with Sarah Norrby on the pretext of enquiring about the company’s ability to profile investment possibilities in Poland. He had left the office with more information than he would have expected without forking out a hefty fee, and the conviction that Sarah and Jane were plugged into a very lucrative business. He learned nothing new about Jane, beyond the snippet that she was often away for extended periods so should he require further information he would need to make an appointment. Jane, he was told, would be the person to see as she specialised in the Eastern European region. Unfortunately she was out of the office at present. Would he like to make an appointment? He said he’d think about it. Sarah handed him a business card with the number to call if he decided he did want an appointment with Jane; Teschmaker slid it into his wallet and thanked her. Not once did Sarah show a glimmer of recognition. Mind you, he had introduced himself as Dennis Burke from Consolidated Mutual Funds.
&
nbsp; Have I changed that much? He pulled himself away from the mirror and, suddenly feeling very alone in the empty house, contemplated going in to the Russian Quarter for a meal. But he opted in the end to go only as far as the kitchen where he cooked himself a plate of mashed potatoes topped with two poached eggs — comfort food. He ate slowly and then spent an hour tidying up, disinfecting and scrubbing down the benches.
Later in the evening he fiddled around arranging the pens and pencils on his desk in the study, trying to convince himself that it was time he got on with his life and either introduced himself to Jane or gave up his pointless investigation. After all, what was he investigating? He had set out to find her and that he had done with relative ease. So now what? Something in him hesitated at committing to a meeting. That was a very different situation, containing as it did the possibility of rejection. And, he convinced himself, he had not really got close to her. Not close enough to observe her sufficiently to see if introducing himself to her was what he really wanted. Maybe it was a hunting ethos. He had read something about the hunt being more thrilling than the kill. Maybe the entire episode was an aberration brought on by his sudden change of circumstances. The cleaning-out of the house had been a pretty drastic step. He surveyed the remnants of his life only to find that their sparsity still gave him an intense sense of satisfaction. And the house was so clean now. Every surface scrubbed and disinfected. The place sparkled and shone like never before.
He poured himself a scotch and sat for a while, wondering about Jane. He could call her in the morning. But the idea made him nervous. Damn it, he castigated himself, why are you making a big deal about it? It’s only a phone call. But the doubting side of his brain hit back immediately. What would he say to her? What was there to say?
‘Hello, you probably don’t remember me but . . .’
‘Hi, I’ve been following you all week . . .’
Damn stupid. He grimaced at his train of thought, suddenly embarrassed by his inability to confront her. Maybe he would simply suggest they catch up over dinner sometime and leave it up to her. There was no conceivable reason why she should be the slightest bit interested in renewing their acquaintance. It had, after all, been a very long time ago . . .
Just before heading for bed he had an idea which, fuelled by the scotch he had drunk, seemed like a way of passing the responsibility to Jane. He opened his wallet and took out the business card Sarah had given him. There would certainly be nobody at Strategic Options Proprietary Limited at this time of night.
The voice on the machine was neither Jane’s nor Sarah’s, but it invited him to leave his name, number and the purpose of his call.
‘This is a message for Jane. It’s Martin Teschmaker. I’ve been working overseas as an insurance fraud investigator but I’m back home having a break . . .’ Damn, that sounded awkward and it wasn’t exactly the truth. He felt suddenly self-conscious but knew there was nothing he could do but blunder on. ‘I was wondering if we could meet for dinner one night, or coffee? Something . . . I guess I would just like to catch up.’ The thought flashed through his head that there might be a time limit on recorded calls so he quickly left his phone number and hung up.
For Christ’s sake, why did I do that? Stupid, I bet I sounded like some dumb idiot on the make. Oh well, he laughed bitterly at himself, at least half that statement is true.
He hadn’t expected a quick response. Indeed he was half convinced that he would never hear from Jane at all. So when the phone woke him the next morning he was not only surprised but unprepared.
She didn’t waste time on niceties. ‘You have a bloody nerve!’
‘What?’ He shook his head, trying desperately to focus his mind.
‘You fucked up my life once before. You think I’m going to forget that?’
There was nothing half-hearted about her anger. He was getting both barrels, point blank.
‘Hey . . . hang on. It’s me, Teschmaker —’
‘I know who the fuck you are. Believe me, if I could forget you I would. You have some nerve, thinking you could weasel your way back into my life. I don’t need it, especially right now. Not ever.’
‘But Jane —’
‘Just fuck off out of my life. You ring me again and I’ll fucking kill you.’
PART TWO
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was like looking for three grains of rice in a snowdrift. In the old days the KGB would have brought in a flame-thrower and melted the snow. If the rice ended up cooked, so be it. But these were not the old days and Laverov was no longer in Russia. Here in the West he had to work with — what had Moscow said? Kid gloves. A ridiculous expression. It was more like attempting to pick up a needle while wearing mittens. He had been in the country for ten days and though things had gone well initially, he had come to a grinding halt now. The first of his targets had been simple to find and he had located her in the first week. But of the others there was no sign.
