by James Church
"Third row?"
"Yes."
"Third row from the top?"
"Inspector…"
I didn't recognize anything in the third row, but the middle picture in the second row was of my brother meeting with the short, dark man. My brother had on a hat, something stylish and worn at just the right angle. I didn't know he wore hats. From a distance, this one might make him look taller, but it didn't change his face. He looked angry, which didn't surprise me. From what little background was visible, it appeared they were in Europe, and fairly recently. I couldn't see any loaves of bread.
The last picture in the second row was of the facility in Pakistan where the Man with Three Fingers and I had botched the operation during those few minutes a lifetime ago. I had forgotten a lot of things in the meantime, but I still remembered the layout of the facility and the target building, and especially that one room, by heart. In the picture, the door was open; it hadn't been that night. The photo must have been old. All of the trees looked smaller, younger than they had been when I was there. What the hell was M. Beret doing with that picture? "No," I said finally. "I don't recognize anything."
"Not even the first picture, the one of the individual?"
I shook my head. "In the third row?" I hadn't focused on that one before. "No."
"That's Sohn when he was younger. He's changed a bit, may have had some sort of operation. I think he may have gone by another name in those days."
"Doesn't look anything like him." There was nothing wrong with the lighting or the focus. It was a good ID picture, a little old, with some of that yellow-brown that colors old pictures, but it just wasn't Sohn. The ears were too big.
"You're sure. Quite sure."
"If this is the person with the broken neck, I'm not going to be able to identify him for you, because I don't know who he is."
"Positive?"
I picked up the photograph and looked at it closely. For a moment, in the flickering light of the Sunflower's back room, it looked a lot like Pak might have appeared twenty-five years ago. "I don't know who it is. But now you have my fingerprints. Also, I suppose, my DNA. Would you like a blood sample? I could pee in a cup, if you want."
M. Beret took the photograph from me, collected the others, and put them all in a brown envelope. "I don't need your fingerprints." He moved the wineglasses onto the table. "I already have plenty. Blood samples are someone else's business. Perhaps you should visit the Red Cross headquarters, up the hill. Cheese?" I shook my head. "You must acquire a taste for cheese, Inspector. It will open up a whole new world for you."
"If it is anything like this one, I don't need it." I took three big swallows from the glass he handed me. "Do you have any other questions? Or am I free to go?" No sense hanging around; I don't like white wine.
"Have you ever broken anyone's neck, Inspector?"
"You surely don't think I killed Sohn, or whoever is in your morgue, do you?"
M. Beret took a sip from his glass. "I think many things, but I manage to winnow out most of what is untrue. You're sure you won't try some cheese? This here"-he pointed to a square piece covered with what could have been mold-"it's very good. Or this." He sliced off a small piece. "Goat cheese. Why don't you try some?"
"Excuse me, but when we first met, didn't you say that you are head of counterintelligence?"
"Not when we first met. I never do that on a first date. At some point, though, I may have mentioned something along those lines. It never hurts for the target to know whom he is talking to. What of it?"
"Why are you investigating a murder? That isn't counterintelligence business. Don't you have police for that?"
"Usually yes, but in this case no. The police have registered their firm position that this case is odd and not something they want to touch. The exact wording to me over the phone was, 'It stinks.'"
"I salute them, a police force with good judgment."
"Was Sohn a friend of yours?" You could almost hear the question snap into place. Nice technique, I thought, but the delivery was a little flat-footed.
"Friend? People here seem to use the word loosely. Where I come from, it's not a term to be tossed around. Sohn was an acquaintance, someone I'd barely met; not even a colleague, really. I wouldn't say I considered him a friend."
"Does it bother you that he is dead?"
Odd question. "Should it?" Very odd.
"I'm going to tell you something, Inspector, because I don't give a damn if you know, and maybe it will help you realize that you are about to be caught in a hurricane that will be so destructive it will probably blow your little country apart. Where it will toss you I do not know. Nor do I care."
