trigger.
It worked. Eyes closed against the muzzle flash, he saw its furnace flame through his lids, felt it burn his face, felt the man go limp, felt hot liquid in his mouth and his eyes and up his nostrils.
After a time, ears ringing, he pushed the body away and raised his shoulders from the darkening mulberry carpet.
‘Mrs Shawn?’
No reply.
He got to his knees.
She was on her back, one leg folded under her, one outstretched. He looked at her and knew she was dead. He didn’t need to feel for a pulse. He did.
She was dead. He’d shot her in the chest. When the man was on him and he’d pulled the trigger he’d shot Mrs Shawn.
She would have been trying to help him. He remembered her shout. She’d shouted and then she would have been trying to help him.
He got up, went into the kitchen, wiped Zeke’s shotgun, went back and put it into his friend’s hands. He had to bend them, rearrange him. He wanted to kiss Zeke goodbye, kiss him on what remained of his face, but he didn’t. Zeke wouldn’t have wanted that.
Then, quickly, he kissed Zeke’s throat. It was still warm.
He rang Christa, had a look around, found the coke stash, opened Brett Shawn’s big briefcase, a small suitcase.
A large yellow envelope holding three stacks of American $100 bills, perhaps $20,000. Three yellow envelopes, papers, two telephone books of papers. A video cassette with a piece of paper taped to it, letters, numbers written in a slanty hand.
Niemand took the envelopes and the cassette and went out to the Mercedes, Colt in his hand. No sign of the intruders’ friends or the Israeli next door. He put the stolen goods in the safe box under the floor. Then he went back inside and did a line of coke while he waited, two lines. He thought it was a weakness to use drugs, could take them or leave them, but he couldn’t bear the idea of wasting coke on the police.
He was flushing the rest down the sink when the telephone rang.
He let it ring, dried his hands, then he couldn’t bear it and picked it up. Long-distance call.
‘Shawn?’
‘Mr Shawn’s had an accident. He’s dead.’
A silence.
‘And you are?’ An accent. German?
Niemand gave it some thought. ‘An employee,’ he said.
‘Shawn had some papers. And a tape. You have them?’
‘Yes.’
‘I assume you’ll be bringing them out?’
More thought. ‘What’s it worth?’ Niemand said.
‘For the London delivery, the agreed sum. Ten thousand pounds. And expenses. Return airfares and so on. Say another five thousand.’
‘Twenty thousand,’ said Niemand. ‘And expenses.’
‘Done. When you get to London, this is what you do…’
He should have asked for more.
2
…HAMBURG…
Tilders rang just before four. Anselm was on the balcony, smoking, looking at the choppy lake, the Aussen- Alster, massaging the lifeless fingers of his left hand, thinking about his brother and money, about how short the summers were becoming, shorter every year. Beate tapped on the glass door, offered the cordless telephone.
Anselm flicked the cigarette, went to the door and took the phone.
‘Got him,’ said Tilders.
‘Yes?’ said Anselm. Tilders was talking about a man called Serrano. ‘Where?’
‘
‘Train? This boy?’
‘Yes. Three of them now.’
‘How’s that?’
‘There’s a woman. Otto says the muscle went out and bought a case and she’s carrying it.’
Serrano’s bodyguard was a Hungarian called Zander, also known as Sanders, Sweetman, Kendall. These were just the names they knew.
‘Call back in five,’ said Anselm. ‘I’ve got to consult the client.’
He went to his desk and rang O’Malley in England. O’Malley wasn’t in, would be contacted and told to ring immediately. Anselm went back to the balcony, lit another Camel, watched the ferry docking. The day was darkening now and rain was in the air. Above the sturdy craft, a mob of gulls hovered, jostling black-eyed predators eyeing the boat as if it contained edible things, which it did. He had a dim memory of being taken on his first ferry ride on the Alster, on the day the
He heard the door open behind him.
‘Herr Anselm?’
The pale bookkeeper. Could an approach be more obsequious? What made some people so timid? History, Anselm thought, history. He turned. ‘Herr Brinkman.’
‘May I raise a matter, Herr Anselm?’ Brinkman bit his lower lip. Some colour came into it.
‘Raise it to the skies.’
Brinkman looked around for eavesdroppers, spoke in an even lower voice. ‘I don’t like to bring this up, Herr Anselm, but you are the senior person here. Herr Baader does not seem to grasp the urgency. The landlord is making serious threats about the arrears. And there are other problems.’
‘He’ll be back soon. I’ll impress the urgency of this on him,’ said Anselm.
Baader owned the business. He was in the West Indies on honeymoon. Honeymoon number four, was it five?
‘There is more,’ said Brinkman.
‘Yes?’
Brinkman moved his head from side to side, bit his lower lip.
‘What is it?’
‘Herr Baader wants me to charge certain expenses to the firm which we cannot justify as business expenditure. I could go to jail.’
Anselm wasn’t in the least surprised. ‘Have you mentioned your concerns to him?’
Brinkman nodded. ‘He doesn’t hear me.’
‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘Herr Anselm, Herr Baader interferes in the payments.’
‘How?’
‘He signs some cheques. Others don’t come back to me.’
‘I’ll talk to him. I promise.’
Duty done, fearful, Brinkman nodded. Anselm turned back to the window and thought about Baader and his lusts, his juggling of the accounts.
