Cloud Castles

by Michael Scott Rohan

  She snorted, making a disgusting rattle, and swallowed hard. ‘You go right ahead! You just bloody try! But you’re not going to, are you? Or what’d happen to your precious secrets then?’ Her voice grated. I’d heard something like it before somewhere – where? The same harsh monotone, leaden with sarcasm and self-righteousness, the kind that knows it’s right and gets no pleasure out of it. ‘Might find they’ve a few questions to ask you, when they see the stuff in that machine of yours!’

  I blinked. There were commercial secrets in those files, okay, but nothing too crucial. ‘What stuff?’

  She almost spat. ‘About you! You and your little friends, your so-called colleagues in this European transit scheme. Oh, don’t you go thinking people don’t know what you’re really up to! Those names, they spell the whole thing out to anyone who knows!’

  ‘Spell out what, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, come on! Those SOBS? As if they’d all be involved in anything that innocent! When half of them are leftover nomenklatura from the old Communist regimes, high-fliers even – and the rest are the corrupt fatcats they used to deal with? And extremists – such as your bosom buddy the Herr Baron!’

  ‘Lutz von Amerningen? What about him?’

  She shrugged theatrically. ‘Oh, nothing much. Just all those new movements mushrooming lately, not just here in Germany but all over Europe. The way they all go in for training camps and arms caches and street politics – like today. Under all sorts of names, too, but they all spell out neo-Nazi, every one. And he’s a big wheel in most of them. But, then, you didn’t know that either, did you?’

  I leaned against the wall. ‘You know, as it happens, I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, no, perish the thought!’ she leered. ‘And, of course, you don’t believe a word of it, do you?’

  I shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I wouldn’t be too surprised – of some of them, anyhow. It’s a sad fact of business in the old East, you can’t avoid dealing with characters like that. When the crash came they were the only ones around with managerial skills, and naturally they got really well dug in. They’re harmless enough, in their way. And Lutz, I could believe it, I suppose. His father had some kind of dodgy war record, didn’t he? And I never have much liked the man himself.’

  ‘His father?’ For some reason that made her grimace. She looked around, and suddenly snatched out at the dressing table. I tensed – she was alarmingly fast – but she was only picking something up, a long white card. She tossed it at my feet. Lutz’s invitation. ‘And this?’

  ‘My first,’ I said evenly. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I’d go or not.’

  She mocked me with a twisted smile.

  I shrugged again. ‘Think what you like, I don’t give a damn. I’m not the one who’s trying to prove anything here. All I know about any of these people is that they’re widely respected businessmen, both in their own countries and throughout Europe, and it’s as that that my firm’s dealt with them. Even supposing there’s a word of truth in what you’re claiming, that there’s anything shady in their backgrounds, nothing like that’s ever crept in. Not in dealing or fraternizing, business or pleasure – not that we’ve ever hung out with them much. And there’s never been anything – and I mean anything – about my firm. We’ve got an impeccable race record, we’ve no political involvement, no party links, nothing! So where do you get off, suspecting us? Whoever you are, exactly.’

  She glared at me and said nothing; I hadn’t shaken her in the least. Now I knew who the voice reminded me of: one of my infant-school teachers, no less, a crabby old sourpuss with the fixed conviction that children were somehow conspiring against her and a vindictive delight in catching them out. After a while, of course, they were. This one might have the same sort of problem. I pondered, taking my time. I didn’t think she was a cop – she’d called them they. And she seemed a bit too unstable. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I had some kind of manic investigative reporter on my hands. I could prosecute or sue on any number of counts – invasion of privacy, assault, data theft, whatever the German equivalent of breaking and entering was. But this self-righteous biddy in the dock could throw a lot of mud about, and some of it might stick.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘In a hell of a hurry to call the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ve had about enough of you. Out!’

  ‘Want me to dial them for you?’ she enquired sweetly. ‘No? Funny about that—’

  I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her to her feet. ‘We don’t need your kind of mucky publicity right now,’ I told her, going through her remaining pockets and turfing out a trail of sinister little instruments, plus a room key. No ID, no nothing. I could feel the seam where the suit’s label had been cut off. ‘That’s the only reason you’re getting off this lightly. But listen to me. If you’re not checked out of …’ I read the tab and tossed the key back to her. ‘1726, first thing in the morning, I will have you chucked out. D’you understand me? I can, you know.’