"We're clear on one thing, anyway." Pak spoke to me of winds from odd places. M. Beret spoke of hurricanes. Maybe that was one of the differences between them and us.
"Sohn had been here before." M. Beret paused, but as I did not respond, went on. "He struck me as an intelligent man from what I saw, a bit nervous at times, and a tedious way of sitting for long periods at cafes, nursing a cup of coffee, staring at nothing."
"So far, if there is a hurricane coming, I don't even feel a breeze."
"He was here several times. He met Jeno. I know for sure he did that at least once."
"At least once? Such careful phrasing holds so many wonderful possibilities. To which conclusion would you like me to jump? Or am I free to choose on my own?" So, as soon as Sohn arrived, they already knew who he was. They were probably on him from the moment he got off the plane and entered the air terminal. More than that, they would know perfectly well if it was his body in their morgue. "Don't tell me you're unsure about something like how many times Sohn met someone as interesting as Jeno. I thought you and your teams were everywhere." Over the lamb dinner, or maybe it was over the discussion of prunes, Mossad had told me about their exchanges with Sohn. M. Beret knew as much as I did about Sohn and Jeno; in fact, he probably knew a lot more. But he didn't seem to know for sure how much I knew. Maybe he didn't know for sure how much Jeno had told me. That suggested Jeno might be working for M. Beret, and with him, and against him all at the same time.
"Funny story, you might recognize the outlines. The two of them disappeared one evening, and then reappeared hours later. We spotted them separately, about the same time in the same part of town, near a nightclub. Sohn was nursing a bruised shoulder when I saw him next. I think he may have jumped out of a moving car. It's not something your people do very well."
"No garbage truck?"
M. Beret poured some more wine into my glass. "I don't know why, exactly, but I'm trying to help you."
"One minute you don't care if a hurricane blows me away. The next minute you're trying to help me."
"You are a smart man, Inspector."
"But what?"
"Are you so sure there is something else to that thought? Don't you take compliments, unqualified?"
"But what? M. Beret, no one begins or ends a sentence like that unless he has something else to say."
Silence for a moment. I could see he was deciding whether to let me be right or to prove me wrong.
"Very well," he said at last. "You are a smart man, so why do you stay?"
"Go on."
"That's it. That's all. Fin."
"No, it's not. It might be all in some other place, under other circumstances. Not here, and not from you. Please continue, M. Beret."
He sighed. "Very well. You stay, that is, you won't leave because you are a patriot, I suppose."
"One supposes."
"Why else?" I didn't reply. "Well, then," he went on, "if it were possible to do something, would you? Wouldn't you get out of the way of a hurricane if you could? Wouldn't you help warn other people?"
"Go on."
"How bad do things have to get, Inspector?"
"We are back to 'you are a smart man,' aren't we?"
"No, I misspoke. I think you are a man of morality."
"No longer smart?"
"You
cannot keep dodging the point. Yes, you know it, Inspector. You cannot come outside and go back exactly the same, ever again. Nothing can look the same when you go home. Especially now."
"But I will go home."
"Yes, we've established that, haven't we? And once there, once you get back, what then? How will you pull up the mental drawbridge and lock it tight? Are you going to forget everything you've learned about the rest of the world? Empty your brain as you step across the border?"
"I can only do what I can."
He took off his beret. Without it, he looked older, but he seemed to feel less constrained. "Compromise with evil is an awful thing, Inspector."
"Do you know, M. Beret"-I hesitated because I knew that wasn't his name and it seemed wrong to call him that at this moment-"but surely you must, that the starkest moral positions are the easiest to state? Truth to be palatable cannot sit in a complex sentence. Truth must be simple, don't you agree? It must be something that does not need to be chewed. It should simply slip down the throat. 'Do not compromise with evil.' Simple, easy to remember, even easier to say. Tell me, is there a tattoo parlor nearby? It wouldn't be too painful, would it? We could put it on your wrist, perhaps."
"My wrist?"
