In the Evil Day

Anselm didn’t register for a moment that she’d spoken to him in German. She had never spoken to him in German since the introductions on her first day.

She hadn’t turned her body away from him, only her head.

She was asking him out. The words, the language of her body.

‘So bald wie moglich,’ he said.

Carla turned her head and looked into his eyes and nodded. No smile.

He went back to his office and opened Tilders’ pouch. An audiotape and a sticker with the logbook code DT/HH /361/02 and the words: Bruynzeel amp; Speelman Chemicals. It was Serrano at his hotel. A direct line.

Yes?

Serrano.

Yes?

This is worse than I thought. Our friend, have you got any anxiety there?

Me? Anxiety? What about?

Records he might have kept.

From me, nothing. Otherwise, how would I know?

Speaking in German, neither of them native speakers.

Would he keep his own records?

Well, he wasn’t mad then.

He wouldn’t?

I don’t know. He might have. He was semi-government. Governments like records.

I must ask you again. This film, does it mean anything?

A silence.

I could guess but I don’t want to.

What are we talking about?

Nothing.

You know what it could be?

What are you? The tax department? Forget it.

The Jews are putting pressure on us. They want our dealings with you too.

Silence. Then Serrano said:

Are you there?

They want what?

Records. Anything. Everything.

You have records?

No.

Well, just shut up. It’s all bluff. These things pass. Just keep your mouth shut.Trilling’s connections, there’s no problem.

You can talk to him?

I’ll see. Things in the past, no one wants to talk about the past.

This is in the present. Talk to him. About the Jews, I thought you were close to them?

Silence again, then the other man said:

Werner Kael gets close to his customers, does he? Who’s spoken to you?

He’s using the name Spence.

Yes, I know him. Kael would know him.

Kael says they want to rub us out and they want the assets.

Probably correct. If the Jews think something can damage them, they scorch the earth. But first they take the wheat. They must think you are hiding the wheat.

Nonsense. Talk to Trilling. I’ll ring later.

Ring tonight. Don’t worry so much. People are in deep here, it has to go away.

Serrano sighed.

We don’t want to be put away.

The other man laughed.

You personally can relax. They never put the accountants away. They should but they don’t.

Anselm rang O’Malley on the new number. In his view, he could see that the sun was out, the lake was strewn with glitter. A glass tourist boat caught the light.

56

…LONDON…

Three men kidnapped in Beirut in 1993. Paul Kaskis and John Anselm, American journalists, David Riccardi, Irish photographer.

Caroline read the clippings again. The Times described Kaskis as ‘foreign correspondent and former military affairs correspondent for the Washington newsletter Informed Sources’. Anselm was a ‘freelance veteran of news flashpoints from Somalia to Sri Lanka’. Riccardi was called an ‘award-winning battle zone photographer’. The kidnappers were thought to be ‘anti-American Hezbollah extremists’.

John Anselm said Kaskis was murdered. Caroline skimmed. There was no mention of the death of Kaskis. The last clipping, dated 17 July 1994, said Anselm and Riccardi had appeared at the US Embassy in the early morning of the previous day.

So Anselm and Riccardi were never interviewed, never told their stories, didn’t write about them.

Caroline closed her eyes. The time to stop this was now. She had fobbed off Halligan for the last time. Now she should tell him it had looked promising and then it had evaporated.

It would be humiliating. More humiliation, after being treated like a hooker-fucked over and given money.

She caught herself rubbing her hands, something she did without thinking when she was feeling stressed. Her cook’s hands. Her father once said her brother had pianist’s hands. Richard had no musical ability, couldn’t whistle Happy Birthday. After Sothebys sacked her, her mother suggested cooking school. Her father was reading the paper, From behind it, he said, ‘Good idea. The Digby women all have cook’s hands.’ The Digbys were her mother’s family. After that, she took every chance to study the hands of the Digby women but she saw no sign of domestic- staff uniformity.

No more humiliations. She’d had her share. Think.

A man in drag had tried to kill Mackie. Only Colley knew about the meeting. She had set up the meeting and a man in drag had tried to kill Mackie.

And money appeared in her account. Colley could mock her because he had a doctored tape of their meeting. No one would believe her story.

The time to stop this thing? Colley arranged the money, arranged for the money in the briefcase the slight, dark woman gave her.

But Colley didn’t arrange for Mackie to die at the head of the escalator. Colley was a slimy old hack who picked through celebrities’ garbage and followed up-market call girls to see who their customers were, but he wasn’t an arranger of killings.

No. For personal gain, he had told someone about the film and that someone had arranged to get it and kill Mackie and compromise her.

Who had Colley told?