by Peter Riva
Oh hell, Pero reluctantly decided to help him out. “Yes, okay, Arnold. Let’s have it.”
Arnold handed over the briefcase. He didn’t take the package out, whatever the package was, he just handed Pero the whole case.
Pero raised his eyebrows. Arnold grinned a little sheepishly. When Pero opened the clasp and peered inside, Arnold took a step back. The package was a plastic bag, empty except for a clearish liquid, no air, and what looked like flakes of paper in suspension. Pero took it out and held it up to the light. “Any idea what I am looking at?”
“Not a clue. It didn’t come with any instructions except one: Radioactive, do not attempt to pass security of any kind. So I didn’t take it into work past security. It’s all yours now.”
The radioactivity explained Arnold’s reluctance to touch the damn thing. It was hot. How hot Pero had no idea. “Gee thanks. No instructions, nothing? No message?” Arnold shook his head. Pero scowled, “Ah, all cloak and dagger, they’re at it again. Who am I supposed to give this to? Any idea?”
Again, Arnold shook his head. “Well, I suppose the instructions got lost somehow. Either CIA station or the folks in DC will call you at the hotel, no doubt.” He started to get ready to leave.
Pero shook his head. Sarcastically he said, “Gee, thanks Arnold, good to see you again.”
“Yeah, I know,” Arnold faced him, looking wounded, then changed his expressed to boyish earnest, “and Pero? That was some show your people put on in Nairobi. I never saw any report that credited you, but I just knew it was your show. I heard a rumor you shot someone …” Pero shook his head, refusing to comment. “Anyway, in case I don’t have a chance to tell you, well done.” Arnold rested his hand on the exit door’s frosted window, sighed, and said, “Pero you should leave via the customs hall as normal, but put that bag away first. I really don’t know how dangerous it is.”
Pero thought he meant the radioactive signal, so he stuffed it into his overcoat pocket, put the briefcase on the floor, not wanting any part of it, and draped his coat over the handlebar of the cart away from his body. Plain site hiding usually works, he thought and started toward the door. Arnold continued standing next to the other door, not moving to pick up the case. “Me first Pero. Take care, and if you have some free time in the future, we can catch a beer together. I’d like that.” He tapped the glass.
“Thanks Arnold, I’ll call if I do.” Arnold turned around, the door opened, and Pero caught a glimpse of solid green uniform—the uniform of a police officer, not a customs’ agent. The door clicked shut behind Arnold. Seconds later, the young customs’ woman came in the other door, wiped a chalk line on his two bags, and led him back out to the hall. As he passed her he said, “Auf Wiedersehen.”
“Good-bye Mr. Baltazar,” she said in a southern drawl.
So, Arnold wasn’t here because he alone knew about the delivery. He was here to reassure me, to tell me it was safe. Suddenly Pero didn’t feel safe at all. Too many people knew too much, again. Pero liked working alone, safely—carrying something physical, radioactively physical, that loads of people knew was passed to him was not his idea of safe, not safe at all.
He pushed the luggage cart that had the usual squeaky wheel through the automatic door past customs, passing around a line of people with boxes tied with string waiting to check in at a Warsaw and Gdansk flight, and walked out to the curb. He spotted the taxi stand on the other side of the arrival and departure circle; cars were parking, driving, and unloading everywhere. He walked the ring outside, all the way around the circle to the taxi rank and handed his luggage to the driver already eagerly opening the trunk. He kept hold of his laptop case and overcoat as he opened the front door and got in.
Most tourists get into the back of the taxi. Years ago, the German taxi drivers would object and try to educate their customers that the front was both more comfortable and afforded a better view. Most tourists were happier in the back avoiding the better view. Driving anywhere in Europe, especially in cities, is, especially for Americans, frightening. Clearances are down to fractions of an inch, and speeds are easily twice the US standard. Many a tourist has arrived at their first foreign hotel white-knuckled, pale, and sweating.
On the other hand, by getting into the front passenger seat, his driver realized that Pero was no tourist and that the tip, built into the taxi fare on the meter, would be small or perhaps—horrors—nothing. If you knew enough to sit in front, you probably knew enough not to tip or at least not to tip heavily.