  ‘I believe you!’ she hissed.

  ‘Okay, then!’ I stabbed a finger at the main door, and she hobbled past me. But she mooched through the living room with such studied insolence, actually stopping to pick up a sheaf of papers, that I caught her by the arm and more or less propelled her into the corridor. She stumbled in the thick carpet, but didn’t fall. She drew herself up, cast one flaming glance back at me, snarled something under her breath and set off down the corridor with exaggerated dignity, rather too obviously trying not to limp. I looked after her for a moment, then let the door swing to. But the damper stopped it just short of closing, and I heard an explosive wail, hastily choked. Suddenly I felt a lot less self-righteous myself; and that annoyed me all over again.

  I went off to the bathroom to wash, avoiding my gaze in the mirror. I couldn’t have helped it, could I? She hadn’t pulled any punches with me. If I hadn’t defended myself to the limit she’d have beaten me to a pulp and got away, maybe with my computer. At least she hadn’t tried playing the woman’s card in either of its two main forms, though with the obvious one her looks might be against her. That face – or was it just her set expression? I tried to imagine her without it, and couldn’t. Good disguise, if she could only control it. Who was she, anyhow? I began to regret letting her go so easily. I should have found out more; but I couldn’t very well have beaten it out of her, could I? I winced as the hot water stung various bruises and scratches. She’d damn near beaten a lot out of me. Where had she learned to fight like that? And how did she keep that fit? By climbing, like me?

  Climbing.

  Room 1726, which meant floor seventeen. Four down. Where would Room 26 be? At this end of the building, but around the side, one of the cheaper rooms. It figured. I picked up one of those little devices she’d spilled; a bug, if ever I saw one. Near enough for easy pickup. I flushed with anger. Near enough for other things, too. And I had my gear all ready for that little holiday I’d promised myself. I wriggled uneasily. It was a daft idea – but the grim joke began to grow on me. I crushed the evil little gadget between my fingers. Snooping, was it? By God, I’d show the bitch how to do it! I ran to the closet where they’d stowed my cases, and began to rummage.

  None of my normal gaudy Lycra gear would do. I tugged on a grey blouson with a hood, dark jeans, snapped my heavy harness over them and began filling the racks with crevice nuts, slings and a nice selection of camping pegs I’d been looking forward to trying out. Another minute and I had my boots on, the ones with the ultrasoft soles, and a length of featherweight line unclamped, fitting screwgate karabiner anchors and a descender. The window had one of those heavy two-way frames, it’d easily take my weight, even swinging. Thinking of that made me look lovingly at my helmet, but its Day-glo gold would flash like a beacon under the outside lighting. Swiftly I opened the window, belayed the line around the main pillar and through my harness fastenings. Then I swung a leg out, looked down to the window ledge and beyond – and gulped. The c
ar park was a softly glittering mass of roof-tops now, and it was only too easy to imagine myself speeding down towards them, maybe even seeing my reflection in the expensive gloss, coming up to meet me in one annihilating instant of identity, particle and anti-particle …

  I shook myself. I was used enough to the horrors; any climber who says he doesn’t look down is a liar. It can stiffen you for minutes at a time, even when – as I preferred to – you start from the bottom and work up, getting used to it. This abseiling wasn’t altogether my line but the need for speed prodded me. I’d climbed down the side of a Bangkok hotel once, hadn’t I? Higher than this, too. Admittedly, I hadn’t actually known I was doing it, but did that really matter? Gingerly I swung out the other leg, winced as I hit a bruise, then felt down for that ledge and leaned away back and out, letting the doubled line pay out, further and further until I was practically walking down the smooth concrete castings of the hotel’s façade. A few floors lower and I couldn’t have managed this. I’d have fallen foul of the exterior lighting. But up here it was muted, so as not to dim the roof sign; in its shadow all cat-burglars were grey.