The odd thing was that despite the lack of progress his mood had improved considerably compared to how he had felt before leaving Moscow. On the day he left he had been ready to toss the whole thing aside and cop the consequences. Uncharacteristically he had unburdened himself to Anna Naryshkin — not the details, of course, but the feeling. She hadn’t said much but she had done him the service of listening. That was a change for Laverov who had spent the previous days being briefed by people who seemed more intent on displaying their skills than hearing his concerns.
Anna Naryshkin made him a final cup of coffee before he left for the airport. If he had survived it and Aeroflot, Laverov figured he could survive anything.
‘Don’t go messing in things, Konstantin Ivanovich.’ Anna shook her head, as though aware that these men just couldn’t help themselves.
Messing in things? He shrugged it off. It was what he did; what he had always done. ‘I’ll write to you,’ he joked.
‘Sure you will. Now run along or you’ll miss your flight,’ Anna said and for the first time reached out and touched his shoulder.
‘The orders come from the highest office,’ the functionary who escorted him to the airport had intoned solemnly, pausing to check that the less than subtle message was being understood. ‘Failure will not be tolerated.’
Great. So they would kill him if he failed?
‘You will locate the targets, ascertain from them the location of the package and then eliminate the targets.’
Perfect plan. And he would live exactly how long after returning? No doubt there would be a medal. It always looked good when they buried you with a medal. And Laverov had no doubt they would bury him. Why not? Everyone else connected with ‘the project’ appeared to be dead. Except the surviving grains of rice. The woman in the photograph from Karel Schmidt’s house in Mariánské Lázně had been easy to identify. Basic detective work had taken him in a single step to the Professor. And from there things had fallen into place, except for the connection to Rusak which still remained a mystery.
‘For security purposes it is felt that you should avoid any contact with our embassy.’ The functionary was working his way down a check list. ‘Unless in an extreme emergency.’ The man glanced over his sheaf of notes in a manner which indicated that extreme emergencies were something unsavoury and not to be contemplated. ‘And it goes without saying that you will do nothing to bring yourself to the attention of the local security and police.’
Very sensible, as long as killing three people wasn’t against the law. Laverov placed his hand over his heart, his face a deadpan mask of sincerity. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied.
Oblivious to Laverov’s mocking gesture, the man put his papers away, took Laverov by the shoulders, embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘The motherland is entrusting you with a sacred duty.’
God, he thought glumly as he boarded the plane, where do they find these people? Rejects from Mosfilm?
Sometime in the middle of the night he awoke to find they were landing in Dubai for fuel and a c
hange of crew. The passengers emerged from the plane, stiff and bleary-eyed, into a hot desert night. Arab police carrying machine-pistols eyed them suspiciously as the officious cabin crew herded the passengers across the orange-lit tarmac into a marble-floored transit lounge. The turnaround time, they announced, would be two hours. Islamic law forbade the consumption of alcohol. Have a pleasant evening.
Fuck you too, Laverov said under his breath and headed for the men’s room. That turned out to be a mistake. When he returned to the lounge it was to find that another flight had landed and discharged its human cargo. The place was swarming with Indonesian and Sri Lankan guest workers whose bodies and plastic bags had commandeered every available seat. For a while he paced the lounge, stepping over bodies and ignoring the stares of curious locals who appeared to have nothing better to do at 3 am than stand gawking at the infidel zoo inside their glass cage. Fuck you as well, Laverov thought. He had never warmed to Arabs. Not since Afghanistan. You try to help some godforsaken dust bowl of a country and get your arse kicked for it. Chalk another one up for the Americans, outspending the Soviets yet again. They must be really proud of what their CIA-supplied arms and money had done. They and the Taliban deserved each other.
It dawned on Laverov that he was getting extremely grumpy. As an act of rebellion he purchased a postcard of a mosque, addressed it to Anna Naryshkin and wrote: Having a wonderful holiday. Love, Uncle Charles.
Standing on the Charlotte River Bridge, Laverov wondered if Anna had received the card or if it had been intercepted and she was now being questioned about who Uncle Charlie was. Maybe it had been a foolish whim. Paranoid, he told himself, you’re getting paranoid, then consoled himself with the thought that in his game paranoid people lived longer. He stared down at the quickly flowing waters below and let his mind flow with it. A little way downstream a plump duck came in for a waterski landing, fluffed its feathers and trod water. To its right a trout flickered past, heading for the cover of the weeds. It had been another fruitless day. He had tailed the woman from home to work and back again and then wasted time in the Russian Quarter, making his way around the cafés on the off chance that he may spot Rusak. Back in Moscow they had assured him that the man they had inside Rusak’s organisation was travelling with him and that it would be only a matter of time before he made contact and alerted them to Rusak’s whereabouts. A matter of time? What did that mean? Weeks? Moscow’s man might well have been uncovered, be dead or both. He may be in bed with a head cold. Anything could have happened. And in the meantime he would . . . what? Follow the woman? It seemed pointless. Her routine hardly varied. She went to work, she came home — end of story. And Laverov still had no idea of the Professor’s whereabouts. All of which begged the question of why Rusak was here. Why and where?
Delicate Indecencies Page 11
