by Mark McKay
‘I know where you work, Harry.’
‘I see. It might have escaped your attention, but this isn’t my place of work.’
Jack laughed. ‘Things have moved on a lot since Dublin. I have your mobile number. And a little software that’s programmed into my phone helped me track you down. Useful, don’t you think?’
‘Remind me to get one.’
‘Not available to the general public yet. For a lapsed SIS employee though, I might be able to pull a few strings.’
‘Lapsed. Right.’ Harry took a sip of his whiskey. ‘Think I might need another one of these. So, this isn’t a happy co-incidence?’
‘I don’t know about the happy part, but no, this is not co-incidence. You could at least ask how I am.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you. You’re not looking so bad yourself. I understand you re-married?’
Harry’s mind went back to Dublin, an image of Natalie and Christmas in Harcourt Street. ‘Yes, I did. A few years ago.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry, Jack, you’re turning back the clock for me right now.’
‘Yes, I thought that might happen. Can’t be helped though. Do you remember me saying you don’t resign?’
‘Do I even count as a current SIS employee? Our association didn’t last very long, did it?’
‘No, Harry. But we have been paying you regularly ever since.’ He noted the flash of annoyance in Harry’s eyes, but was unperturbed. ‘Yes, perhaps you could call it a Death in Service Benefit for want of a better expression, but it is a payment nonetheless.’
‘Which is your way of saying you have some entitlement to me, is that it? What exactly do you want, Jack?’
‘We need your help. You remember Michael O’Reilly?’
Harry finished his whiskey. ‘Get me another one please. This conversation is becoming distinctly unpleasant.’
Jack gave him a long look, but did as he was asked. When they were both refilled he continued. ‘He disappeared as you know, quite effectively as it turned out. He was in Kilburn in London for a while in the 80’s, but then the trail goes cold.’
‘So why resurrect it now?’
‘We think he may have information that will help us with a current investigation.’ Harry raised his eyes in mock amazement. ‘Yes, Harry. I know how long it’s been. We want you to help us locate him.’
Now the amazement was real. ‘What the hell can I do? Besides, if I find the bastard I may not be responsible for my actions.’
‘You only need to pinpoint him, not go face to face. Now listen. What we do know is that he had a woman in Dublin, a German nurse. We think they are still in touch. We’ve located her, and through her you’re going to locate him.’
Harry was finding this hard to take in. ‘What am I going to say to her exactly? And why me, you could send someone more persuasive, couldn’t you?’
‘Think about it, Harry. You speak the language. And the bank you’re currently working for has a branch in Frankfurt, which is only an hour away from Heidelberg, where she lives. You’re not exactly seasoned intelligence material, so I doubt she’d suspect your motives, even if the thought crossed her mind. We’ll get your contract transferred to Frankfurt and take it from there.’
‘My God, you’ve already got this thing in motion haven’t you? One thing you haven’t told me is how I get this information out of her, assuming she has it.’
Jack smiled ever so slightly and then produced a photo from his inside pocket and passed it across. ‘Her name is Sabine. She’s attractive don’t you think? Perhaps you can have an affair with her.’
The last train from Charing Cross rushed through Kent, as though impatient to reach its final destination and turn in for the night. All Harry could see was his own face and those of the other tired looking commuters reflected back from the windows.
He’d given Jack an email address, and Jack had promised to send a file on Sabine Maier the following day. His protestations on the feasibility of an affair with her had been batted to one side.
‘I’m married Jack, you seem to have overlooked that little detail,’ he’d objected.
‘Think of it as an intimate friendship then,’ was the rejoinder. ‘You need to get close to her, but only for a short time. Full blown romance won’t be necessary. We’ve arranged an introduction, it’s all in the file. Read it and get back to me.’
Fine, he thought, I’ll read it then tell him what to do with it. But even the claret and whiskey couldn’t dull a growing sense of anticipation, the reason for which eluded him. He would wake up stone cold sober tomorrow and apply some objective thought to the matter then.
