‘How can that be?’
‘Can I say…what can I say?’
‘Say I could come around and see you. Or the reverse. Or anything.’
‘Come around and see me, I’ll say that?’
Anselm’s heart lifted and he closed his eyes.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘that’s very good. About when would that be? The time doesn’t matter much to me.’
‘Whenever your work is, well, after work, whenever. I’m at home, I’m here. So. Any time. From now.’
‘From now is fine. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Yes. That’s good.’
‘I’ll just settle the bill here, get going. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
A moment.
‘I could pick you up,’ she said.
‘No, I’ll get a cab, it’s easy.’
‘Fine. See you soon.’
‘Soon.’
He put the phone down.
This elation was stupid, he knew that. He saw her face. The phone rang again. Tilders, the dry voice:
‘Our friends are meeting again. The same place. In an hour.’
Kael and Serrano.
‘I have something new,’ Tilders said. ‘Worth trying perhaps.’
‘Two minutes,’ said Anselm. He rang O’Malley.
‘The person in Brussels is dead,’ Anselm said. ‘Apparent suicide by gunshot. Our friends here are meeting again. We can try.’
There was a pause. Anselm could hear background noises. Perhaps O’Malley was drinking Krug alone. A voice said, ‘British Airways flight 643 to London…’ ‘Sad news,’ said O’Malley. ‘But no thanks. I’m happy to stick with what I’ve got.’
Anselm said goodbye, sat for a moment. The light was going. He rang Tilders.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’
‘It is the same as the first time. I’ll call you.’
‘I’d rather not wait.’
‘Otto will pick you up outside in twenty minutes.’
65
… HAMBURG…
They sat in the Mercedes, parked at almost exactly the same place as the first time.
‘When?’ said Anselm.
‘Four forty-five,’ said Fat Otto. ‘A few minutes.’
Otto liked to speak English. He had once worked in England, in restaurants.
Under the ashen, dying sky, the lake was still, pewter, mist on the far shore. A lone swan came into view, imperious in its bearing.
The words came to Anselm from his father and he said, ‘And always I think of my friend who/amid the apparition of bombs/saw on the lyric lake/the single perfect swan.’
Fat Otto looked at him. ‘What?’
‘Edwin Rolfe. A poem.’
Fat Otto looked away, looked at his watch.
‘He almost missed this appointment,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Serrano. There was trouble about the hotel safe.’
Anselm’s mind had turned to Alex, the Italianate face, the full lower lip she sometimes bit when she was listening.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Something about the keys.’
‘What’s that got to do with Serrano?’
Fat Otto’s mobile rang. He listened.
‘
’ ‘Serrano’s getting on,’ he said.
‘What have the keys got to do with Serrano?’
‘His briefcase was in the safe. He couldn’t get it while they were arguing about the keys.’
‘Briefcase? The same one?’
‘No, he has another.’ Otto looked at his watch again. ‘Paul has to get close with this new gadget.’
Anselm’s mind had returned to Alex but something passed over his skin like a touch, like walking into a cobweb, cold.
Serrano’s briefcase in the safe. Trouble over the safe keys.
Bruynzeel dead.
There was something wrong here.
‘Ring Tilders,’ he said. ‘Tell him not to get on.’
Fat Otto opened his mouth.
‘Do it,’ said Anselm. ‘Now.’
Fat Otto closed his mouth, tapped a number into his mobile.
Anselm watched Otto’s face. Otto’s eyes flashed at him, away.
Anselm’s mouth was dry. Something very wrong.
‘It’s off,’ said Otto. ‘He’s switched it off. Interference, he’s scared of that.’
Anselm closed his eyes. He felt sweat on his forehead, his skin was prickling, the car felt intolerably hot.
Otto was looking at him. Anselm shook his head. ‘
’ Otto shrugged. ‘I get them too,’ he said. ‘Before plane trips, I always get them.’ He turned his attention to the black box.
They sat and listened to crackling, to static. Anselm was rubbing his fingers, the premonition wouldn’t go away, he felt panic coming.
Sit up straight. Put your hands in your lap, palms up, open. Breathe deeply, breathe regularly.
‘From hearing-aid technology,’ said Fat Otto. ‘And the tuner you wear in your ear, like a hearing aid but tiny, invisible. Cordless. The mikes are in spectacles. Three mikes. You tune until you drop out everything you don’t want. To six or seven metres, phenomenal, the clarity. I heard this couple in Spitalerstrasse talking dirty, whispers, whispering dirty, she said to him…’ ‘This isn’t phenomenal clarity,’ said Anselm.
‘We had no time to test transmitting.’
They sat for a long time listening to crackling and hissing, Fat Otto fiddled, Anselm tried to still his mind, slow the turning of the planet.
Serrano’s briefcase in the safe. The keys to the safe. An argument about the keys to the safe.
Bruynzeel dead. Lourens dead. Falcontor. Credit Raceberg.
‘The transmitter,’ said Fat Otto. ‘Still, we’ll have it. Probably.’
The ferry came into view, sliding on glass, windows aglow, in the last moments of the day.
Anselm felt the panic recede. The beating in his chest was less insistent, his pulse rate was falling. He opened his mouth and his jaw muscles made a noise, relief from the clenching.
