Jaime explained the physical location of her computer wasn’t easily traced, but all the same her brother had a genuine social insurance number now, plus a legit bank account. No one, she claimed, can escape scrutiny once you’ve got millstones like that around your neck. So in the few days still available her brother arranged himself a new identity – driver’s license, birth certificate, a couple of university degrees – the usual documents that convince. Then he took his money out of the bank and left. “To Silicone Valley. He went there to become Mr. Big. He’s been there awhile. By now his wardrobe is probably all silk.” Her brother’s departure took Jaime out of the picture too. The old Jaime was no more. “I’m new,” she admitted. “What I was before I never was. Sis, my brother said, finish school, then get a proper job. Fool around too much and they’ll catch you. Get inside. Go to where everything’s legal. So I joined the Service. It’s been a blast.”
Jaime leaned over and hugged my knee. “Gotta say it, though, I’ve studied your stuff…it’s matchless. My brother could run with you, but I doubt anyone else could. How’d you get to be so good, Carson? And why this mania to clean up the world?”
“It’s a job,” I said evasively.
In the charmless confines of my cell, Jaime’s interest shifted. She gave my knee a shove and said, “Well, it’s a cool job. Wish I had it. You do all this elegant stuff. What I’d like to know is, where does Miss Dunn fit? And what about her banker friend? Heywood thinks you and that Berlin dude are in cahoots.”
This stunned me. “What? Jaime, that’s…that’s lunacy.”
“You sure? You never met him?”
Had I met Krause? Well, I saw him once. In a café in Berlin. I was there with Rachel. She was telling me about her work. I caught sight of a self-important figure stopping some yards away who transfixed her with a toxic stare. Rachel ceased talking and gazed in his direction, but seemed to see past him, past that brutal look. He marched on and I asked Rachel what that was all about. All she said was that he was a banker she once had some dealings with.
Looking back, I see that in my cell that night, the many hours merging into a complex experience, Jaime skilfully created a dynamic. She brought me to a point which I seldom reached. With her I felt a desire to converse. So I described the café scene to her and all that followed it. Talking about Rachel, I found, was a release; the words flowed easily.
Jaime didn’t seem that surprised about Berlin. “Heywood found out you went there, you know,” she said. “He’s assuming it was to fine tune your business with Krause.”
“He’s gone bonkers.”
“Well then, why did you go to Berlin? Were you gooey over that Miss Dunn? Are you still?”
And so I confided all that to Jaime too.
16 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Why did I travel to Berlin? There was no easy answer to Jaime’s question. The proximate reason was simple enough, but why did I go in a larger sense? I asked myself before I left, and again once I was back. So much time there with Rachel, yet, in the end, what was the good of it?
Naturally, the whole time she enthralled me. A fantasy turned real. Was it that way for Rachel too? When it was over, when she tallied up the days, what conclusions did she draw? What tags did she put on our congenial companionship? Would she describe the hours as exciting, alluring, enticing – as I did? Or, was I a mere visitor, another professional acquaintance to whom she extended a courtesy? I don’t know because Rachel didn’t say. Perhaps I disappointed her. In retrospect, I see that not even Berlin – that splendid city of jagged edges, that theatre of freedom, that place to disregard all status quo – not even Berlin was powerful enough to erode my self-impediments. Despite the stimuli in Berlin, I was unable let myself go. When we parted, Rachel probably concluded that when it came to giving into emotions, truly, I was unsalvageable.
Eventually, when the three days were a memory and as other events began unfolding, rapidly and unpredictably, I became worried I might not only have done not much right in Berlin, I might actually have caused much to go wrong. I began to fear I was the one who drove Rachel to Alexandria, that she went to the Egyptian – he of the watery smile – because of things which in Berlin I hadn’t said or done.
