‘The painting in your apartment . . .’
‘Ah. You remember. Caspar David Friedrich he was born in Greifswald. He wanted his last days there, but must die in Dresden, because of no money for the journey.’
‘You won’t be in a hurry to move from Vienna, surely?’ Sam suggested, edging the conversation to wherehewanted it to be. ‘You must have many friends here.’
‘Some friends, yes,’ Hoffmann replied cautiously.
‘Old contacts passing through . . .’
Hoffmann grew wary, suspecting new ground was being broken. ‘I lose touch with people,’ he answered firmly.
‘Even with Vladimir Kovalenko?’
Hoffmann blinked, then quickly got his face back under control. ‘Kovalenko . . .?’
‘He’s lived in Vienna almost as long as you.’
‘Why do you ask about him?’
‘Oh, because there are a lot of people trying to find him. Including the Kremlin. He disappeared for a while, but I’m told he’s back in town.’
Hoffmann’s leathery face became a mask. ‘So, you had another reason to come here.’
Sam shrugged, as if it didn’t matter that much. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Kovalenko . . . I met him once.’ His expression was as blank as fresh-washed paint. ‘A playboy. Why do you want to speak with him?’
Sam was saved from answering by the arrival of their schnitzels, vast slices of meat that filled the plates, with side dishes of potato salad and lettuce.
‘Guten Appetit!’ said the waiter, checking they had all they needed.
‘It is not easy to starve in Vienna,’ Hoffmann mused, surveying the plates. He looked up again. ‘Why you are looking for Vladimir Kovalenko?’
‘Because of something he was involved in a year ago. Supplying dangerous materials to terrorists.’
Hoffmann stopped in mid chew, his eyes widening. He put down his knife and fork and took a swig from the glass. ‘What materials?’
‘Something pretending to be red mercury.’
The eyes stayed rock steady. ‘Red mercury does not exist.’
‘It’s not what the label said,’ Sam countered. ‘It’s what was inside that we’re worried about.’
‘What do you think it was?’ Hoffmann asked, unblinking.
‘Something nuclear.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The German nodded. ‘And you know who is the customer?’ His question was studiedly casual.
Sam shrugged. ‘We have an idea he spoke Arabic.’
For some reason Hoffmann appeared relieved.
‘You know where Kovalenko is?’ Sam pressed.
‘A man such as he have many reasons why he don’t want to be found,’ the German said, swirling his glass as if to sniff the wine’s bouquet, then thinking better of it.
‘You ever work with him?’ Sam prodded. ‘Give him introductions? Contacts?’
‘I?’ Hoffmann looked pained. ‘I am an old man living on my pension.’
And I’m the Queen of Sheba, thought Sam.
Hoffmann cut another chunk from his schnitzel and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘You know why we can never live in peace with the Arabs?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I can think of a few reasons.’
‘Because their music is strange to us.’
‘That’s one I hadn’t thought of.’
‘If they like Brahms and Puccini then we can live together with them. In Europe each country is different, but because we like the same music so we can be friends. But Islam makes a sound which hurts our ears. It makes people here afraid of them. And when people are afraid of foreigners they get angry. It was like that in the Nazi time.’ He stopped, as if deliberating how far to pursue the point.
‘And like that in Austria today?’ Sam prompted. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘This is a small country,’ Hoffmann explained philosophically. ‘Keeping their race pure is always important for such peoples. And with the Balkans on their borders they fear being drowned by refugees. It is the same in Germany. And in your country. It is why so many people want that the refugees are sent back.’
‘Europe is drifting towards the right . . .’
‘It is inevitable. In France, Germany and England there are socialist governments now, so the next swing will be in the opposite way. People can feel sorry for the victims of the Serbs but . . .’
‘. . . won’t want them in their own back yards.’
‘Exactly.’ He ate another mouthful. ‘I agree with them. Don’t you?’
Sam shrugged. He didn’t want to get into a debate about refugees.