  Going down was the easy bit; when I reached what looked like the right level I tied off for a moment and looked for somewhere that might take a peg. Nothing; this trendy façade was covered in slots and sockets, but they were all too big for even a hex nut. I sweated a moment, but there was no help for it; it was slink back up, or do the whole damn pitch in one. I risked a look down; nobody shouting or pointing down there – not yet. No time to lose; I began to jump, pushing myself out from the wall, further and further each time. And just as I was reaching the apex I suddenly saw myself coming crashing through a window, ripped ragged to the bone by plate-glass claws …

  The hell with that! I flung my weight sideways and slipped the brake. With a noise like tearing canvas I flew, out and around, falling, until the line bent suddenly on the massive side-pillar and swung me in. I clamped the descender, the concrete rushed in to meet me and slapped stinging into my hands, my knees, anything that could cling. I bounced, held, slid and scrabbled; a finger caught in a slot, another, a foot – my bruises swore, but I was fast. I took a deep breath, looked up and counted floors. One down – fine. And on this side I was almost invisible from below. I began to climb, taking in the slack, careful not to let the line sag across somebody’s window. Above and to the right there, that ought to be 26’s window, its transom open a crack – and just as my fingers closed on the ledge beneath, the light came on.

  With frantic haste I mantelshelfed myself up, half crouching, hanging on with cramped fingers and creaking back. I had to be careful: almost certainly there’d be others in there, the usual back-up team for this sort of bugging operation. The curtains were open, and pulling the dark hood down over my face I peered over the sill. There she was, moving slowly, just shutting the door; she must have taken the stairs rather than face anyone in the lift – a long, slow, painful hobble. She only just reached an armchair before she folded up and shook with what looked like exhausted sobs. Nobody else spoke; nobody moved. She was alone.

  My stupid irrational conscience needled me again, and I sank back. My fingers and calf muscles protested; I searched hastily till I found slots into which I could sink a couple of pegs. Their weird-shaped double-cam heads expanded to grip the grimy concrete, and I krabbed their straps to my harness. I caught a flicker of movement; she was standing now, unzipping her shell-suit. She crossed and recrossed the floor, and I saw the discarded suit fly across the room with some force; she must have kicked it. Then a T-shirt flapped after it, and I saw her bare arm lift as she gingerly probed the red blotches around her ribs; testing for breaks, no doubt. That conscience of mine was really shrilling now; on the other hand, I had a good few aches of my own to account for. Besides, not to mince matters, I was enjoying myself; she had a nice back, as far as I could see, which wasn’t quite enough. Then she moved out of view. Slowly, carefully, I hauled myself up behind the folded curtains, and very slowly peered around.

  The first thing I saw was a pair of knickers beside the discarded shell-suit. Oh, God. There she was, still with her back to me – a really nice back, right enough – pouring a long drink from the single bottle on the minibar, gulping at it, topping it up, brushing her hand across her eyes impatiently, and gulping again with the glass clutched in both hands. She turned, I shrank back into the shadow of the curtains and saw her limp over to the chair by the telephone. She bent over it – she really did have a nice back – touched it tentatively, as if it frightened her, then swore violently, sat down and began to tap a number.

  ‘Hallo? Centre d’Ordinateur, please – Computer Room? Georges, yes – well, Georges? You did get those files through … you did, good … good!’ A great spring of tension seemed to give out in her; she sagged and gulped at the drink. ‘Well? Was there enough?’ A long silence. ‘What d’you mean? Georges, you don’t know what I went through to get those files out. If you’ve screwed them up somehow—’

  An even longer silence; and then an anguished cry. ‘I don’t believe it! Georges, there has to be something! I mean, we agreed, didn’t we? We did, we did, you said it yourself! Mr fucking Clean, in the middle of that ratpack! With all those little disappearances he can’t quite explain! You checked his address files, right?’ Silence. ‘You’re sure they’re all just bimbos? How about the Chinese bitch – all right, all right! So he’s a cold-blooded bastard, he treats them like muck, what’d you expect? All right.’ She brooded a moment, evidently simmering. She wasn’t the only one.