Pero asked him in his broken German to take him to the Steigenberger, in Los Angeles Platz. That cheered the driver up. At least his passenger wasn’t a pauper. The Steigenberger is a good hotel. Not the best, but it had been, for Pero, a haven in Berlin since before the wall came down. They knew him and anyway, four stars was enough for anyone. They assured that the phones and services work well and that the room service is adequate. They were nice there, always welcoming to Pero. There was also no security screen on entry, as there was at the Intercontinental and Bristol hotels. The liquid bag in his pocket was already making problems. I wonder just how radioactive it is? The thought popped into his head and made him lift the coat off his lap—well, his groin if he was honest—and place it on the seat behind. He kept his computer bag between his knees, out of harm’s way. All he needed was for the damn radiation to erase his hard drive.
The drive to Berlin hadn’t changed much. Construction and roadworks were everywhere, but the traffic still moved. Gray skies, gray pavements that a talented writer referred to as the “steel skies of Berlin.” Mist sprayed off the grimy tires in front and smeared on the windshield. Out the side window, Pero tried to spot changes in the hodgepodge of architecture, from Weimar to Bauhaus to Communist prefab, mixed with gaily painted overhead water piping installed at a time when underground excavation wasn’t permitted by the surrounding East German regime. Hurtling over, around, and through bypasses and intersections, he could see the familiar splashes of green—the little cherished parks West Berlin had mandated to keep the air quality acceptable while they were once just an island lost in the air-polluting sea of an Eastern-Bloc enemy.
Now rebuilt from the ashes of WWII, freed from the yoke of separation and confinement, Berlin had been reborn into a vibrant place of tolerance. If he had to work anywhere in Europe, Pero always knew he could enjoy his time in Berlin.
Pulling up at the hotel entrance, Kamal, the Egyptian head doorman, was waiting by the curb for his taxi. Kamal popped open Pero’s door and said, beaming, “Welcome back Mr. Baltazar. It’s nice to have you here again.”
Pero looked up at the drizzle, held out his hand and said, “Can’t you ever stop the rain, Kamal?” He laughed. It was their joke. It always seemed to rain when he arrived in Berlin.
“I’ll try, Mr. Baltazar, I’ll try. I’ll get my wife to cast a spell. We’ll see tomorrow.” They both laughed at the standard answer. Kamal’s wife supposedly did “magic” for a fee, reading fortunes and predicting futures.
Pero asked the driver for a quittung, a receipt, for five Euros more than the meter, and the driver smiled and started writing. Pero gave him the cash while Kamal took the bags from the trunk of the taxi and had an assistant porter carry them in.
The year before they had refurbished the lobby. It looked newer, more lacquer and strangely Japanese but no less efficient, nor more efficient for that matter … so Pero wondered why they bothered. Hotels get bored with the same old décor. Guests like continuity. Someday, he thought, they’ll ask our preference. Renew the mattresses first, then the phones and computer services, then the exercise rooms, then the menu … and save the lobby beautification for last.
Pero checked in, gave his credit card, got it back along with the electronic door key. He was said hello to by the reception desk staff and responded amiably. These were people who knew him over the years. He waved at the staff and turned right toward the elevators. A man sitting and reading a paper folded it and took pace behind him. Kamal sp
eeded the baggage cart with his bags to catch up. He wanted to personally escort Pero to his room, as he always did. The doors opened and they all got in. Pero entered his key into the elevator security slot. He was on the upper floor, the so-called executive floor. To gain access, you need a coded key. Using your sixth-floor door key, the central computer registers your whereabouts—useful for phone call forwarding and other guest services—and security. The other man got in and pressed five, the floor below Pero’s. He was well groomed, about five foot ten, black hair, knee length black leather jacket with large pockets, clean shaven, and wore too much aftershave. Pretty pungent it was too.
At his floor, the man got out, turned and looked Pero in the eye, and walked off. Pero noted his expression, not sure why the man had made the effort so blatantly. There was no threat there, just a recording, like a human digital camera with a delay in the shutter.
