‘And when do you want to set off?’
‘Sometime after midnight.’
Jericho stared at him, then Yoyo, then Chen.
‘Shouldn’t we perhaps—’
‘That’s the soonest we can do it,’ said Tu apologetically. ‘I’ve still got a dinner that I can’t put off, not for love nor money. It’s in an hour’s time.’
‘Shouldn’t we try calling Donner first? How do you even know for sure that he’s still in Berlin? Perhaps he’s gone away somewhere. Gone underground.’
‘You want to warn him we’re coming?’
‘I just think—’
‘That’s a lousy idea, Owen. Let’s say he answers the phone and believes you. Then we’ve lost him. You won’t have time to catch your breath and ask questions in the time it would take him to disappear. And besides, what else are you going to do? If you sit around here in Pudong you’re just going to be making a dent in all my sofa cushions.’
‘So you expect us to go to Berlin,’ croaked Hongbing. ‘In the middle of the night?’
‘I have beds on board.’
‘But—’
‘You’re not coming anyway. Just the rapid response team: Owen, Yoyo and me.’
‘Why not me?’ asked Chen, suddenly outraged.
‘It would be too tiring for you. No, no arguments! A small, agile troop is just right for this kind of thing. Nimble and agile. In the meantime, I’m sure Joanna can drown you in tea and give you foot massages.’
Jericho tried to picture Tu as agile and nimble.
‘And if we don’t find Donner?’ he asked.
‘Then we’ll wait for him.’
‘What if he doesn’t come?’
‘Then we’ll just fly back.’
‘And who,’ he asked, fuelled by a dark suspicion, ‘might the pilot be?’
Tu raised his eyebrows. ‘Who do you think? Me.’
* * *
A few kilometres away and several metres higher up, Xin looked down on the city at night.
After a traffic jam had finally slowed the blasted dump truck down to a walking pace, he had jumped off, caught the metro to Pudong – given that there was no free COD in sight – put the last few hundred metres to the Jin Mao Tower behind him at a running pace, and then crossed the lobby as if he had taken leave of his senses. He was on a mission to satiate his hunger for something sweet, and there was a chocolate boutique in the foyer boasting pralines for the price of haute couture. Xin had purchased a pack of them, half of which he plundered just during the journey upwards. Chocolate, he had realised, helped him to think. After arriving in his suite he had thrown off his clothes, rushed into the huge marble bathroom, turned the shower on and almost rubbed his skin away in his attempt to cleanse himself of the filth of Xaxu and the stain of his defeat.
Yoyo had got away from him yet again, and this time he didn’t have the faintest idea where she might be. The answer machine was on at Jericho’s place. Fuelled by a surge of hate, Xin contemplated blowing up the detective agency. Then he discarded the thought. He couldn’t afford to be vindictive in his current situation, and besides, after the disaster in Hongkou he didn’t have the appropriate weapons. What’s more, it was clear to him that there was no real reason to punish someone purely because they had exercised their God-given right to defend themselves.
Cleansed, enveloped in a cocoon of terry towelling and at an agreeable distance from the city, Xin tried to impose some order on the hornet swarm of his thoughts. First, he picked up the clothes lying all around him and dumped them in the washing basket. Then he glanced over at the ravaged box of pralines. Accustomed to subjecting his consumption of any kind of food to a master plan, and one which was intended to maintain the symmetry of what was on offer for as long as possible, Xin shuddered at what he had done. He normally ate from the outside, working his way in. There should be no excessive decimation, and the relationship of the components to one another had to remain constant. Just devouring everything on one side of the packaging was an unthinkable act! But that was exactly what he had done. He’d pounced on it like an animal, like one of those degenerate creatures in Quyu.
He sank down into the sprawling armchair in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and watched as dusk enveloped Shanghai. The city was sprinkled with multicoloured lights, an impressive spectacle despite the lousy weather, but all Xin could see was the betrayal of his aesthetic principles. Jericho, Yoyo, Yoyo, Jericho. The transgressions in the box needed to be corrected. Where was Yoyo? Where was the detective? Who had been driving the silver flying machine? The box, the box! Unless he created order there he would drift right into insanity. He began to rearrange the remaining pralines according to the Rorschach style, starting from scratch again and again until an axis ran through the box, a stable, regulatory element, on either side of which the remaining pralines mirrored each other. After that he felt better, and he began to take stock of things. There was no longer any point in following Yoyo and the detective. In just a few days everything would be over anyway, and then they could talk all they wanted. They were no longer important. The operation was the priority now, and there was only one person who could still endanger the plan. Xin wondered what conclusions Jericho had drawn from the fragments of the message that he, Kenny Xin, had sent to the heads of Hydra after tracking down the Berlin restaurant of a certain Andre Donner, recommending his immediate liquidation. Unfortunately he had attached a modified decoding program to the mail, an improved, quicker version. Every few months, the codes were exchanged for new ones. The fact that Yoyo had intercepted this very email had been the worst possible luck.
And there was nothing that could be done about it.
Andre Donner. Nice name, nice try.