  ‘All right,’ she said again, in a voice that meant the exact opposite. ‘But you should have seen him, the bastard! Today, these riots, Pretty Boy just driving through them with von Amerningen, looking around cool as cucumbers the pair of them! It’s like Weimar in the nineteen thirties, they’re testing the system for something really big – maximum disruption. They could even be planning to use this new shipping network of his, maybe, getting everyone to rely on it, then screwing up, shafting the economy at just the right time! How about moving supplies, armaments, even – with no checks till they get to destination? And fast – we’re talking blitzkrieg here! Listen, Georges, this is too big for just one little departmental team, it’s got to go to the Commissioner – I mean, not just what he has already, the whole thing on this man Fisher! Take him out, and maybe the Baron, and we can kick the rest apart.’ Silence. ‘Well, no, as it happens I did get some new evidence – chummy’s been trained, one hundred per. How would I know? With the IRA in Libya, could be. Wherever it was, he’s good – too good. Yes. Well, I held him off, he had to let me go, you know there isn’t a man in the department who – oh, come on, Georges, you’re as bad as the rest of them! That’s enough! It’s got to be him! Now we just go in and rip him apart and throw him to rot … Georges! Whose side are you on, anyhow? Don’t give me that! So this one didn’t pay off, so what? Yes. Yes, I got burned. How do I know if he got the number? He may have, I don’t think so. Forget that, he probably knew it already – he’s the mastermind, isn’t he? Oh, come on! If you go telling tales to Bernheimer I am going to get whipped right off this case, you know that? I mean maybe … No, Georges! No!’

  Her hand faltered, and the handset sank; she almost dropped it, then I thought she was going to throw it down. She looked at it, and her face twisted. ‘Fuck you, then,’ she said, and put it down softly. She stood up, and I saw, almost more clearly than her nakedness, the reddened and blackening blotches of her bruises. She looked as if she’d been through a mincer. But I thought of my ravished privacy, riffled files, my girlfriends checked up on, the baffled venom in that voice as it twisted and tortured the truth to suit its own suspicions. My conscience shut its mouth, folded its arms, and enjoyed the view.

  She considered her drink, put it down and walked with stiff dignity, like a sort of robotic ballerina, towards the bathroom. After a moment I heard the toilet flush, and the shower come on. Not a bad idea; I could use the same myself. I flicked t
he cams free, gathered my strength and kicked out hard, out, away and into the open air with a rush, then back round the arête to the face of the hotel. This time I didn’t need to cling; I hit, bounced, clamped on an ascender and began to haul myself up at speed with creaking arms, passing the rope under my battered buttocks to keep it away from windows. I had relief to fuel me, now that I knew what all this had been about.

  A Strasbourg number, and Goran Bernheimer, deputy trade commissioner for the European Community. So Joan of Arc here was an EC trade investigator; nice job for a paranoid. But by the sound of that little lot, she’d be off my back soon enough: Bernheimer was no fool. The relief lasted all the way back to my room – almost.

  I was on the window-sill when the cold feeling crept over me. Okay, she was just an overzealous cop with a fixation, the type that tends to end up planting the evidence. Let her try that now! But a cop of sorts she was, and not just some muckraker. That gave more weight to the other things she’d said, a lot more. Okay, she was wrong about me – but the main reason she suspected me seemed to be the company I kept. I’d assumed she was just as wrong about them – but was she? About them she sounded absolutely sure; and as if the absent Georges did too. And surest of all about Lutz.

  I slid back in, wincing at my injuries, and headed for that haunt of philosophers, the bathroom. I needed to get clean all over again how. There was a television tilted over the broad bath, but it gave me little comfort as I let my aches soak away into the steaming water. The news was full of riots, both here and in Warsaw, Polish skinheads battling it out with neo-Communist thugs, both equally horrible; the ringleaders in particular looked practically interchangeable with each other – or with those here, for that matter. Europe was beginning to wear a common face, and it wasn’t one I liked. Grudgingly I hauled myself out of the water and phoned down to the valet service for my evening frac, and the garage for my car. I was going to look in at Lutz’s party after all.