As for the proximate reason for going, it was Anne-Marie’s prodding. We were in the cafeteria having a sandwich. I recall it was the day when people were buzzing about the sudden announcement that Rachel had been named head of the national delegation to a global conference on the Earth’s atmosphere to be held in Berlin. Thousands would be attending – from every country in the world: officials, scientists, concerned citizens, militant greenies, recalcitrant oilmen, not to speak of journalists hoping for sensational international confrontations. There was a rumour Rachel was named delegation head because a high-powered clique of internationalists wanted it. They wanted her to have that stature to ensure an easy election as chair of a key conference committee. With that, her vision of new environmental directions for the world would more likely be carried through. Rachel’s nomination lifted the Service. Pride and optimism swirled around. With sensible leadership from her the conference’s outlook had taken a U-turn for the better.
As this was going on, I was stuck as always in my narrow world. I had come to suspect that Rachel’s affair with Krause had ended a month or two before, and over lunch in her special way Anne-Marie confirmed this was the case. I asked if she knew how Rachel had reacted to the announcement about her that had just been made. Anne-Marie didn’t answer the question. She sidestepped it by placing me at the centre of our chatting. “You know what you should do, Carson,” she advised matter-of-factly, “you should go see her in Berlin.”
This rattled me. My first thought was that it seemed to confirm Krause was out of the picture. Why else would she make the suggestion. But what else lay behind it? Did she think, with the banker gone, that I could fill some kind of vacuum? For me this was a preposterous idea and I said as much.
She disagreed. “Rachel will be busy with the conference, but when it’s over – you know how it is – she’ll need to depressurize. She’ll want to take a few days off. Send her an e-mail, Carson. She knows Berlin. Ask her to show you around.”
Anne-Marie made it sound simple. She knows Berlin. True enough. During the years she worked in Geneva Rachel spent most of her free time in Berlin – when she wasn’t otherwise travelling with Krause. A bookshelf could be filled with details of how she came to know the city, how she studied and lived it. But for Anne-Marie to think Rachel would agree to acting as my guide…it was ridiculous. Even so, the idea stirred me and silently I formed a scheme. Could it be set up so that we would be in Berlin coincidentally, both there for two different meetings? If that happened, wouldn’t it be normal for us to get together for a coffee? I imagined gabbing away with Rachel, quietly, face to face, as in the early years before she left. The idea stirred me.
“If Rachel needs to depressurize, I’m sure she’s got tons of friends to turn to,” I protested lamely.
Anne-Marie wouldn’t have it. “Don’t be silly. You’re her oldest friend. The others come and go. She’s always asking me how you are and you’re always asking me how she is. Why don’t you ask each other? Don’t be pig-headed, Carson. Send her an e-mail. She’ll tell you what she thinks about it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I, Rachel’s oldest friend? Where did that come from? All the same, it gave me a rush. With the ambient cafeteria clatter now thoroughly blocked out, I said, “I’ll think about it.” Reaching for the juice glass on my tray, but scarcely seeing it, I knocked it over, flooding what remained of my sandwich.
“Carson!” Anne-Marie laughed, “my four year old is always doing that.”
Returning to my cell I felt caught up in a current too strong to resist. I locked my door, inserted the encryption key into the secure phone, and punched the direct dial button. In Langley, Hugh-S lifted the receiver after two rings. We exchanged pleasantries, then chatted about new intelligence interests. Hugh-S
needed in-depth analyses of certain, emerging undercover groups in Asia which threatened to add to the global terrorist mess. Furthermore, some evidence was coming in which suggested such groups had started channelling funds to fanatical movements in the Middle East. Could I look at the issue from my special perch? “Shucks, Cahsun,” he drawled, “so many here are at this now they can’t see not only the forest, they can’t even make out the trees. All we’re doin’ is a stirring up last year’s dropped leaves. I need a fresh view, from way up. Your way of looking at things. Send me a big picture, Cahsun, and your ideas for a plan of action. Can you do that?” By when was it needed, I asked. “Yesterday, Cahsun. Or the day before.” I promised a first outline by week’s end, then added I had something to raise too. Hugh-S listened to a proposal I just then dreamt up. It wasn’t really out of line with what he’d just asked me to do. I argued that in order to shut down military equipment flows to Middle Eastern and African fanatics, there should be intensified surveillance of weapon traders in Byelorussia, Ukraine and the Caucasus. Hugh-S agreed. I next suggested, because that belt of countries is a region of concentration for the Germans, that a meeting with their intelligence apparatus would bring benefits. Once more Hugh-S had no objections. “Sure,” he said. “Do it. Let’s not piddle away precious time.” He undertook to alert his counterpart in Pullach, Bavaria, to this interest. Pullach, in turn, contacted me within the hour. I proposed discussions in Berlin during the conference on the atmosphere because in a city then teeming with foreigners the chance of unfriendly groups taking notice would be minimal. Pullach was amused because the precautions seeming a little overblown, but they fell in.
