by John Meaney
Blackstone exited the car as I did, and we walked together to the reinforced steel doors that led to the lift. There was no need for documents, but three more guards checked our faces as we waited. Then the doors opened, and we stepped into the lift.
It was interesting that Blackstone said nothing.
Good man.
Because there are no buttons inside the lifts.
It's a little thing that gives most visitors the creeps, and Blackstone had looked around the lift walls immediately. The lifts are under outside control, by men with guns who watch monitor screens and can take you down to the deepest basement with a press of a finger. No one, up above on the directors' level, can hear what happens down below.
We got out onto a soft-carpeted corridor on the sixth floor. Pinchas was standing at a rosewood door, waiting for Blackstone.
"I'm Pinchas."
"Blackstone."
"And" – the expected voice came from inside – "I'm Schröder."
Blackstone went into the conference room. While he was shaking hands with Schröder, Pinchas came out into the corridor and closed the door on them.
It was just him and me out here.
"What do you think, Wolf?"
"I like him."
"Hmm. Good."
"What? You don't trust my judgement?"
"I was thinking about something else." Pinchas put his hands in his pockets. "You're not an arts man, are you?"
"I definitely am," I told him. "I just re-read Time Is The Simplest Thing. That beginning, when the alien broadcasts its thought: I trade with you my mind. Isn't it great?"
"Sci-fi." He grimaced.
"It's not all bug-eyed aliens like the movies. Or fifty-foot ants."
"Until Truffaut makes a sci-fi film," said Pinchas, "I don't think we can call it art. Anyway, I meant sculpture."
It took me a moment.
"Oh," I said. "You mean Moskowitz."
"Our greatest living genius."
"I thought that was Einstein."
"Wolf, you're a Philistine. Go visit Moskowitz. Take Zeev with you."
"On the basis that two Philistines are better than one?"
"Get out of here."
Sergei said: "Keep the shitfuck buggering car in one piece, you fuckfuck bastard, right?"
"Sure thing," Zeev answered. "We'll take good care of it."
Sergei spun round twice on his heel, then went back into his office, wiping his grease-stained hands on his overalls. The door banged shut. Somewhere deep in the garage, tyres squealed.
"So long as you drive shitfucking carefully," I told Zeev.
"Don't I fuckfuck always?"
"Your private life is your own business."
"What—? Oh. I'm a married man. That means we do it once, maybe twice a year."
"Did I shitfucking need to know that?"
We got in the car, Zeev behind the wheel. I waved as we passed Sergei's office. He answered with a single finger.
"Charming man." Zeev turned the car toward the exit. "As always."
Whether Sergei suffered from his condition prior to Buchenwald, none of us knew.
"You'll do the talking, if it comes to sculpture," I said. "Or do you know even less than me about the subject?"
Zeev concentrated on turning into the traffic flow, then: "Is that possible?"
"Probably not."
"So I hear you bugged out and got congratulated for it."
Munich. Shit.
We're not supposed to share operational details. But this was Zeev, whom I trusted. And Pinchas had briefed him.
"Black Path have their own version of Manny."
"You're kidding."
"No. His name is Professor Edmund Strang, and Pinchas thinks that Manny is scared of him."
"That's not exactly comforting." He turned in to an area of modern, square-edged apartment blocks. "And your mabuah asset has gone missing."
"His name is Rogers. Still no news? He can't just be forgotten."
"No developments that I'm aware of." Zeev slowed the car. "It was bad luck. Not your fault."
"That'll be a comfort to him, when they clamp the electrodes to his balls."
We stopped. Zeev switched the engine off. It shuddered once before stopping.
"This Rogers. He didn't know anything that could blow the larger operation?"
"Since when did you become so heartless, Zeev?"
Something dark and liquid moved in Zeev's eyes.
"Since never."
"I'm sorry."
Why were we still in the car? Either we were going to scout the place or go straight in. Gossip wasn't helping.