Once upstairs Kamal got his bags onto the bed, knowing Pero wanted nothing else—Pero could handle it from there on. Kamal took the fifty Euro tip and left smiling and saying thank you. Pero had learned from his grandfather how to tip. “Tip on the way in, not on the way out. That way they know what you are giving them and you’ll get better, more faithful service during your stay. And when you get there next time they know the tip is imminent.”
Pero did what he always did in any new hotel room. He checked the phone was working, opened the computer, and hooked it up to Wi-Fi. There was no longer any hard LAN in the rooms, but Wi-Fi for e-mail worked well enough for simple emails. The TV screen was showing a personal message, with his name and a greeting. Displayed was, “You have four messages.”
Pero pushed the remote buttons for English, then messages and read the four headings as they appeared in descending time order:
1. Bill Heeper called from room 635 9:25 a.m.
2. D. Lewis called at 9:20 a.m.
3. Bill Heeper called at 7:20 a.m.
4. Amogh Ranjeet called at 10:30 p.m. yesterday
One by one, he clicked on each, the first three had no message or call back number. D. Lewis was CIA Langley, the director, but why would he be using a landline? Heep’s earliest message first told him he was on his way, and the second message was that he had arrived and to call when he could. Pero planned to call him later. There was a worrying message from Amogh “Please call as soon as possible.” Something was wrong. Amogh must have called Pero’s office in New York to get this contact. If he was calling from Nairobi, something was wrong. Amogh was reliable, totally so, together they had thwarted part of the terrorist attack in Kenya. Pero’s junior by almost thirty years, Amogh had proved himself equal in times of need or danger.
Pero called him first. “Hi Amogh, Pero here, got your message, I am in Berlin. What’s wrong?”
“Pero, good of you to call. Been a bit of a disaster here. Mbuno’s wife, Niamba, got hit by a matatu.” Mbuno was Pero’s oldest friend in Kenya, a safari guide who had saved Pero’s life, all too often. A chief, a mzee, of his clan the Waliangulu, Mbuno’s reputation as the premier wildlife and safari scout was legendary. Pero wasn’t about to let him down. Amogh was explaining that a dilapidated empty matatu truck-bus had sideswiped her badly as she was walking back from a dukka (a shop). “She’s in the Kenyatta Hospital, pathetic care I am afraid. Doctors are not sure. My father and mother—we’re all hoping you could intervene …”
“Amogh, I can and would be pleased to help. What’s the issue?” Pero knew Amogh’s parents, Prabir Ranjeet and his wife, Acira, would be able to fund anything necessary.
“It is Mbuno—he is reluctant to impose …”
“Tell him he is hurting his friend by not asking for help. Did we all not ask for his help when needed? Tell him it is a matter of honor and that he cannot let me down.”
“I will …”
“And Amogh, money no object. Can you arrange transport to another hospital? The Aga Khan or the Nairobi? I prefer the Aga Khan, it’s more modern.”
“That can be arranged. Mbuno’s with Niamba, and he seems very low.”
“What are Niamba’s injuries like?”
“Crushed pelvis, mainly. They say she’s stable but not getting better. They are blaming it on her age … but I fear it could be more serious.”
“Okay, if the doctor team at the Aga Khan needs it, get an air ambulance flight out, Brit Air would be best, and have her taken to London. Use the SOS people out of London. They can arrange everything. I have those details on my computer here, and I’ll send them on to you—same email address?” Amogh said yes. “Okay then, fine, take this down …” He gave him his private Amex card followed by his private Visa card numbers, including all the expiration dates and those annoying little security numbers. “Spend anything you need to. If I need to come down there, call back and I’ll fly in.”
“Okay, Pero, will do, but what hospital in London?”
“Ask the Italian doctor, the one in the Aga Khan. Anything he says goes, okay?”
“Very good, Mr. Pero, I know the man. Glad I reached you. But Mbuno may not want to leave her …” Amogh sounded doubtful he could convince Mbuno of anything.