Happenstance thus arranged, I mailed a postcard to Rachel.
Postcards were Rachel’s favourite way to stay in touch. Anne-Marie was always telling me she’d received another one. Rachel’s reply to mine delivered through my mail slot charmed me to the core. I studied it again and again. The picture was of a man standing on a Swiss mountain top blowing into a knobkerry-shaped instrument twelve feet long. He was dressed in a local costume, a grey-blue striped vest, black pants and a broad-brimmed hat. Rachel had asterisked him. On the back there was an explanation that the instrument was the “Alphorn” and next to this she’d written: *Career idea for those who like to blow hot and cold. Underneath that she added: Carson, seriously, it would be lovely to see you in Berlin. But why just coffee? I plan to take a few days off. If you have time we could do some roaming through the city. There’s lots to see.
I was excited as a child and didn’t mind that Anne-Marie had obviously meddled to set it up. When I next saw Anne-Marie, before I left, she seemed excited too.
How vexed she was when I came back. She had heard from Rachel how things went. In her understated way, with a barely perceptible shake of the head, she delivered a reprimand by asking a question. “Didn’t you get what Rachel was telling you?”
How odd, in retrospect, that the café scene where I saw Krause came at the very start.
As arranged, after our respective meetings, I made my way to Rachel’s hotel. I was driven by anticipation. She was already in the lobby. When I caught sight of her my pulse quickened. She wore light grey slacks and a mauve blouse with two buttons open at the neck. Sunglasses were stuck in her hair. So lovely. Eye-catching charisma. Everyone in the lobby was glancing at her. She saw me immediately and when she walked up, my skin tightened and I laboured to catch my breath. Rachel came close. I thrust out a hand, but with easy familiarity she took it in both of hers and leaned forward to touch her cheek to mine. This was repeated on the other side, then the first again, as if it was our well-established practice.
“You haven’t changed,” she said warmly.
I took a deep breath. “You’re well?”
“I am.”
“Such a coincidence both of us having things to do in Berlin at the same time.”
She laughed. “Let’s go have that coffee, then we’ll decide what to do with the day. Were your meetings successful? I suppose the subject is too secret to discuss?” She began moving towards the hotel entrance.
“Quite secret,” I replied, opening the lobby door. Rachel laughed again. The playful lines in her face said, That’s the spook world and who wants to know?
Out on the street I asked about her conference. The media had decried the results; some editorialists claimed the prospects of mankind’s future were dire.
Rachel nixed that with a headshake. She pointed out that the earth’s atmosphere, because no one can own it, is politically complex, more so than the land, more so even than the oceans, and politics takes time. All the way to the coffee house she described the agreements and sub-agreements of the conference, and how new, unstoppable forces for change had been put in play. “There will never be a single decisive moment,” she said. “We’re clawing our way forward. Every inch counts.”