He printed Sabine’s file when he got home the following evening. There’d been no word from Sophie all day, and although he’d been alone in the house many times before, tonight it seemed cold and lifeless without her. Perhaps the antidote was to eat out later, if only to be in the presence of other people. He sighed. He’d get the reading out of the way first, then formulate some appropriate response to Jack Hudson, detailing all the reasons why this proposed assignment was a total non-starter. He fixed a gin and tonic, made himself comfortable on the living room sofa, and began to read.
An hour later he’d learned that Sabine Maier had been born in Heidelberg in 1961 to a German father and Irish mother. She’d had one older sister named Monika, who had died age 20 (no reason given). Some details about education, including the fact that she’d done philosophy at Heidelberg University, then, having decided not to enter academia (which might have been the logical next step), trained as an intensive care nurse. She spent 1981 in Dublin at St. James’s hospital, where she met Michael O’Reilly when she nursed his sister Siobhan after a shooting incident. Returned to Heidelberg 1982, and since then had divided her time between nursing and a career as a jazz musician. Highly regarded as a leading female exponent of the alto saxophone on the contemporary European jazz scene.
How they’d made the connection between her and O’Reilly was not explained, nor was any reason given as to why they thought she might still be in touch with him. It seemed a little tenuous. A deliberate omission perhaps.
He read on. She had never married, no children from any relationship, and was currently single. Had an apartment in Panorama Strasse not far from the Old Town, drove a blue Golf, paid her taxes and was ostensibly a model citizen. But nothing about her personality. The photo was a full length shot of a slim dark haired woman standing outside a restaurant somewhere in Germany (the name ‘Goldene Rose’ clearly visible behind her). She wore a belted blue dress that clung enough to show a well-defined figure, and she smiled into the camera, projecting a quiet self confidence that so many Germans he’d met seemed to share. There was mischief in that smile though. She was attractive, no doubt about that. Whether he’d still think that after they’d met and she’d opened her mouth was another matter. If they met.
Now came his cover story. Yes, he worked for a bank in Frankfurt, but was also a part time writer for ‘Jazz Europe’ magazine, who wanted to do a profile of Sabine Maier for their next monthly issue. She had been contacted by the magazine and had consented to an interview. He was to attend an upcoming gig in Heidelberg and then meet her the following day at her apartment.
To assist in any gaps in his knowledge, a file of relevant interview questions and an electronic copy of ‘The Jazz Saxophone – History and Players’ had been thoughtfully attached. Any queries he might have after reading these should be listed and returned to Jack. He was advised not to present himself as an authority or critic, and just stick to the pre-prepared questions, one of which would raise the subject of her time in Ireland.
It was all rather speculative, he reflected. She was hardly likely to mention her affair with O’Reilly no matter what he asked her about Ireland. When was he supposed to be doing all this? He scanned the final page. His transfer to Frankfurt was effective in two weeks, and the gig was the week after that. How on earth had they arranged the transfer? And they’d done it in w
hat seemed like the certain knowledge of his co-operation. It would seem that refusal on his part was not anticipated. Or simply not an option.
Jack had included a phone number, with the instruction to call once he was ready for the ‘additional briefing.’ No time like the present, he thought, reaching for his mobile.
Jack answered almost immediately. ‘Well, Harry. What do you think?’
‘Tell me the rest first.’
‘Ok, it’s simple enough. We want you to get a feel for this woman. Especially her political affiliations. I need to know why she would be happy sleeping with a terrorist, however long ago it was.’
‘Fine, I’ll make that an additional question, shall I? And how do you know she did sleep with him?’