"I'm just curious," said Zeev, "as to whether you'd remembered anything else since talking to Pinchas."
"Nothing."
"Probably, but if there was a memory" – Zeev gave a faint grin: we're trained in the same techniques – "what would it be?"
"I told..."
My voice stopped.
Fuck.
The psych techniques always work, when you use them with finesse.
"What did you tell?" Zeev's tone was unusually soft. "And to whom?"
"I told Rogers my real name."
Shit. Shit.
I'd not told Pinchas that, because I'd forgotten. Or repressed it, whatever label you like to use. Because if Black Path knew, then my life as David Wolf, science writer, was over.
Zeev got out of the car. It took me a few moments to join him.
"When your unconscious decides to tell me the other thing," he said, "that'll be fine."
"What other thing?"
"The missing detail."
What missing detail?
"My unconscious thinks you should go screw."
"At least it's cleaned your language up."
Zeev pressed the buzzer for apartment 7.
"Hello?" squawked the speaker.
"We're police officers, ma'am." Zeev spoke close to the grille. "Might we have a word? We can show you our—"
"Of course."
There was a buzz, and the main door clicked open.
"Trusting," I said.
"We're trustworthy people."
"Yeah. Of course."
The woman was tall and thin, dressed in a plain, expensive cardigan and blouse. Her skin was pale, with a puffed-then-deflated look beneath the eyes. But her stance was straight. When she spoke to Zeev or me, she looked directly at us. Her name was Lotti Handel, and as Peter Moskowitz's friend as well as agent, it seemed, she took it on herself to check on his apartment whenever he was gone.
"Is he often away?" Zeev sat down on a comfortable white couch.
The carpet was green, somehow in harmony with the white three-piece suite. It was an elegant flat.
"Yes. He's always been like that."
I helped her carry tea and glasses from the small kitchen. She had sliced lemon for the tea, using a small, pointed knife.
"On the coffee table?" I said.
"Yes, please." Lotti Handel did the pouring, and served Zeev first.
"This is good tea," said Zeev.
There was a soft cry. Then a beautiful Siamese cat wandered in, slender tail held high.
"Soon, now," said Lotti Handel. "We'll be home in an hour."
"Waah." The cat acknowledged her, and slowly blinked luminescent blue eyes.
"Hey." I reached out.
The cat bumped its head – her head, I was pretty sure – against my hand. Then she ran her whiskers along my finger, and walked away with a flowing control.
"You're very honoured," said Lotti Handel. "Portia prefers strangers to admire from a distance."
"She is beautiful. And she comes visiting with you?"
"Oh, yes." Lotti Handel pointed to a narrow grey lead coiled atop a sideboard. "I clip that to her collar while we're outside."
"That's wonderful."
"Yes." Lotti Handel turned to Zeev. " You gentlemen are very courteous. Is Peter all right? There have been occasional threats, in the past."
&
nbsp; "Not recently?" I asked.
"Not for a long time. Fame, or perhaps I mean reputation, rises and falls in waves, Inspector. Peter's star has been eclipsed for a while, but with the new piece... It's aroused interest."
"That's good, isn't it?"
I was doing the talking because of the cat. When Portia rubbed her whiskers against my finger, Lotti Handel's subconscious associated me with friendship. That's why Zeev was allowing me to lead the conversation.
"None of us," said Lotti Handel, "are youngsters any more. Perhaps we can appreciate the transient pleasures of fame better. Without the strain."
She sipped her tea.
"So you think Mr Moskowitz went away to relax," I said. "To look after himself."
"I make him sound like a cat." Lotti Handel's smile webbed her face with pleasant lines. "One who eventually turns up home."
"He went through a lot," I murmured.
Unconsciously, Lotti Handel's right hand moved towards her left forearm. Was there a tattooed row of numbers beneath that cardigan sleeve?
"Peter has a certain temperament. He goes away to think, and suffer."
