The American Broker

by Andrew Hill

  "My colleague was the German operator. That was who you had asked for . . . "

  "No, some beanpole of a barkeeper here can't tell his ass from his elbow. I want a person-to-person call to Mr Deveneau, that's d-e-v-e-n-e-a-u, Washington DC, US of A, area code 301, number 449 6577. My name is Lindon. L-i-n-d-o-n."

  "Put back the receiver, Mr Lindon. I will try to connect you and ring shortly."

  Bob stood by the desk gazing into the darkness outside. Then, as if he had focussed upon his own clear reflection in the black night glass, he started, lowered his head and reached out to rest an arm against the window frame. At that instant the phone rang. The tall man came striding across but Bob was there first before he had a chance to get any closer. The Slav stared gauntly at the American with a curious, vaguely prehistoric, look in his eyes, as if his brain was slowly figuring out how anyone could possibly know his guest was here. He became even more intrigued by the apparent exchange of American greetings and stood for a good minute or two before loping off.

  "How's Greece, Bob?" asked the voice on the line.

  "Sure as hell ain't Greece, Dev. Christ knows where I am. Somewhere in Yugoslavia. Reckon I'm in Albania, near enough . . ."

  "Don't get stuck there, Bob. Cost a fortune to get you out of that hole. Need a bit more than your friend Connally to work out the Embassy line there an' all! Seriously, Bob - you all right?"

  "Yeah. I'm fine, Dev. Fine. Heard from CJ?"

  "Yup. He got those things you mailed us. Violet picked them up and did her usual blessing act on them before they went out."

  "Pissed, I suppose, Dev."

  "'Fraid so, Bob. You know she's a strange old girl, that wife of yours - confuses my office something terrible she does. Funny though, haven't seen her for a week. Usually calls in for a bourbon or seven every day on her way back from the wine store!"

  "I'll give her a call. What time have you got over there?"

  "Three twenty."

  "That's good. She might still be sober."

  "Oh, had you're Mr Austin on yesterday. Seemed a nice guy, according to Kay. You know she can judge a bloke by his voice . . ."

  "Austin!" exclaimed Bob.

  "Yeah. Christopher Austin. Called for messages on your behalf."

  "What does he know? Did Kay tell him anything?"

  "Hey, cool it, Bob. Nothing happens here without my say-so. The guy asked for messages. There weren't any. Kay sent regards or something to you, I expect . . ."

  "I want to know what she said, Dev. About CJ."

  "OK. OK. Bob had turned red and was standing stiffly, totally unaware of anything except the voice in his ear.

  "Mr Lindon! How are you?"

  "Kay. What does Austin know about CJ?"

  "Well now, I don't know what you've told him and what you haven't, Mr Lindon. Is everything all right? He sounded such a . . . "

  "Kay. Listen. Just tell me what you said to him."

  "Why nothing, Mr Lindon. Only that I thought it was a shame about CJ and wished that he had success with the doctors over in England . ."

  "You just said 'doctors over in England'. Any places? Did you say what was wrong with him?"

  "No, Mr Lindon. Sure I didn't. I do hope I haven't done anything wrong."

  "All right, Kay," Bob relaxed a little. "All right. But listen. If anyone - and I mean anyone you like or don't like - calls on that subject do not say anything. Get their name and number and tell me. If anyone calls before I get in touch next then don't say anything. I'll be out of pocket for a couple of days but that sort of news could cause problems. Christopher Austin can't handle it at the moment. He's OK, but just give me a few days. I don't want him knowing - or anyone else - until I decide. There's too many assholes on his tail at the moment for anyone's good - and even more will be on CJ's if it gets out."

  "Certainly, Mr Lindon. I'm sorry. Did you want Mr Deveneau again?"

  "No, Kay. Oh! Do this for me. Will you give Vi a call and say I'm on my travels but in good shape. She gets worrity after a week or two. I'll ring if I can get hold of her but I can't keep stopping the car and these time differences put me all to hell."

  "Fine, Mr Lindon. I'll do it now. Can we contact you there?"

  Bob looked around for a number on the phone. "HEY!!!!" he shouted loudly through the office door. A startled woman rushed in. "What's the number of this place?" he asked. The woman looked even more startled and ran off. The tall man appeared. "Oh God!" said Bob to himself, "Numero?" he asked, pointing to the phone.

  "Fertig?" said the man, looking at the clock.