"Oh, I've read my history, M. Beret." I didn't give a damn what his name was anymore. Sohn was in their morgue, and they were using that as their opening to get to me. They'd have spent the past week arguing how to do it, watching for an opportunity, comparing notes on where I went, what I ate, whether I looked at the sky in the morning, trying to figure out who I was. Go slow and sideways, that's what they'd concluded. Work his mind, find the intellectual buttons. He doesn't like Portuguese boys, so that's out. What's left? Maybe talk to him about morality and evil, that sort of thing. Nothing too direct, just enough to provoke him. Make him mad, confuse him, throw a little dust on his internal compass. What kind of idiot did they take me for? "I'm quite clear on the subject, as I'm sure your countrymen have always been. Compromise with evil, or just keep it over the border. Very tidy, except for the people you turn away."
He put the beret back on his head. "Sohn had eyes for Ahmet's daughter. More than eyes, actually."
They really did want to provoke me. I buttoned everything down, went right down the checklist of emotions and buttoned each one down. "I can imagine a long line of men with eyes for Ahmet's daughter, M. Beret. A few might even be Swiss, am I right?"
"She can charm the pants off of anyone she chooses. I would be very careful, were I you." No, being careful with Dilara was out of the question. But it didn't matter.
"Were you me, M. Beret, you would have a headache from the wine. You're right. It's too young."
He put his hands together and sighed deeply. "I need your help, Inspector, if that isn't too blunt. The police have warned me that they are not going to investigate the case until they have assurances that they will receive full cooperation from your mission. Although technically your mission falls under the Federal Department of Foreign Affairs, your ambassador doesn't seem to bother much with diplomacy and so the entire matter has, as the Americans like to say, fallen into my lap. I want to get rid of it, and for that, I need your help."
Helping the chief of Swiss counterintelligence was not wise, nor was it healthy. Swallowing razor blades was higher on the list of things I would consider. Still, the man seemed to know something about Sohn and his dealings with Jeno; he seemed to be working against whatever my brother was doing, and so far he had not done anything to me other than get under my skin, which was his job.
"Sohn and the ambassador didn't get along," I said. "I don't know why. I doubt very much that the ambassador killed him, though. You may think we are a little crude in our ways, M. Beret, but murder is not normally part of the routine. That's about all I can tell you, because it's everything I know."
"Really? You must know something more about Sohn. Don't tell me you were simply overjoyed to run across a compatriot in a foreign city. Overjoyed compatriots don't follow each other according to prearranged patterns."
I had to laugh. "I should have realized that people who kept such close track of their soap would be very observant about everything else. Everything and nothing. Because on this one, you'll have to brace yourself for disappointment. I really didn't know him. In case you haven't received the report yet, I did go to see the dungeon at Chillon the other day, and if you want to throw me in there you can. It would be pleasant to sit in one of those cells this summer and listen to the waves against the stone foundations. No matter what you say or how much you turn on your Swiss charm, I can't tell you any more about Sohn, because I don't know anything about him, nothing that you apparently don't already have in your files. In fact you probably know a great deal more about him than I do. I'll bet you have hollowed out an entire mountain to hold all the paper. Surely you must have other people you can ask. It seems to me that you have multiple sources, all the way to New York."
"I don't trust them. I never trust them. Besides, that's not exactly the question, is it, Inspector? I'm not asking about his patrimony. I'm not asking you for background, for his gymnasium report card. I want to know why he arrived here yesterday, and why you met him."
"You say he was here several times before. Apparently he liked the place, though I must tell you, I can't imagine why."
M. Beret pointed to the plate of cheese.
2
"You Chinese breed like monkeys, is what I hear."
I looked stoically out at the gray waters of the lake. After leaving M. Beret at the Sunflower, I'd walked to the lake to sit and be alone. Some things are not fated, even if you do your best. I did my best to ignore the woman; some people give up and go away if you pretend to ignore them. It also sometimes works if you indicate that you do not understand the language.