“Look, Amogh, promise Mbuno as much honey as I can buy. It’ll make him know I’m serious.” Pero remembered that Mbuno loved honey on toast every morning. “And buy him a ticket as well, but for God’s sake, get your father to fit him out with some warm clothes. Please tell him I ask him, humbly, to accept this help, it’s my honor at stake, it’s my turn to save his life for a change. He’ll understand. Could you get someone to go along to help them both?”
“Well, I could go. I have friends from LSE I could stay with.” LSE is the London School of Economics in London where Amogh had attended school on a secret scholarship arranged by Pero. Perhaps not so secret as Amogh had figured it out many months before.
“That’s great, Amogh, thanks.”
“Not a bit, Mr. Pero, thank you. But I’ll pay my own way, least I can do.”
“Thanks, but don’t let money stand in the way of helping them, okay? First class for Mbuno on the same plane as Niamba, okay? Here’s my mobile number, twenty-four hours a day,” and he gave him his European cell phone.
“Lot of numbers to remember—what?”
Pero laughed, he knew the financial whiz kid Amogh could handle anything with numbers.
Amogh chuckled in response, “Don’t worry, wrote them all down. Bye for now,” he laughed and hung up. Amogh may have been young, but he was efficient and competent and knew he could rely on Pero just as Pero could rely on him. Their joint near-death experience in Nairobi in air-to-air combat with the terrorists had bonded them for life. Besides, Amogh could organize anything. Pero knew he could handle this. He just hoped Mbuno would agree.
His next call was to Lewis, but not on the house phone. He grabbed the coat, pocket gurgling with the liquid and made his way down and out of the hotel. In his other pocket, he had a special issue satellite phone as well as his local cell phone.
He turned right out the door, waved to Kamal, and made a right at the corner. He walked the two blocks to the Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, the “wedding cake” church, knowing it would be busy with tourists and students. It always was.
The church had been bombed out during the Second World War, but its hollow remains stood proud as the old pre-WWII center of cultural Germany and, for many years, the hub of West Berlin. Pero walked past the ugly concrete box outside, remembering that inside it was lovely, serene. He marveled that in the fifties people were in a hurry to erect replacement monuments. And in a hurry, they often botched it.
Behind the old church were street food stands with vendors of shashlik, sausages, and kartoffeln (potatoes). These spicy kebabs of pork, greasy paprika or curry sausages, and applesauce-covered potatoes are popular. Everyone was milling about so no one would pay attention to one more tourist blabbing away on a cell phone, even if the phone had an odd-looking antenna. Pero bought a greasy looking sausage, currywurst. It was surprisingly good.
The satellite phone he used was not a standard model. It was illegal. It has a second amplitude modulator. Press 9-1-1 and you get CIA Headquarters. Langley, scrambled, direct. It was a perfect signal, always. They listened, you spoke, they double clicked off when you told them to. It was how you knew they had heard you. It used the President’s backup frequency, channel four. You didn’t use it for long. You had better not.
He heard it connect while he still had hot sausage in his mouth. Swallowing quickly, “Baltazar, P. On site in Berlin. Returning Mr. Lewis’ call.”
“Stand by.” He waited.
They repeated, “Stand by.”
Oh damn, he forgot they wanted his agreement. It was unusual to have a conversation about this thing. Give me instructions or listen to his field report and hang up, that’s the norm. It seemed they wanted to chat. He wished they didn’t. It meant something was wrong. He had hoped all he was being asked to do was to act as a postman with the liquid bag. “Yes, of course, I will stand by.” The seconds clicked on his watch, approaching noon. He ate another piece of sausage.
“Lewis here, please state your location.”
“Good afternoon Director. I’m standing by the Gedächtniskirche in Berlin, in a crowd of people, tourists and students eating cheap, greasy food. I am. they are.”
“Any tail?” He was all business.
This was the second time he had talked to him in months, and again Lewis was terse. This must mean that either Lewis was troubled and was being overly efficient or Pero was in the doghouse for some unknown reason. Perfect, Pero thought, then I can resign. “Yes, recently seen but not presently aware of his presence.” He gave a description.
