by Mike Nicol
‘You’ve got the gun with you?’ said Rudi Klett from the back.
‘Listen,’ said Mace, ‘I’m not into fun and games. What I’m here for is in-flight security. Strictly.’
‘Ah come, my friend. Where is the old Mace ready for all adventures? Where is the swashbuckler, huh? Tell me what else would you do in Berlin tonight? Find a babe? Here look’ – he pointed at the whores on the wet Kurfürstendamm – ‘round the corner from your hotel. The best. Top class. That is convenient, not so?’
‘Thanks,’ said Mace.
‘Not the same as Isabella, but some replacement.’
Isabella had been much on Mace’s mind. He’d wandered maudlin through the streets, had lunch in the Café Adler gazing at tourists scurrying around what little was left of Check Point Charlie, wandered then through Mitte, the cold war gloom banished under the glass and fashion of the new until he found a music shop off the Unter den Linden where he could listen to the REM song. And now had the chorus lines on a loop through his brain. Not that it bothered him. Sort of went with the feeling he had about whatever was on Rudi Klett’s agenda. The end of the world as he knew it.
‘This will be illuminating for you,’ Rudi Klett was saying. ‘That I can promise. You will learn things, Mace. Things about your country. Your leaders. Afterwards you will thank me. Honestly, you will.’
‘Then what’s it about?’
‘A surprise. Nothing dramatic.’
‘But I’ve got to have a gun.’
‘For show.’ Rudi Klett leaned forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. ‘Not so Wolfie?’
Wolfie said ‘Genau.’
They drove up the Kurfürstendamm and round the Concrete Cadillac sculpture on Rathenauplatz, taking the Koenigsallee into a part of the city Mace didn’t know. Bigger houses. A thickening forest. After twenty minutes Wolfie swung into the driveway of a large house, ivy covering the walls, every window lit. He stopped at the front door.
‘Here lives Herr Dr Konrad Schultz when he is in our wonderful city,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘Otherwise his family home is in Hamburg. Sometimes he has his girlfriend with him, except not tonight. Tonight he is alone. I have told him I have a South African contact with me and we are coming to see him for a chat. For this reason he believes it is about more orders, a weapons system for the ships your navy has bought. Really, tonight he is going to pay me commissions. You see he is a man who owes me much money. For a long time he has been in my debt. Now it is time for him to lessen his burden. To persuade him about this necessity, Wolfie has a gun and you have a gun, Mace. When he opens the door you are both going to point your guns at him.’
‘No,’ said Mace. ‘That’s not the deal.’
Wolfie reached into his coat and unholstered a .38 Colt Python revolver. He cocked it.
‘Mace, my friend,’ said Rudi Klett halfway out of the car, ‘I do not want to kill this man. He owes me much money. I do not even want to hurt him. We are having a little fun, that is all. At his expense. So please, humour me.’
Mace said, ‘Jesus, Rudi’ – nevertheless drawing the P8. But not racking the slide or getting anywhere near ready for shooting. He joined the two men waiting at the front door.
‘Good man, my friend. Like the old times.’
After the second press of the buzzer, Mace could hear Herr Dr Konrad Schultz coming to open the door, calling out something in German. Rudi Klett responding then adding in English that it was freezing outside.
When Dr Schultz opened the door, Wolfie rushed in knocking the man sideways, slamming him against the wall, pushing the short barrel of the Python into the flab of Konrad Schultz’s cheek. Mace stood outside, his gun arm half raised pointing at Schultz’s stomach, Rudi Klett nudging him forward.
‘What is this, Herr Klett?’ said Schultz, the words barely audible, the man wide-eyed with fright.
‘Money, Herr Dr,’ said Rudi Klett, closing the front door. ‘Some payment of the fees you owe me so that I can show some gratitude to my friends. My friends who made everything possible. Shall we go to your study?’