‘We tracked O’Reilly as far as Kilburn. But before we could move in, something spooked him and he left rather hurriedly. When we searched his flat we found letters between the two of them, with enough intimacy to conclude they were lovers. We dropped our pursuit shortly afterwards, because it became apparent that we weren’t the only people looking for him. We thought if we left well alone the problem might be resolved without us. And then we got sidetracked onto more important things, so unfortunately we don’t know what happened.’
‘Who else was looking?’
‘IRA colleagues. He was on their hit list apparently. We don’t know why though.’
‘Seems to be quite a lot you don’t know.’ Harry was intrigued, in spite of his earlier misgivings. ‘He could be dead then. You’re shooting in the dark, Jack, it seems to me. Incidentally, why do you want him now?’
Jack gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t need to know that. Let me summarise it for you. Sabine Maier is the only link we have. O’Reilly may well be dead, and if that’s the case it would be a good result for us, I can tell you that much. Just ask your questions, find a way of meeting her again, and see what you can find out.’
‘I see. It seems harmless enough. Can’t quite see her confessing all though.’
‘To an extent I agree with you, Harry. So there’s one last thing. We’ll give you a key to her apartment. At some point you’ll search it for any sign of contact between them. We’ll also give you a couple of CDs with some pre-loaded software that will let you download the contents of her computer, assuming she has one. You’ll probably need no more than an hour.’
It was Harry’s turn to laugh, but it was devoid of mirth. ‘Christ, that’s all I need. And if she just happens to walk in?’
‘She won’t. You’ll do it when she’s in Munich. She has a gig there the week after the Heidelberg interview. There’s no risk at all, Harry.’
What am I getting into, he wondered. Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him from deciding there and then. ‘Ok, Jack. I’ll do it. And while I’m in Frankfurt, get me somewhere nice to stay. An apartment, not a hotel.’
‘Already done. Welcome back, Harry.’
The day following his conversation with Jack, he was summoned to a meeting with the head of the bank’s Programme Office, who was responsible for overall management of resources and budgets for all the projects currently underway in London. Looking somewhat bemused, she informed him that the German branch wanted him to kick off a process initiative in Frankfurt.
‘Totally out of the blue, Harry. I know it’s short notice, but can you do it?’
Harry looked suitably surprised. ‘I think so, Gina. I’ll need to discuss it with my wife of course.’
‘Let me know as soon as you can. I’ve told them they can have you for a month, tops. You speak German, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Been a while, I’ll be quite rusty to start with. I bet most of them speak better English than I do. Shouldn’t be an issue.’
He spent the next fortnight at work ensuring that any outstanding processes and documentation were ready to be handed over to a temporary replacement. It was time consuming, and at home there was still no sign of Sophie, or even any sign that she’d been in the house. He called her mobile several times, but got only voicemail. He missed her.
He was due to fly out in two days. He would call her again this evening, and if it was still bloody voicemail he’d have no option but to leave a message, and hope she bothered to listen to it. Maybe he should just go round to Fulham and find out what was on her mind. No, she’d just use Clive and Susanna as reinforcements if it came to an argument. He could do without that.
That evening he left the office at a reasonable hour, politely declining Neil’s invitation to join him for a drink. He wanted a clear head tonight. He arrived home around 8ish, and was surprised to see lights on as he pulled into the drive. He had a moment of doubt – hopefully that was his wife inside, and not a team of burglars turning the place over. Could be Sabine Maier of course, mounting a pre-emptive strike. Only one way to find out.
It was Sophie. She rose from the sofa as soon as she saw him, walked across the room and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight.
‘Harry, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a bit of a bitch. Forgive me?’
For a quiet moment he revelled in the warmth and smell of her. ‘I missed you. Are you ok?’
She raised her head and kissed him. ‘Yes, you?’
‘Sure. What about your test?’
‘I’m clear Harry. I just freaked out when you told me, that’s all. Needed time to think.’
‘Thank god you’re ok. And now you’ve had time to think, what’s the verdict?’