‘But you ask about Kovalenko,’ Hoffmann said, returning to the point. ‘I cannot help you to find him.’ He said it with a galling finality that brought the topic to a close.
As they finished their food they chatted about the meanderings of European politics since the collapse of communism. Eventually Sam paid the bill and Hoffmann asked the waiter to call him a cab.
‘For you too? They come usually very quick.’
‘Thank you, but I’ll walk. My hotel’s not far.’
They made their way outside to wait for Hoffmann’s car. The night air was still muggily warm. When the taxi came, Hoffmann reached out his hand.
‘It was a pleasure to meet you again. Please give my regards to Jo.’ With that he ducked inside and the vehicle sped off.
It was nearly midnight. Sam heard a church clock striking early. Trams still lumbered past, but he guessed they’d be heading for their depots. He began to walk, returning to the Ring and then eastwards towards the 3rd District and the Pension Kleist. He needed to be on the other side of the road. He paused in front of the luxury Marriott Hotel, where there was a pedestrian crossing controlled by lights.
Suddenly, as he waited for them to turn green, a limousine brushed the back of his legs as it swung into the bay in front of the hotel entrance.
‘Hey, watch it!’ he yelped, stepping quickly out of its way.
It was a chauffeur-driven car, a fat silver Merc, which halted under the Marriott’s canopy. The rear door opened before the driver could get to it. A woman in a blue dress got out, followed by a man in a dark suit. She turned as if to say goodnight to him, her face towards the road.
It was Julie Jackman.
15
THAT VILE WINE must have got to him. This had to be an illusion. He shook his head like an idiot, but the image didn’t change. Julie was dressed in something blue and satiny, with jewels at the neck that could have been diamonds. She was got up like a goddam princess, her hair pinned back with a shiny clasp.
Behind him the crossing light ticked, evenly at first then more rapidly as the green light flickered its way to red. He stood motionless, unseen by the couple standing in the hotel entrance who were engrossed in a tense conversation. After a matter of seconds the car that had delivered them swished away again and they went inside, the man’s hand pressing against Julie’s back as if forcing the issue. Some completely irrational part of his brain told Sam that this was Vladimir Kovalenko that Julie was with. But the height was wrong and this man had hair.
His mind began to fizz. He felt a strong impulse to hurl himself into the lobby and get his fingers round that slender neck, but he suppressed it.
There was a reason she was here and it couldn’t be coincidence, he decided. Some hack must’ve spotted him leaving Heathrow that morning. She was here because he was, and the man with her had to be another sodding journalist.
A tram bell clanged behind him – he’d inadvertently stepped into the road. He hopped back onto the pavement then gingerly approached the hotel’s entrance, keeping to the shadows. Through the glass he observed the pair standing by the lifts, Julie gleaming like a kingfisher, but keeping at arm’s length from the man. Sam saw his face for the first time. Older than her by about twenty years. Dark, straight hair. Well-built and upright. The lift doors opened and closed and the couple were gone.
On the right-hand side of the lobby was a row
of booths. He passed through the doors and picked up the house phone.
‘Could you give me Miss Jackman’s room number, please?’
‘Three-two-eight. I connect you?’
‘No thanks. It’s late. I’ll call her tomorrow.’
‘From the lobby phone you dial one first, then the room number.’
‘Thanks.’
He stepped smartly back into the street, crossed over to the outer side of the Ring, then looked up at the hotel’s third floor. Half a dozen rooms had lights on. A new one lit up, then went off, then lit up again.
He’d thought of another possible reason why she was here. Julie had visited Vienna a year ago when the red mercury deal was set up – Waddell had told him. She might have come back with a warning that enquiries were being made, perhaps for the man he’d just seen her with. He stopped himself. Guesses were pointless. He needed certainties.
He stood there trying to decide what to do. From his own personal point of view he had a score to settle, apart from the multitude of questions he wanted to ask. A siren sounded somewhere to his left. He looked along the Ring and saw blue lights approaching. An ambulance screamed past; his eyes followed it automatically. When it disappeared he looked back at the hotel again.