They followed Schultz down a short hallway, Wolfie with the gun against the Herr Dr’s head, his other hand clamped into the Herr Dr’s jacket. Mace next, more bit player than actor in Rudi Klett’s staging. Rudi Klett bringing up the rear with a running commentary on the paintings hanging shoulder height like it was an art gallery along both walls of the hallway. Rudi Klett saying he was impressed the first time he’d visited but the collection had got even better since then. Some serious money the Herr Dr had been investing in artworks. A wise policy. Pay cash directly to the artist or the gallery, keep the paintings out of sight, nobody was going to ask any questions. Ten years later you sold some stock, who was to know? Not inland revenue.
Mace thought, if Rudi Klett ever met the judge they could talk arms and art for hours.
In the study, Rudi Klett told Konrad Schultz to log into a bank account Schultz kept with Deutschebank. Schultz hesitated.
‘Herr Dr,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘it is better if you oblige. This man here, not Wolfie, my shy South African friend, he was in the camps of the liberation movement. He would search out the spies. His technique for aiding them confess was to break their fingers. It is a technique he will use here tonight. One by one, he will smash your fingers using the butt of his handgun. In the camps I saw him use a hammer. But the gun will be as good. Not so Mr Bishop?’
Mace nodded, wishing to hell Klett had kept his name out of it. And with no intention of doing any finger breaking.
‘To do this he will tie you to the chair because otherwise you will fall over with the pain. He will gag your mouth. In the end you will do what I want but you will also have a broken hand. For this you will require hospitalisation. Many weeks of agony.’
Rudi Klett paused to fill in the bank account number on the screen. ‘You see I can put in the number for you.’ He stood back.
‘So, if you are wise you will do what I ask. Moreover, what I am asking is my due. There is nothing I am asking that we couldn’t do as gentlemen, if you had done it the first time as you promised.’
‘Please,’ said Herr Dr Konrad Schultz, ‘there is no action I can do from this account. The money is gone already.’
‘Ah so,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘Gone to the right place? Or gone, lost?
‘Paid,’ said Schultz, ‘already.’
‘In the last hour, you’ve done this?’
Herr Dr Schultz nodded vigorously. ‘Why not? This wasour agreement. Of course I would honour it. This was the arrangement.’
‘Then show me and we will say goodnight.’
‘Come, Herr Klett, how can I do that? Then we are going against the protocols. You are saying you do not trust me.’
‘I have no problem with saying that,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘Throughout the world I have found that those who trust sometimes do not wake up. While they sleep so trusting their throats are cut.’ He drew his forefinger across his throat. ‘Psish. So Herr Dr Schultz I am light on trust. Therefore let us see the account.’
‘Impossible to do so. The protocols say the account must be closed afterwards. Voosh. The account is closed, it is off the system.’
He stared up at Rudi Klett standing to his right. Wolfie two paces behind the Herr Dr, Mace circling the room: pretending interest in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, some of the shelves given to photo frames of a woman with young children, formal portraits of older people, knick-knacks: an arrowhead of bone, lead rounds, bullets. The desk faced a shuttered window, dull lights in the garden beyond.
‘For everyone’s precautions these are the formalities,’ Schultz was saying.
‘No problem,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘there are other ways to check.’ He pulled out a cellphone from his coat pocket, made a call, talking easily straight to the point. Took less than thirty seconds before he disconnected. ‘They will ring back in a moment. With the internet the world is a small place.’
To Mace, Rudi Klett said, ‘The thing I wanted to
show you was interesting. Something that would be very interesting to our friend Pylon with all his feelings for money. You will see now that among the Herr Dr’s beneficiaries is a bank account with the Lloyds Bank in London. This account has the name of a business, Chancery House. You know Chancery Court in Dickens?’
Mace shook his head.
‘Charles Dickens, the English writer?’
‘I’ve heard of Dickens,’ said Mace, ‘just not this Chancery
Court.’
‘In the book Bleak House?’
Again Mace shook his head, came to stand other side of the Herr Dr so that he could see the computer screen.
‘No matter. For the bank account Chancery House there are five people who can use this account. Important people in your government. Ja, okay, so two are not in your government anymore. They were when the arms deal was made, and they are still important people. Because they were so helpful to the Germans and the Swedes and the French and the Brits and the Americans, Herr Dr Konrad Schultz says he has sent them a little present. A big little present.’