He dialled a number on his mobile.
‘Hydra,’ he said.
‘Have you eliminated the problem?’
As always, their conversation was transmitted in code. In just a few words, Xin reported on what had happened. His conversation partner fell silent for a while. Then he said:
‘That’s a mess, Kenny. You’ve done nothing you can be proud of.’
‘Those that live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,’ responded Xin illtemperedly. ‘If you’d implemented a safe algorithm, we wouldn’t even be in this situation.’
‘It is safe. And that’s not the issue here.’
‘The issue is whatever I consider worthy of being the issue.’
‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘Oh really?’ Xin roared with laughter. ‘You’re my contact man, or had you already forgotten that? Just a glorified Dictaphone. If I want to hear a lecture, I’ll call him.’
The other man cleared his throat indignantly. ‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘The same thing I’ve already suggested. Our friend in Berlin has to be got rid of. Anything less would be irresponsible. And besides, the address of the restaurant is in the goddamn email. If Jericho comes up with the idea of getting in touch with him, then we really have a problem!’
‘You want to go to Berlin?’
‘As soon as possible. I’m not leaving that to anyone else.’
‘Wait.’ The line went dead for a moment. Then the voice came back. ‘We’ll book a night flight for you.’
‘What about backup?’
‘Already on its way. The specialist is setting off in advance as requested. Try to be more careful with the personnel and equipment this time.’
Xin curled his lip contemptuously. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘No, after all, I’m just the Dictaphone,’ said the voice icily. ‘But he’s worried. So make sure you finish the job this time.’
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
On 21 April, Sid Bruford and two of his friends made a pilgrimage to an event in Calgary, where EMCO had proposed to outline a future that no longer existed. No one harboured any illusions that Gerald Palstein would announce anything other than the end of oil-sand mining in Alberta, which meant that all hopes were now focused
on strategies for redevelopment, consolidation, or at the very least a social security plan. It was in hope of this that they were standing there, aside from the fact that it was only right and proper to be present at your own burial.
The plaza, a square park in front of the company headquarters, was filling slowly but steadily with people. As if mocking their misery, a bright yellow sun shone down on the crowd from a steel blue sky, creating a climate of new beginnings and confidence. Bruford, unwilling to abandon himself to the general bitterness, had decided to make the best of the situation. It was part of the dance of death to make fatalism look like self-confidence, to stock up on the required quota of beer and to avoid violence wherever possible. They talked about baseball for a while and stayed towards the back of the crowd, where the air was less saturated with sweat. Bruford held up his mobile and circled, trying to capture the atmosphere around them. Two pleasingly scantily clad girls came into sight, noticed him, and then started to pose, giggling. A complex of empty buildings stretched out behind them, the headquarters of a now-bankrupt firm for drilling technology, if he remembered rightly. The girls liked him – that was as sure a bet as the closure of Imperial Oil. He had handsome, almost Italian-looking features, and the sculpture of his body was his incentive for wearing little more than shorts and a muscle shirt, even in frosty temperatures. He lingered on them with the phone’s camera and laughed. The girls teased. After a few minutes he turned back to his friends for a second, then when he looked round at the girls again, he realised that they were now filming him. Flattered, he began to play the fool, pulling faces, swaggering around, and even his friends felt encouraged to join in. None of them was behaving particularly maturely, or like people who had just had their sole source of income taken from them. The girls began, amidst fits of laughter, to enact scenes from Hollywood films, prompting the boys to respond to their pantomime repertoire, calling out the solutions to one another boisterously. The day was shaping up to be more fun than expected. Besides, whenever Bruford examined his reflection in the mirror he always thought he would be better placed in the film industry than the Cold Lake open-cast mine. Perhaps he would even be grateful to EMCO one day. His mood soared up to the April sun on the wings of Icarus, with the result that he almost missed the small, bald-headed oil manager climbing up onto the platform.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was time. Bruford turned his head just in time to see Palstein stumble. The man steadied himself, wobbled and then collapsed. Security personnel rushed past, forming a wall against the chanting crowd. Bruford craned his neck. Was it a heart attack, a circulatory collapse, a stroke? He pushed forwards, holding his mobile up above the heads of the agitated crowd. It was an assassination attempt, it was obvious! Hadn’t people seen enough of that kind of thing in films! The stumble, a mishap. But something had jerked the manager around before he had fallen to the floor. A shot, what else? Someone must have shot at Palstein – that had to be it!
What Bruford didn’t know was that twenty minutes before the incident, while he was filming the girls, one of the security cameras had captured him for just a few seconds, albeit blurred and out of focus. When the police came to analyse the transmitted material, they simply overlooked him.
But the people from Greenwatch didn’t.