  "No you idiot - telephone number - ein, zwei, drei and all that Deutsch crap!"

  "Crap?" repeated the man. He could only stand there looking helpless. The woman, as tall as he and of strikingly similar appearance, seemed almost to be hiding behind him. They spoke together and the man turned away.

  "Forget it!" said Bob, impatiently but not offensively, and then, turning to the phone again, "I think the answer is going to take longer than I can afford to wait for. I'll call tomorrow or the next day. Be good." As he put the phone down the woman appeared with a menu and pushed it towards Bob.

  "No wonder you can't understand anything. How do I read this stuff? Upside down or sideways?"

  "Zu essen?" she said. "Essen . . . hier . . . kommen" She shuffled sideways through the door and Bob followed. The tall man made a careful note of the time on a piece of paper and sat for a while writing figures below it. The woman showed Bob to a red plastic seat at a bare table and again pushed the menu towards him. "Speziel?" she asked.

  "Yeah, why not," said Bob, nodding furiously, "special and coffee - black coffee. Noir. Schwarz!"

  "Speziel. Kafe schwarz. Kein Milch?"

  "That's right. I'll take it."

  The woman went away and Bob sighed. He looked at the bare surroundings. A solitary photograph of Tito hung on a wall. The late president stared sideways out of the frame. Bob's gaze followed the same direction until it rested upon a variety of banknotes pinned to the wall above a window. Tattered and turning brown, most looked as if they had been there for many years. Bob walked over and stood beneath them, looking up.

  "Ten bob"

  The American whirled around violently, his face white with shock. His mind seemed to throb as a thousand memories shot across his consciousness. His eyes glazed and became misty and he felt himself weaken and slump to the floor. Vague, grey-blue pictures of people, places and rooms came and went like a light bulb in a storm. The only sound was a muffled voice, then the scratch of a chair on the floor. After that just his own heartbeat, insistent and inescapable. Still came the faces and the pictures. Open mouths one on the other like some horrid fantasy then faces encircling others' faces forming a grotesque kaleidoscope image of a shouting crowd. A fierce sun burst through the faces, parting the heads as it came surging towards him. He wanted to move his head but he couldn't. He tried again, summoning up the energy for some supreme effort. He tried shaking from side to side and finally found some movement. The sun veered away slightly, and then it began to swing from side to side, maintaining its distance now.

  "Herr Lindon. Herr Lindon! You are OK? It's Fritz. Here . . . take some water . . ."

  "Oh Jesus. Don't let that happen again. Someone called me."

  "Nein, nein, Herr Lindon. Nobody called you. You are fainted. Tired. A long travel. Not so young now, eh?"

  "Dammit. I have perfect recall! Someone called me. They said 'Ten Bob'. I was standing there. Where is . . . "

  The tall man came over excitedly. "Ten bob," he said, "ten bob . . . Englisch." He pointed at the notes on the wall,

  "There's bloody fifty there, mate!" said Bob. "Look, who are you? You understand English perfectly well. Who are you? I'm not playing games for anyone. What about you, the, Fritz? You guys must be bloody expert assholes to plan this . . . "

  Bob became red again. He slapped his hand down hard on the table. Fritz looked terrified. The Slav stood in bewilderment, watching the ravi
ng of the American. The German lady came in and looked at the scene. Fritz went across and whispered something to her. The Slav looked on still. Then, from the kitchen, came the Slav woman.

  "Speziel!" she cried, warmly. In her hands was a shining silver tray of enormous proportions. Upon that was a complete range of meats, sausage, vegetables, eggs and sauces. The silent atmosphere greeting her entry did not deter her. She placed the tray on the table, pushing aside the water and the cup of coffee beside it. She then flapped a linen napkin in the air and, without the slightest hesitation, proceeded to tuck it inside Bob's collar so that it hung down in front of him. Placing one hand firmly on his shoulder, she moved him back to allow a mat to be placed in front of him, with a plate, knife and fork on top of that. Standing back to admire her work, she placed her hands on her hips and smiled at the American.

  Bob looked from her to the man. The Slav forced a smile and held out a hand in a gesture for Bob to start. Fritz and his wife slowly walked back towards the table and Bob turned to them. "You crazy sons of bitches!" he cried, "Didn't anyone tell you I'm a crazy Jew? My Rabbi wouldn't bless this!" he continued. "But if it's going to be my Last Supper then here goes nothing!"