In the café she made the conference characters come alive; she joked about grandstanding ministers and ambassadors and plots and subplots hatching by the hour; she said she was up half the night before the day the conference ended with twelve OPEC ministers – The Dirty Dozen, she laughingly called them. I could picture Rachel at the centre of a table of fawning OPEC worthies, beguiling, convincing, and in the end simply outlasting them. The result? The cartel did not dissociate itself from the conference communique. Through Rachel’s lens I saw the two weeks of diplomacy as amounting to boredom commingling with hilarity and political perfidy. She laughed at herself too. That’s what made Rachel appealing: her dual vantage point, one high up in the sky, the other deep down in the trenches. I hung on her every word.
We were into a second coffee when a large, impeccably dressed man came in. He stopped a few tables away and peered in our direction, catching my attention. First he showed surprise, then I watched his face go black with condemnation. Rachel, following my look, stopped speaking, although nothing in her impassive gaze hinted at baggage from the past. She could have been looking at a fly on the ceiling. Their stares locked. He broke it off after a few seconds, going to another part of the café, taking a seat, his back towards us. We watched others of his type – arrogant, soulless men – gathering at that table.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“A banker I once had some dealings with,” Rachel explained.
It hit me. Nikko Krause! I should have known. Would Rachel talk about him? Images of them together stood chiselled in my imagination. “A banker? An IMF type? Was he at the conference?” I asked casually.
She looked down and shook her head. A rich coffee aroma steamed up into our noses. For a while as we jointly inhaled it she was lost in thought. I could see she was journeying back, and, oddly, I felt I was with her, a companion in reflection, as though my arm was wrapped around her, both of us on a unique lookout, neither speaking nor moving, but together surveying her Krause years.
The affair consisted of simple patterns – excursions in Krause’s jet to all the continents plus Rachel’s visits to Berlin. It had all the archetypal elements: small talk and informed discussion (one easing into the other, then back again), gourmet dining, exclusive tourism, sex as a narcotic and as a tonic, sex in exotic places. They developed a professional partnership too, working up lists of projects for financing by Morsi’s Foundation. Absent from their liaison were common friends and personal celebrations. That’s how Rachel wanted it.
It suits me, Rachel once wrote Anne-Marie, this parallel living separated by distance. No fences. It’s totally open.
Anne-Marie knew from Rachel’s messages that the affair was going well. Rachel enjoyed the efficient outings to distant places and the relationship’s business-like underpinnings. But mostly she valued Nikko’s Berlin apartment, a stage for opulent behaviour: champagne sipped in the jacuzzi, lovemaking afterwards in a flickering neon glow arriving through tall, uncurtained windows. The apartment’s finest feature, however, was that the descent by private elevator took her from a silent penthouse to a boulevard where there was a
n unceasing flux of flamboyant people.
The flair down there, Anne-Marie, the vanity, the bravado! If only you could see it – each one here marches to a different drummer.
The first few times in Berlin, Nikko showed her the sights, Rachel buying books as they went – a history of the city, a guide to the most interesting walks. The fourth or fifth time, Nikko excused himself. Bank business. Rachel didn’t mind; she was out the door before he was.
On the streets with her books and maps, Rachel unravelled centuries of history. Prussian monuments, the landmarks of German empire, Nazi architecture, the sad and overwhelming legacy of the Second World War, East German totalitarianism, West German liberalism – methodically she ticked all this off. She marched kilometres along the line where the Wall once stood. She meandered through eastern boroughs to study communism’s numerous, lingering pockmarks. In the west, sauntering past villas in verdant settings, she felt she was in a park. She stood on the spot – more or less – where Hitler had his bunker complex. She experienced horror in the places designated as suitable for ritualised killings by the Nazi and Communist dictatorships. In the Topography of Terror she reflected on the ease with which civilisation falls into barbarity and the toil of succeeding generations to overcome it.
Rachel made friends too, with owners of small Turkish bistros, whimsical jewellery emporia, and back-alley art galleries. Whenever in the city, she made a point of dropping in on them to improve the German she had acquired in Vienna and laughed with them when they pointed out her clangers.
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