"Rabbits, not monkeys, that's what I meant." The woman sat down and took off her gloves. She seemed not to notice I wasn't responding. "It must be difficult for you here. Not much familiar to eat. God knows, we eat the normal things. I'll bet you wish you had something to remind you of home. I heard there are a lot of Chinese restaurants on Quai du Mont-Blanc. I wouldn't know, but you might try one of them."
"I think you are mistaken." I still didn't look at her. Maybe she'd think I was meditating in the fading afternoon light.
"No, they're over there." She pointed across the lake, her finger in front of my nose. "Of course, I've never tried one, myself. I don't eat that sort of food." She didn't stop to explain or pause before going on to the next subject. I'd met people like her before. Ideas seemed to take control of their brains in rapid-fire order. It was not good for work that required plodding persistence. But it must be good for something, maybe a survival trait, assuming it wasn't simply a loose connection. "Most Chinese girls that I've seen are okay. But a few are ugly. I'm sorry to say that, it seems unkind, but I guess if you've got a billion people, you're bound to get some real dogs. You ever eat dog? I don't think I could."
"I'm not Chinese." I finally turned to look at her. Her hands were pretty, long tapered fingers. She probably played Rachmaninoff on the piano, but I wasn't going to start a conversation on anything with her, certainly not about composers. Who knew where it would lead. I only wanted her to go away.
"Not Chinese? You could have fooled me." When I didn't reply, she tried again. "Japanese?"
"In the Orient, you are granted three guesses. You have only one guess left." She seemed to crave mystery.
"Mongolian," she said and closely examined my face. "I wouldn't have thought so; you don't have those cheekbones they have. Marvelous cheekbones. Well, no matter, it's good to see Mongolians getting out and about again. I haven't seen one in years and years. Perhaps it has something to do with the food, do you think? We have lamb in some of the restaurants, you know, though we probably prepare it differently. I hope you won't take offense at my thinking you are Chinese." She smiled and bowed slightly, as she had no doubt seen in the movies. "Mongolians are herders, isn't tha
t right? I heard it is thanks to the Mongols that we invented croissants, though I cannot remember exactly why. Perhaps you're familiar with the story. I imagine it is taught in your schools."
"No, we have no schools. Herders have no need of education. We know only the wind in the grass and the warmth of mare's milk. We use women like cattle. Good day to you." I stood up and gave her what I imagined might be a herdsman's leer.
Chapter Three
"Somebody, surely, somebody stayed awake all the way through their presentation and took notes." The delegation head looked around the table. "If we don't have any notes, we can't send a report back. And if we don't send a report, there will be a nasty telegram tomorrow from the ministry. I don't like nasty telegrams on a Saturday."
The room was silent.
"The rule has always been that the youngest one, no matter what, fills that job. Miss Ho?"
"I got most of it."
"Most isn't all. What was the problem?"
"He was reading out loud from that document. He droned on and on. If he'd done it this morning, I might have been able to keep conscious the whole time, but after lunch…"
"Nobody else? What about you, Paek?"
"Paek was sound asleep," someone muttered.
"I got a good part of his opening remarks." Mr. Paek was an elderly man with a dignified bearing and doleful eyes. "But then I lost him. I think my hearing failed. I don't think I've ever been so bored. It was making me deaf."
They all laughed. "Well, patch together what you can and fill in the rest as needed." The delegation head took off his glasses. "I want the cable ready to go out before dinner. The ambassador will insist on seeing it. He's not in a good mood, and I don't want to give him any excuse to chew me out. What about you?" He turned to me. "What are your thoughts on what went on today?"
I didn't have any thoughts, at least not on today's proceedings. I was still thinking about yesterday and the morgue. I'd gone there not long after leaving the woman on the bench; she'd probably gone home and slept fitfully, dreaming of Mongolian herdsmen riding croissants, thundering across the steppes to attack the citadels of the West. M. Beret had let me in the back door of an old building, escorted me down dark corridors, and led me finally into a room with a single ceiling lamp hanging from a long cord. I didn't need more light than that to tell it was Sohn. For some reason, I was glad he was in a place with worn wooden floors.