  Fritz just looked on. His wife started to speak but decide not to. "Er, my wife is not hungry, Herr Lindon. I am also a little tired. Will you excuse, please. We shall sleep now and I hope you are feeling better tomorrow." He then spoke a few words in German to the tall man who nodded. The woman smiled reassuringly and wished them goodnight before leaving.

  Bob Lindon was alone in the room. He stopped eating once, looked around, took a swig of water, belched, then continued. He saw no one again that night.

  Chapter XLIX Folk Singer

  Soldiers flanked Maria and Chris as they walked towards the small control building. There was an almost casual air about them, quite the opposite of what Chris expected. They stayed at a distance of some twenty yards on either side, closing up behind the couple in to groups, talking amongst themselves. Nearer the building two men advanced quickly towards them, turned to walk a few feet in front without looking back, then opened the entrance door and stood either side of it. Maria entered first, then Chris followed, the pair surprising a group of younger soldiers poring over a girlie magazine, probably obtained at some cost several months ago and handed down from person to person until it had reached this group, its pages tattered and creased. Their initial reaction was to stand up quickly and to stare like naughty school children but a sharp word from one of the officers who had followed the visitors sent them scurrying to another room.

  Five strides later they were through the main entrance and walking towards the wirenet fencing adjacent to the road that ran to Ivangrad. In the darkness again they could make out only vague movement but the chatter of the guards on duty at the gate was clear in the crisp night air. Their footsteps were echoed by other sets on the rough road coming towards them and those still behind.

  "I hope you're right," said Chris.

  A shout of command from behind brought the echoes to a halt and they could hear only the sound of their own march. As if influenced by the surroundings they found themselves unconsciously walking in step. As they approached the gate it swung open and they passed through without a word. It clanged shut behind them. Chris wondered how they would get back in again. They would hardly have been easily recognised but that thought disappeared when a shout came from behind.

  "Please!" It was the one of the officers who had followed them through the building.

  They stopped and looked back anxiously. Their eyes met only a bright torch beam, wavering in its switch from one to the other. Maria put her arm up to shield her eyes. Chris blinked and walked towards the light.

  "Ivangrad? You want car with me?"

  Maria let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

  "Come. This way."

  They followed the officer across the road to where a grey Zastava of tiny proportions was parked. It was essentially an old Fiat 850 with a rear engine, which bubbled into life as the officer turned the key. A tall man, he looked faintly ridiculous in such a tiny vehicle, his knees wrapped either side of the steering wheel.

  "My name is Rusan." he announced, cheerfully.

  "Chris."

  "Maria,"

  "Business?"

  "We try to find a friend." replied Maria.

  "Oh. Someone in my country? Is here in Ivangrad?"

  "We don't know." she continued. "He is driving - maybe this way, maybe through Niš."

  " Niš!" exclaimed Rusan. "My country is big. Easy to get lost. You fly to Niš tomorrow?"

  "No, Ljubjlana tomorrow - if you can sell us some fuel."

  "OK, OK. Good price. We talk tomorrow. No problem. Where do you go in Ivangrad?"

  "Do you know a good place?" enquired Maria, hopefully.

  "Yes. I take you to a good bar and it also has rooms. You drink with me and we talk."

  Chris looked back at Maria who was sitting sideways on the back seat. She shrugged and grinned at him.

  "Good," said Chris, "I need a drink!"

  Ivangrad was a small town. Large factories on the outskirts and a jumble of flats scattered within it. Some modernisation was in progress but it had done little to dispel the general grubbiness of what appeared a poor area. Perched high and surrounded by mountains, it had a gloomy air and a strong breeze caught the thin metal signs in the street that wobbled as they passed. Few lights brightened the scene - an occasional lorry thundered by on the main road through the town. Turning left at a junction near what looked like the centre they spotted the Karina Motel. It was an unusually pretty building, set back from the street with a clear view across the street down the valley to the east. Rusan did not, however, stop there.

  "Much money . . . phew!" he cried, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together at Chris as they went by. Chris nodded to indicate that he had understood the gesture, trying to hide his disappointment.

  The little Zastava revved and burbled its way down another side street, turning right then left and then coming to a halt outside a light green building with shabby white shutters. A solid door creaked open and Maria nudged Chris as they went in, pointing up at the Golden Sun sign above.

  "Just like an English pub!" she joked.

  "Yeah, sure. Just like home," muttered Chris.