Rudi Klett’s phone rang.
‘That is what he has told us as we will see now. Not so Herr Dr?’ He answered the phone.
The Herr Dr attempted to stand but Rudi Klett put a hand on Schultz’s shoulder and pushed him back down. Rudi Klett said only four words, ‘That is a pity.’ He disconnected.
Herr Dr Konrad Schultz said, ‘Please. There is a reason.’
‘There is always a reason,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘My reason is because you have not done the right thing, Herr Dr.’ He nodded at Wolfie.
Wolfie raised his arm and shot Herr Dr Konrad Schultz in the back, a clot of gore tearing out of the Herr Dr’s chest, exploding over the computer screen. Schultz fell face forward on the keyboard.
Mace jumped at the retort, thought, Jesus Christ what was Rudi’s case. Smelling cordite and blood. Thinking, I could’ve done without the drama Klett. For Chrissakes.
‘Sorry for this,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘Sometimes these matters do not go the way you want. Then you have to make examples. You agree? The way we did in the old days, that is still the bet.’
25
Sheemina February came out of her bedroom barefoot, wrapped in a white towel. She had showered. Her hair hung wet, her left hand unsheathed tucked strands behind her ear. She poured herself a white wine. Stood at the kitchen counter listening to the quiet. The hiss of the sea against the rocks, the calls of gulls invisible in the darkness. Then silence. The quiet of her lair. No sirens, no street noise, no angry voices shouting in the night.
Two nights and she’d had enough of the city. The constant growl of its disquiet. She drank off half the glass, refilled it. Moved to her desk, brought up on her laptop a folder with photographs of Mace Bishop. Mostly her own efforts, also several of Mace naked in a shower cubicle that she’d commissioned. Photographs that’d cost nothing other than gentle persuasion.
‘You want to get off the paedophilia charge?’ was the way she’d put it to a client. ‘Here’s how? Turn your camera to proper use.’ The client had seen sense. Snapped Mace in the gym changeroom the same afternoon. For his trouble the paed’s police file went missing. Case withdrawn.
Sheemina February stared at the photographs: Mace’s body looking as toned as the photograph she carried in a plastic sleeve. Firm, broad shoulders, stomach with a faint six-pack moulding. In the shower series his arms up lathering his hair, the stretch and bulge of his biceps pumped in the movement. Her gaze went down to his penis, stubby and withdrawn poking out over the lopsided sac. She could imagine the coarse hair. Felt the thrill in her fingers, caught her breath. Leant forward, her toes burrowing into the thick flokati.
‘One day, Mace Bishop,’ she said. ‘One day’ – flicked through the screens to some photos of Mace with Oumou and Christa. Brought up one: quite the family outing, the parents either side their child holding her hands. Cute. The setting a walk in the reservoir park one Saturday afternoon after the girl had got her legs back. The hand-holding not only about mommy’s and daddy’s love but about keeping their darling upright. She zoomed in on Mace for a head and shoulders. His expression tight. A face people pulled when they got a tax demand. Or the sort of face you might make when the person in the passenger seat next to you took a .22 Long Rifle load in the head. Especially when you were the security for the person in the passenger seat. She made a print. It’d help ensure Spitz didn’t shoot the wrong target.
‘You don’t know what I’m doing for you,’ she said to the portrait. The portrait almost life-size. Held it at arm’s length. What it’d be like if he were standing on the rug opposite her. She in a white towel, naked underneath. She rubbed the image, felt a sudden pain tighten across her chest. Sheemina February let the print-out drop. The head of Mace Bishop coming to rest on a couch, staring up at her.
‘Have I got things in store for you,’ she said, the ache easing.
Bent to the computer, selected another photograph from the reservoir series, Mace more relaxed, smiling, actually looking straight into the camera. She’d been walking towards them.
For half an hour had watched them playing with the girl on the swings. Waited for them to head back to their car. When they did she’d wrapped a scarf round her head and lower face, Muslim style. Headed directly towards them in a long black dress, stylish, not quite an abaya but near enough that most wouldn’t notice the difference.