There was movement at the glass doors. A man was emerging. He paused to light a cigarette. Sam moved a few feet along the pavement so he could see more clearly – there were parked cars in the way. The male stepped out uncertainly, like someone who hadn’t expected to be on a pavement at this time of night. It was the same dark suit, the same straight back. Sam’s pulse quickened, almost certain it was Julie’s companion.
The man looked both ways, smoking nervously, searching for a taxi as he moved slowly along the kerb. On the other side of the road Sam kept level, then walked quickly to the next lights, crossed the Ring again and turned back towards the hotel. When the man glanced in his direction he stepped into a tram shelter so he could watch without being seen. It was Julie’s companion, striding along with the bruised, semi-defiant stare of someone who’d just lost an argument. And it wasn’t a cigarette he was smoking but a small cigar. He had a long, narrow nose almost sharp enough to cut paper and was dressed in the manicured style of a banker or politician. As Sam watched, a taxi pulled up for him.
When it had driven off, Sam re-emerged from the shelter and walked towards the hotel. His conviction that this was a journalist had lost its strength, and his theory of a link with Jackman’s business dealings was on hold. All bets were off. As he neared the Marriott’s glass doors there was only one thought on his mind.
Harry Jackman’s daughter would now be alone in her room.
Julie sat at the beechwood dressing table in room 328, staring at her weary reflection in the mirror as she undid the clip holding back her hair. A large glass of brandy stood comfortingly in front of her, chosen because it was the strongest drink in the minibar. The evening had left her wrecked. She’d got through to Max in the end, but it had been an uphill struggle. He’d made light of her wish to end the affair, assuming she was after a bit of extra cosseting and would succumb in the end. Rather than risk a scene in the lobby, she’d let him come up to the room. Once inside, he’d turned the lights off in an infantile effort to get her in the mood, but when she’d told him no and he’d realised she meant it, his face had crumpled like a bag of crisps. Then he’d kissed her forehead once and once only, and let himself out. That had been it. She felt relieved it was over, but empty too. Yes, the affair had been unsatisfactory, but at least it had existed. What she’d replaced it with was an impossible dream.
As soon as Max had gone, she’d taken off the blue dress he’d given her in Paris the last time they’d been together. The frock had been a part of their relationship and she’d needed to feel free of it. She was considering leaving the thing behind when she returned to London, but wasn’t sure she could, the garment being of a style and quality well beyond her normal budget. She’d slipped on the white towelling robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, then found herself a drink.
She took a big mouthful of the brandy and let it burn its way down her throat, feeling its almost instant effect on her head. The mirror showed the tension round her eyes and mouth. She tried a smile. The lips moved as intended, but the eyes stayed sombre and sad.
There was a sharp tap at the door.
‘Oh God,’ she gulped. Max had come back. She froze. No idea what to do.
A second tap, louder this time.
‘Who is it?’
‘A fax for you, madam.’
Relieved that the voice wasn’t Max’s, she stood up. The accent was vaguely European. She tried to connect it with the faces of the hall porters downstairs. A fax? Who from, for heaven’s sake? No one knew she was here – apart from Max.
‘Could you slip it under the door?’
‘You must sign for it, please.’
Nervously she slipped the latch. To her horror the door kicked inwards with a force that knocked her backwards.
‘Simon!’ she gasped, clutching her hands to her throat. He’d followed her from London bent on revenge.
Sam banged the door shut behind him, then swung her round, gripping her from behind with an arm across her neck and a hand clamped over her mouth.
‘Don’t make a sound!’
He pushed her into the room, checking no one else was there. ‘You and me are going to have a little talk.’
His voice grated in her ear like a stonecrusher. Julie’s brain turned to spaghetti. When he’d burst through the door there’d been murder in his eyes. She felt his fury radiating like fire. It had been insane to imagine he could ever forgive her for what she’d done. His wristwatch pressed on her windpipe and she was finding it hard to breathe.
