In the Evil Day

failed them.

Two policemen arrived, one talking into his throat mike. The woman was on her feet, nose bleeding a little, blood black in the artificial light, her right hand massaging her breastbone. Her hair had come loose and she had to brush it back with her left hand. She looked much younger, like a teenager.

A third policeman appeared, told the crowd to get moving, the excitement was over.

The woman was telling her story to the two cops. They were shaking their heads.

Anselm looked at Tilders, who was looking at his watch. Anselm felt the inner trembling, a bad sign. He went over to the newspaper kiosk, bought an Abendblatt. The economy was slowing, the metalworkers’ union was making threats, another political bribery scandal in the making. He went back, stood behind Tilders.

‘How long?’

‘Five minutes.’

Serrano and Zander were arguing, the short man’s hands moving, Zander tossing his head, arms slack at his sides. Serrano made a dismissive gesture, final.

Anselm said, ‘I think we’re at the limit here.’

A tall man was coming through the crowd, a man wearing a cap, a blue-collar worker by his appearance. The throng parted for him. In one hand, he had the gypsy boy by the scruff of the neck, in the other, he had the photographer’s case, held up as if weightless.

The woman and the policemen went towards them. When they were a few metres away, the boy squirmed like a cat, turned towards his captor, stamped on his left instep, punched him in the stomach. The man’s face contorted, he lost his grip on his captive and the boy was gone, flying back the way he had first fled.

‘What can you do?’ said the man to the woman. ‘The scum are taking over the whole world. Is this yours?’

Serrano came up behind the woman. He was flushed, had money in his hand, notes, a wad, offered it. The man in the cap shrugged, uncertain. ‘It’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘It’s a citizen’s duty.’

‘Many thanks,’ said Serrano, taking the case. ‘Take the money. You deserve it.’

The man took the money, looked at it, put it in his hip pocket. ‘I’ll buy the children something,’ he said. He turned and walked back the way he’d come, limping a little from the stomp.

Tilders went on his way. Anselm forced himself to take his time leaving, found the car parked in a no- standing zone, engine running. In Mittelweg, Fat Otto, the man who had bumped the innocent commuter into Zander’s path, said, ‘Kid’s something, isn’t he? Deserves a bonus.’

‘Deserves to be jailed now before he’s even more dangerous,’ said Anselm.

His mobile rang. Tilders, the expressionless tone. ‘They got about fifty pages. Out of two hundred, they guess.’

‘That’s good. Get it printed.’

‘The reason it took three to transport the case,’ said Tilders, ‘is probably the diamonds.’

‘Ah.’

Anselm took out his mobile and rang Bowden International. O’Malley was in this time. ‘About fifty pages. Out of perhaps two hundred.’

‘Good on you. As much as could be expected. I’ll send someone.’

This is the moment, Anselm thought. ‘We’ll need the account settled in full on delivery,’ he said. ‘Including bonus.’

‘What’s this? We don’t pay our bills?’

Anselm closed his eyes. He’d never wanted anything to do with the money side. ‘No offence. Things are a little tight. You know how it goes.’

A pause. ‘Give our man the invoice. He’ll give you a cheque.’ Pause. ‘Accept our cheque, compadre?’

‘With deep and grovelling gratitude.’

Anselm put the phone away, relieved. They were sitting in the traffic. ‘Any takers for a drink?’ he said. Fat Otto looked at him, eye flick.

‘I’m offering to buy you lot a drink,’ Anselm said. He knew what the man was thinking. ‘Grasp the idea, can you?’

They went to the place on Sierichstrasse. He’d been there alone a few times, sat in the dark corner, fighting his fear of being in public, his paranoia about people, about the knowingness he saw in the eyes of strangers.

4

…HAMBURG…

In the closing deep-purple light of the day, Anselm turned the corner and saw the Audi parked across the narrow street from his front gate. He registered someone in the driver’s seat and the jangle of alarm went through him, tightened the muscles of his face, his scalp, retracted his testicles.

He kept walking, feeling his heart drumming, the tightness in his chest. Not twice, not in a quiet street, not in a peaceful country. It wouldn’t happen to him again. To him, no. Not here, not to him. No.

Just one person in the car, a man, there was another car further down, a BMW, empty.

The driver of the Audi got out. Not a man, a woman in a raincoat, shoulder-length hair, rimless glasses she was taking off.

‘John Anselm?’

He didn’t answer, eyes going to the BMW, back to her car.

‘Alex Koenig,’ she said. ‘I’ve been writing to you.’ She closed the car door, opened it again, slammed it, came around the front. ‘Damn door,’ she said. ‘It’s a new car. I was about to drive off.’

A shudder passed through him, an aftershock. He remembered the letters. Doctor Alex Koenig from Hamburg University had written to him twice asking for a meeting. He had not replied, thrown the letters away. People wanted to ask him questions about Beirut and he didn’t want to answer them.

‘I thought you were a man,’ he said.

‘A man?’

‘Your first name.’

She smiled, a big mouth, too big for her face. ‘That’s a problem? If I were a man?’

‘No,’ said Anselm. ‘The problem at the moment is how you got this address.’

‘David Riccardi gave it to me.’

‘He shouldn’t have done that,’ Anselm said. ‘You stalk people, is that what you do?’

She had a long face and a long nose and she had assumed a chastised look, eyelids at half-mast, a sinner in a third-rate Italian religious painting. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you that impression.’

‘Well, goodbye,’ Anselm said.

‘I’d really like to talk to you.’

‘No. There’s nothing I want to talk about.’

‘I’d appreciate it very much,’ she said quietly, head on one side.

He was going to say no again, but for some reason-drink, loneliness, perversity-he turned, unbalanced by liquor, and held the gate open for her.

In the house, standing in the empty panelled hall, taking off her raincoat, she looked around and said, ‘This is impressive.’

‘I’m glad you’re impressed.’ He led the way into the sitting room, put on lights. He rarely used the large room, with its doors onto the terrace. He lived in the kitchen and the upstairs study. ‘A drink? I’m drinking whisky.’

‘Thank you. With water, please.’

He poured the drinks in the kitchen, gave himself three fingers. When he returned with the tray, she was looking at the family photographs hung between the deep windows. She was tall, almost his height, carried herself upright.

‘How many generations in this picture?’ she said, turning her head to him.