"I've seen the Raging Wall." I tried to elaborate: "The feeling underneath... It's obvious."
"Artists suffer in public. But he could – he can enjoy himself, can Peter. He's a witty dinner companion. He and Saul, my husband, enjoy arguing about Hemingway or Heidegger, Goethe or Freud. You name it."
She looked at the mantelpiece, where a row of photographs stood. Several featured two men with her. One of the men was had a full grey-white beard, the other was near-bald with round glasses. Most of the photos showed just her and the bearded man. A smile dimpled her face, removing decades.
"Some people say Saul looks a lot like Hemingway."
That would make him the bearded one.
"I tell them," she added, "that he's much nicer than that."
There was pride when she mentioned Saul. Zeev's posture subtly changed, perhaps because his thoughts had run parallel to mine. I'd been wondering whether Lotti Handel was more than a friend – and the answer was yes, but only because she was like a sister to Moskowitz. A protective older sister.
"Has he been seeing anyone?" murmured Zeev. "Like a counsellor?"
"How could you know that?"
Because you mentioned Freud.
There'd been a certain inflection. Zeev was sharp.
"A long while ago..." Lotti Handel continued, not waiting for Zeev to answer. "He saw someone after... everything. At the war's end. They used something called twilight sleep in those days. Did you know that?"
Like Moshe in the Sanatorium, and the syringe coming down.
"It's for healing," I said.
"When Peter was young, he went to a therapist to improve his sculpting. It may even have worked. But recently... "
Zeev raised an eyebrow.
"... the stress is showing, you see. No need for therapy. It's just muscular exhaustion, because the thing people forget about sculpting is it's physical."
"I'd love to see the workshop," I said.
"We call it a studio."
"Mrragh," sounded from the far end of the room.
Lotti Handel's face creased into a magical smile.
"And Portia would like you to have a look around. Shall we go now?"
TWENTY-EIGHT:
BERLIN, April 1963
I drove. In the back seat, Zeev discussed the shipping logistics with Lotti Handel. Since the Peace Globe was to be permanently exhibited in Manhattan's UN Plaza, the armed forces would be providing security, as well as the police. No wonder Lotti Handel had been so welcoming: she thought that was why we were here.
"Turn here, Inspector," said Lotti Handel said. "I've got the keys."
I pulled up before a set of sturdy, ten-foot high metal gates. Zeev took the keyring that Lotti Handel offered him, and got out of the car to open up. Then I drove into the yard, and parked.
On the rear seat, Portia miaowed.
"Yes," said Lotti Handel. "We're here."
"Does Portia like this place?"
"She comes with me sometimes, not often."
"Ah." I took that to mean there was something Portia disliked. "It's the oxy-acetylene, I expect. Strong organics really smell."
"Perhaps that's it. I think she'll be happier remaining in the car."
"All right."
I was careful getting out, but Portia made no attempt to escape. Then I held the rear door open for Lotti Handel. And I walked around the car, locking the doors one by one, to ensure Portia's safety.
The main building was whitewashed, with a burnished metal door that Zeev had already undone. There was a hayloft overhead. But the scents that drifted out were industrial rather than equine: oil, metallic grit, ammonia. We entered the shadowy space. In one corner stood the skeletal Peace Globe, massive and imposing: bronze, cast in the shape of the oceans – of the single complex body that is the world's true ocean – with continent-shaped gaps that revealed internal spars strengthening the structure.
"The countries" – Lotti Handel waved her thin hand – "are over there."
Stacked against the walls, their edges protected by white cloth, were curved fragments of black glass, as tall as a man. In them, odd sparks of red and yellow played.
"That's an interesting material," I said.
"Peter wanted to show our habitat, land rather than sea, as a thin skin atop the world."
The glass had unusual photoelectric properties, nothing that made it a weapon. Except that it had given Appleton a business relationship with Moskowitz: all that Black Path needed.