Sam hustled her further into the room and tightened his grip. The feel of her soft, bathrobed body against his own was stimulating him in a way he didn’t want. And her smell, a musky mix of perfume, alcohol and sweat, was shooting straight up to his brain.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he fumed, angry at the effect she was having on him. His mouth was inches from her neck. Her hair brushed softly against his face and the curve of her behind pressed against his groin. For a mad moment he thought of stripping the towelling off her and doing what he’d wanted to do ever since he first clapped eyes on her. Then she started choking and he came to his senses.
‘No dramatics,’ he warned, removing his hand from her mouth and transferring his grip to her shoulders.
‘No dramatics,’ she coughed.
‘We’re going to talk.’ He manoeuvred her into the chair by the dressing table. ‘Or rather you are.’
‘Yes.’
‘The truth.’
‘Anything you want.’ She noticed for the first time that he’d shaved his beard off. And looked even better as a result. Her attraction to him was stronger than ever, despite the coldness in his eyes.
‘First question. What are you doing in Vienna?’
‘Look, I’m sorry about last Sunday,’ she gabbled, desperate for him to understand she meant it. ‘I made a dreadful mistake. Please believe me that I’m very, very sorry.’
‘Answer my question. What are you doing in Vienna?’
‘I came to see someone,’ she explained.
‘Who?’
‘His name’s Max Schenk.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘This evening.’
‘What’s your connection with him?’
‘There isn’t one any more. He’d been a boyfriend . . . of sorts.’
‘The sugar-daddy sort by the look of him.’
His comment startled her. He must have been watching her for hours. Watching and waiting until Max left.
‘You could say that,’ she admitted.
Sam turned away, noticing the room itself for the first time. Standard hotel layout. Chinese print on the wall behind the king-size bed. A dark cover on it that matched the curtains. A single armchair and a table scattered wit
h tourist literature. Beside the bed was a drawer unit with a phone and an address book. He picked it up. Open at S for Schenk.
‘That’s private,’ Julie protested, then bit her tongue.
He ignored her, flicking through the pages. Women’s names, mostly. UK phone numbers. He searched under K, but found nothing for Kovalenko. Max Schenk’s was the only overseas number she had. Not even one for her father. Damn the woman. If she was involved in her old man’s shenanigans, she was covering her tracks with skill. He closed the book and patted it against the palm of his left hand.
‘Okay. So why did you do it, Julie?’
‘You mean . . .?’
‘Why did you set me up?’ His eyes roamed the room, still searching for something that didn’t fit.
Julie sighed. She’d thought long and hard about how to explain. ‘This is going to sound pathetic.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He prowled over to the wardrobe. Inside was the blue dress he’d seen her in earlier, hanging next to a brown skirt and dark cotton trousers. A smell of cigar smoke left on her clothes by her companion’s habit. It had been the same at the flat in Acton. Smart, black shoes sat on the floor beside a pair of trainers. Shelves empty. She’d left the rest of her clothes in her suitcase. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I was in a state, that’s all I can say. Confused to bits. My father had just been murdered.’
‘Not by me.’
‘No . . . No, I accept that now.’
Surprised by her easy capitulation, he turned round. This was what he’d needed to hear, but it washed over him because there was no way of knowing whether she meant it. He pushed open the bathroom door and shot a quick look inside. Towel on the floor from the shower she’d had before going out. Empty Badedas bottle lying in the tub.
‘What are you looking for?’ she asked as he reemerged.
He didn’t know. Something to say that she hadn’t come to Vienna simply to see a lover. Her suitcase sat on a folding stand with its lid open. He fiddled through the contents. Clothes, women’s things. A paperback with an airport receipt sticking out of it – Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. And a leather box with the necklace he’d seen earlier – they certainly looked like diamonds.
The Lucifer Network Page 24