As they’d passed she’d overheard Mace say, ‘More and more women doing that these days. Covering up.’
And Oumou’s reply. ‘Because they do not know what it is like for women in the Islamic countries.’
Mace saying, ‘Underneath she’s probably wearing a tanga.’
A remark that’d stung Sheemina February, made her want to round on him.
Oumou said, ‘Non, I do not want to imagine that.’
‘What’s a tanga, Maman?’ – the girl pestering.
Sheemina February flushed to think of it. The bastard making fun of her. His bitch getting in on the act. She put back some wine, relaxed her shoulders, massaged beneath her left breast. Then fingered the touchpad to zoom up another head and shoulders of Mace, printed this. Retrieved the one from the couch, slid both into an envelope. Sometimes she wondered why she took so much trouble. Spitz hit both men what’d be the difference?
Actually too much of a difference. That’d be too easy. She flipped the envelope onto the desk, sat on the couch to finish her wine. Legs tucked beneath her, Sheemina February stared out at the night, remembered the camp: Membesh. The camp where freedom fighters trained. Where she went to join the guerrilla army.
Where these two men called her story: we don’t believe you. You’re a spy. Nobody could get here the way you did. Walking through the bush, crossing borders. Catching buses. A young girl like you, alone. Shaking their heads despite her nodding. The three of them sweating in a hot room. Having tied her to a chair, her hands flat on the table. The questions coming at her over and over. Tell us. Tell us. Tell us. Her tears. Her sobbing. Her story always the same. Their insistence: it’s not the truth. Her constant: why don’t you believe me? The two of them sitting back looking at her. Matter of fact. Not angry. Resigned. The black guy doing the introductions: I’m Pylon, this’s Mace. Explaining: no point in introducing ourselves before but now we feel it’s important, okay, sister? Now we’ve got to do stuff that’s painful. The white guy Mace nodding along like he was disappointed. Pylon going off to a metal cupboard, coming back with a mallet. Mace describing the process they’d go through, showing her the coin they’d flip to get matters underway. Before he did saying, anything you want to tell us first? Her anguish. Her pleas. Her distress. Nothing persuading them from their course. The two men waiting for her, then Mace saying, we flip for the best of three, heads up. Winner does the hard stuff. He won. He smashed her hand.
The memory jolted her upright. ‘Bastards.’ The agony on her face. ‘Bastards.’ In a sweep of her arm, Sheemina February hurled he
r wine glass through the open door into the night. Sat staring at her crab hand. Flexed her fingers, stiff as claws. Could have cried for that young woman. That young woman still a girl really.
26
Pylon drove up to the golf estate’s security gate, relieved to see his former employee on duty. Let down his window, said, ‘Don’t you get time off?’
The guard frowned, unfriendly, mumbling something about standing in.
Pylon lifted his shades to squint at the man in the harsh morning light. ‘You get a bitching out?’
‘Big time.’
‘What for?’
‘Letting you in without clearance.’
‘That’s harsh.’
The guard looked away. Pylon marking his unease and thinking there wasn’t a hope in hell he’d do him a favour now.
‘The house still a crime scene?’
‘Uh huh, taped up.’
‘And a cop standing sentry?’
‘No.’
‘Listen.’ Pylon looked up at the anxious man in the gate house. ‘I need a favour.’
The guard shook his head. ‘Forget it. No chance.’
‘You don’t know what it is?’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘Five minutes, okay. That’s all it’ll take.’
‘No ways.’
Pylon took his hands off the steering wheel, held them out the window, palms open. ‘Look. No bullshit. All I need is to see his CD collection. What sort of music he was into.’
‘Why?’
‘Something I’m working on. Five minutes. In, out, before the cops get there. Assuming they’re coming back.’
‘There’s major shit about this.’
‘I know. It’s why I’m here.’
The guard hesitated. Clicking a pen against the counter top faster than a rave beat. Pylon sensing the issue here: part going against regulations, part what’s in it for me? Said, ‘I can ease your pain.’