She gently thumped his ribs. ‘You’re not on trial. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to make love to you. But I was being stupid. If we both had it, what difference would it make? And if you picked it up years ago, and I’m clear, then it amounts to the same thing. Apparently I’d have to be pretty rough with you in bed for the risk to be real.’
He smiled. ‘How rough, exactly?’
‘Rough enough to draw blood. Not exactly my style, is it?’
He moved his hands to caress her waist, and she pressed her body against him. ‘I’ve forgotten your style, actually.’
She laughed. ‘Time I refreshed your memory then. Let’s go upstairs.’
They ordered a takeaway, Chicken Jalfrezi with dhaal and chapatties, washed down with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc.
‘Tesco’s finest, quite nice too,’ remarked Harry as he filled Sophie’s glass.
She took a sip. ‘Mmm, not bad. You know that people with hepatitis shouldn’t drink, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I’ve had the lifestyle advice. No alcohol, but sex is ok in a monogamous relationship. I’ve told the other women it’s over, so you’ve nothing to worry about in that department.’
She gave him a quizzical look, but didn’t bite. ‘Some changes might be a good idea, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘No, you’re right. I’m not ignoring it. When I get back from Germany we’ll organise a program of pure living, with minimal indulgence. They’ll probably canonize me.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were going to Germany. When?’
‘In two days. Which is one of the reasons I was trying to call you. They want me to do some work in the Frankfurt office. No more than a month. Sorry to spring it on you, but it was sprung on me too.’
She considered for a moment. ‘Well I suppose I can spare you. I’ll take a few days leave and come and see you. I’m sure there are lots of pretty German towns we can visit.’
‘I’m sure there are.’ His stomach flipped at this first unforeseen complication. ‘That’s a great idea. Let’s drink to it. Prosit!’
Chapter 12
Harry stood on the Old Bridge spanning the Neckar River, looking up at Heidelberg Castle. It was dark now, but the famous old castle in its elevated position in the foothills above the town was clearly visible. Its fortifications and towers were illuminated by unseen spotlights, which imparted a soft golden glow to the aged brown stone. It formed a singular and imposing structure on this side of the river, with only the blackness of the surrounding forest for company.
The
Old Town lay at its feet. He’d walked nearly a mile from the tram stop at Bismarckplatz, down a wide, straight Main Street, or Hauptstrasse, to get to the bridge. The place was buzzing with tourists, snapping the sights and each other, before almost invariably ducking into one of the many bars or traditional sausage and sauerkraut restaurants. The day had been mild, but the night wind blowing across the river held a sharp chill heralding the approach of winter.
Maybe it’s just normal October weather, he thought, wrapping his scarf a little tighter. He took a last look at the castle and then walked off the bridge and back into town. Turning left at the Hauptstrasse he continued on, scanning the side streets until he found the one he wanted. The Jazzhaus was halfway down.
He went down some stairs to what appeared to be a converted beer cellar. It was a narrow and intimate venue, with a stage at one end and groups of small tables filling the rest of the space, with a bar behind them. He decided to sit as far back from the stage as possible, and was glad he’d come early. The place probably couldn’t hold much more than 50 people, and it was half full already. He checked his watch. Sabine was due on stage at 9pm, one hour to wait. He found an unoccupied table near the bar, and signalled the waitress.
She took his order. ‘Are you alone?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘You won’t be for long. We have a very good group tonight, and by 9 we will be full up. Hope you don’t mind sharing.’ She smiled and went off to fetch his beer.
She was right. By 9 it was standing room only. A couple who’d driven across from Mannheim had joined him, both jazz enthusiasts. When they found out he was from England they regaled him with tales of visits to Ronnie Scott's club in London, and some of the famous names they’d seen there. He was pleased that he actually knew some of the names, if not their music. He decided not to pretend he knew more than he did.
‘I’m no expert, but tonight’s group was recommended to me, especially the sax player.’
‘Ah yes, Sabine Maier. That’s why we are here. You will like her.’