"Come and see. Tomorrow," said Lotti Handel, "all of this will be crated up, ready for New York."
To my left, there was a large bronze piece forming a giant pair of open, cupped hands. This would be the base that supported the Peace Globe proper. As I walked towards the globe, the hands appeared to transform themselves into angel's wings: a clever geometric illusion.
I stared into the Peace Globe's interior.
Some form of misdirection?
Because with those internal spars – and they seemed solid, all of a piece – there was no way to insert bomb materials in the core.
"What's the ship it's travelling on?"
"Didn't they tell you, Inspector?" And, with her voice tightening: "It's a navy warship of some kind. Travelling from Hamburg."
"Out of our jurisdiction, by then."
It excused my ignorance, perhaps. The good thing was, we'd be able to get our people aboard to double-check my conclusions using ultrasonic scans. They'd be able to check the finished piece, but it was unlikely to make a difference.
You couldn't fit an atomic bomb inside this thing. The uranium, yes, but not enough surrounding explosives to create the detonation.
Damn, but it had seemed so right, so obvious. A big bomb, and a big round sculpture on display in front of the United Nations Headquarters. The kind of thing that Nazis dreamed of, and exactly the kind of spectacular drama that Albrecht Reinhard would go for.
Shit.
"You don't like them?"
Lotti Handel was talking to Zeev. He was looking through charcoal sketches on a large artist's pad, shaking his head.
"They look tortured, but what do I know?" Zeev tapped one with his finger. "I trained as an engineer. No imagination."
"Come off it." I pointed to a row of dark-brown bottles on the floor. They contained organic solvents. "Remember how Kekulé discovered the structure of benzene?"
"What do you mean?"
"He fell asleep on a bus, and woke up with fading images of the worm Ouroborus in his mind. You know, the worm or serpent that encircled the world, swallowing its own tail."
Lotti Handel's attention was on me.
"Chemists knew," I said, "that the molecules contained six carbon atoms and six hydrogens. It didn't seem to make sense according to the rules of how atoms join up. But everyone had been assuming that molecules were linear, like chains. It takes artist
ic intuition to realize that benzene is a ring."
"Really?" Crow lines surrounded Lotti Handel's smile. "That's interesting."
"And all the advances in medicine for the next century will be based on geometry, because it's the shape of complex molecules that determines what they do."
"I had no idea that policemen were so educated."
Zeev made a hmm-hmmm sound in his throat.
"Most of us aren't," he said.
We dropped off Lotti Handel, who carried Portia in her arms, in the suburb where she lived. Just as she was closing her front door, a question popped into my mind.
"Have you heard of a Professor Bazargan?"
"Why, yes. He arranged the introductions with Dr Appleton, the glass expert. I talked to him on the phone."
"How often?"
"Two or three times, arranging the travel details. He seemed pleasant. Is everything all right?"
"Yes, of course."
Zeev said: "We enjoyed seeing the studio, ma'am. Thank you so much."
We waved goodbye as we got back inside the car, and Lotti Handel's front door swung shut.
"Bazargan?" said Zeev.
"Another detail that just rose from the unconscious."
"Like the worm Ouroborus, you smartarse?"
"Yeah. Like that."
But as we headed back towards Berlin Central, it occurred to me that this wasn't like a problem in chemistry. Because I would have to mention Bazargan's name to Pinchas, and that was the connection between Appleton on the one hand, and Jean-Paul (and therefore Fern) on the other.
Call it a form of betrayal.
Before we exited the car in the underground garage, Zeev surprised me.
"I've heard of Bazargan," he said. "And I think Pinchas was primary contact."
"What?" I sat back, relaxing my body as if to absorb a punch. "He's foreign liaison?"
When you acquire a covert asset, you're called a recruiter. When you make initial overtures to an ally, creating a relationship that's above board as far the person's superiors are concerned, you're termed the primary contact.