  "Come, my friends!" Rusan ordered three vodkas. Small glasses arrived at their table, each filled to the brim.

  "Hope you like Vodka." said Chris with a smile to Maria.

  "Not particularly." she said, but nevertheless raised her glass to Rusan and clinked his glass.

  Around them sat half a dozen locals - all men of forty to fifty, Chris guessed - and all wearing peacock blue overalls and heavy brown shoes. One younger man sat at the bar, long curly hair straggling over his collar. He turned and acknowledged a remark from Rusan with a rude gesture.

  "Singer!" snorted Rusan. "He is my country like Michael Jackson is in yours. Well - he thinks so!"

  Chris tried to imagine Michael Jackson walking into the bar and performing to the assembled crowd of late night drinkers. The mere thought made him laugh out loud which made Rusan do the same. The young man then stood up and reached over the bar, picking up a guitar. Moving the battered stool away from the bar and swallowing a glass of something he started to play. With cheers and clapping from the others he pointed a finger at Rusan and started to sing.

  Maria sat spellbound. A hush descended on the room. The singer had a wonderful voice, the notes gentle and sad. Guitar strings squeaked as he ran his fingers along them but the mellow tone of the instrument matched perfectly the song he sang. He swayed slightly in time, his eyes closed. There was meaning in the words but whether of protest or of fond memory, Chris couldn't tell. The chords had a power of their own, though, and after a few verses, he found himself humming a familiar strain with the others around him.

  No one seemed to pay attention to the steady flow of people coming in - old and young, but all males. B
efore long the bar was full to capacity and there were three sets of shoulders between him and Maria. Glasses were silently filled by the barman and the humming grew louder as the latest arrivals joined in. When the final chords turned to a quiet ending of individual notes a rapturous applause started. Chris and Maria joined in.

  Rusan rose to his feet and put an arm around the younger man's shoulders, affectionately patting him as he did so and exchanging smiles. Then the young man bowed and walked out the door, leaving a general murmur behind him which slowly faded as his song had done. It was closing time and everyone else began to drift away.

  Rusan arranged a room for Chris and Maria and agreed to collect them at 7:30 the next morning. He would not listen to their protests that it would not be necessary so they merely expressed their gratitude as best they could with smiles and notes on the bar. They each realised that it would save them having to find a bus or a taxi as well as avoiding translation problems. More to the point, they also appreciated that it would ensure that the visitors would not have any opportunity to upset any of the normal life that was Ivangrad, and once Rusan had seen them safely on their way the following morning, it would be one less thing he need concern himself with. They would never have been there. He had also helped Chris make a telephone call to England, remaining, Chris couldn't help notice, within easy listening distance.

  "Chris! Thank God! Oh, it's such a relief - I've been waiting all day . . ." Collette could hardly contain her excitement and sped through her own day's events.

  "How do you fancy a trip, dear?" said Chris, ignoring virtually everything she'd said.

  "Anything. Can I really come?"

  "It'll be tough . . ."

  "I don't mind. I just want to get away from here. Gill's not changed. I haven't seen her but I called the hospital and they didn't say anything much. She's just sort of not there. I mean she's breathing and apparently physically OK except that she doesn't respond to anything. I don't like leaving her but there's just no knowing if . . . er . . ."

  "Collette." said Chris firmly. "There's nothing you can do there. Now listen." He wanted to talk about Gill but mentally shut off that part of his mind. There were many other things pressing for attention and they included, confusingly, Collette herself - she seemed to have changed from the girl he'd known before. Now he could tell in her voice the qualities he'd found so strong in Gill Chalmers. There was still the same slight scattiness about her but, beneath that, sometimes coming to the fore, sometimes just there in the background, was an assertiveness, a style that had been uniquely Gill's. He forced himself to continue, banishing the meandering of his mind to that part of the brain where things might be stored for a while. "Fly to Basle. Get a single ticket. The car's in the car park next to the rent-a-car place - should be obvious, it's only a small area. Then drive like the wind - take down these town names: Zurich, Landeck, Innsbruck, Brixen, Lienz, Spittal, Villach. It's the Austrian border with Yugoslavia. About 660 kilometres, 420 miles. You've got 24 hours. I'll meet you at the Yugoslavia side of the Loibl border station at 10:30 local time tomorrow night. If you get there earlier, wait for me. You'll get a flight early in the morning from Heathrow. There may even be one tonight, I'm not sure."