* * *
He could still hardly believe they had managed to track him down from just that snippet of film, on the snowball principle, as Loreena Keowa, the high-cheekboned, not particularly pretty and yet somehow sweat-inducingly arousing native Indian girl had explained to him. Greenwatch had quickly come to the conclusion that the men next to him, who were easier to make out on the film, must be his friends, and then one of them had said something to an old man in the row in front of them. It was Jack ‘pain-in-the-ass’ Becker of course, he could still remember that, because Becker had wound him up no end with his sentimentality. Unlike the others, Becker, who had worn his Imperial Oil overalls that day, had been captured sharply on the film, and Keowa clearly had contacts in the human resources department of the company. She had identified him, called him and showed him the recording, upon which ‘what’s-in-it-for-me’ Becker had named both Bruford’s friends and Bruford himself.
And now he was sitting here. It was a scary world! Anyone could be tracked down. On the other hand, there were worse things than sitting next to Loreena in her rented Dodge, fifty Canadian dollars richer, watching her as she loaded his blurry videos onto her computer. Loreena in her chic clothes, which didn’t seem quite right for an eco-girl. A number of things were going through his head. Whether he should have asked for more money. What Greenwatch intended to do with the films. Why native Indian hair was always so shiny, and what he would need to do to make his that shiny for his career in Hollywood.
‘Shouldn’t we go to the police?’ he heard himself suggest. A sensible question, he thought. Loreena stared at the display, concentrating on the transfer process.
‘Rest assured, we will,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, but when?’
‘It doesn’t matter when,’ grumbled Loreena’s companion from the back seat.
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head and made an expression of genuine concern, proof of his acting talents; he’d always known it, it was what he’d been born to do. ‘I don’t want to get dragged into anything. We’re obligated to tell them really, aren’t we?’
‘So why didn’t you do it?’
‘I didn’t think of it. But now that we’re talking about it—’
‘Yes, you’re right of course, we should reconsider the deal.’ Loreena turned her head towards him. ‘Do we know whether the material is worth fifty dollars? Perhaps there’s not even anything on there.’
Bruford hesitated. ‘But that would be your problem.’
‘But then perhaps it’s worth a hundred dollars, you see?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think, Sid? On the condition that a certain someone stops asking questions and worrying about the police?’
Bruford suppressed a grin. That was exactly what he had wanted her to say.
‘Sure,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think that could be the case.’
She reached into her jacket and brought out another fifty, as if she had reckoned on this development. Bruford took it and put it with the other one.
‘There seems to be quite a nest in your jacket,’ he said.
‘No, Sid, there were only two. And perhaps they’ll have to go back in if I come to the conclusion that you can’t be trusted.’
‘Then I’ll just take something else.’ Now he couldn’t help but grin. ‘You have other good things inside your jacket that come in twos.’
Loreena glanced at her companion, who looked willing to resort to violence.
‘Okay,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No problem. It was a pleasure meeting you.’
He understood. With a shrug of his shoulders he opened the passenger door.
‘Oh, and one more thing, Sid, just in case you do decide to call the police in a sudden passion of loyalty to the law: the money in your pocket constitutes withholding evidence for the purpose of your own personal gain. That’s an offence, do you understand?’
Bruford stopped short. He suddenly felt deeply offended. With one leg already on the pavement, he leaned back in towards her.
‘Are you trying to threaten me?’
‘Now, you listen up, Sid—’
‘No, you listen up! My job has gone down the crapper. I’m trying to get what I can, but a deal is a deal! Is that clear? I may have a loose tongue, but that doesn’t mean I shit all over people. So kiss my ass and look after your own business.’
* * *
‘What a snitch,’ said the intern contemptuously as Bruford set off down the street without looking back at them. ‘For another hundred dollars he’d have flogged his own grandmother.’
Loreena watched him go.
‘No, he was right. We insulted him. If anyone behaved dubiously then it’s us.’
‘While we’re on the subject – shouldn’t we hand this footage over to the cops?’
Loreena hesitated. She hated the idea of doing something illegal, but she was a journalist, and journalists thrived on having a head start. Without giving an answer, she connected her computer to the in-car system. The Dodge she had rented at the airport had a large display.
‘Come up front,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a look at what good old Sid has to offer first.’
‘It’s a bit of a blind bargain.’
‘Sometimes you have to take risks.’
They saw a blurred panning shot, a crowd of people, food stalls, the headquarters of Imperial Oil, a podium. Then Bruford’s friends, grinning broadly into the camera. Bruford had been filming straight ahead initially, then he started to swivel round. Two young women came into shot, noticed that they were being filmed and started fooling around.
‘They’re having fun,’ laughed the intern. ‘Pretty hot, too. Especially the blonde.’
‘Hey, you’re supposed to be paying attention to the background.’
‘I can do both.’
‘Oh, sure. Men and multi-tasking.’
They fell silent. Bruford had used up a lot of memory space on the two backwater beauties’ performance, in the course of which several people walked into shot, three policemen appeared, two of them took off again, and one took up his post in the shadow of the building. The girls contorted themselves into a clumsy performance, the significance of which Loreena couldn’t decipher at first, until the intern whistled through his teeth.
‘Not bad at all! Do you recognise it?’
‘No.’
‘That’s from Alien Speedmaster 7!’
‘From what?’
‘You don’t know Alien Speedmaster 7?’ His amazement seemed to know no bounds. ‘Don’t you ever go to the cinema?’
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