‘Well, this is most unsatisfactory.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
She came inside, closed the door, came up to him, close, he could smell her perfume. He put his hands on her waist and drew her to him.
They kissed, softly. Then harder and she pressed against him. He could feel her ribs under his hands. He slid his hands to her buttocks.
‘Do you have a bed?’ she said, not her usual voice, throatier.
‘We never sleep.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about sleeping.’
She put a hand on him but it was already happening.
‘I think you’re recovering,’ she said.
‘Only clinical trials can confirm that.’ His breath was short.
‘I’m a doctor.’ She unzipped him, put her hand in.
He was unbuttoning her red shirt. ‘A red bra,’ he said. ‘That’s provocative.’
‘White didn’t work last night.’ She squeezed him. ‘This is promising.’
‘Upstairs,’ said Anselm. ‘Quickly, I don’t know how long it will last.’
He was awake, lying on his back, still in the afterglow, and he caught the phone on the first ring.
‘Haven’t woken you?’ Inskip.
‘What?’
Anselm could make out Alex’s pale shoulders, the curve of the shoulder blades.
‘I heard about Tilders. I’m really sorry.’
‘Yes. Well.’
‘This probably isn’t of interest but that removed file, do you know…’ ‘Yes.’ He was talking about Diab’s file.
‘There was a number with the entry, a code. I didn’t think anything at the time, but it nagged. I went back and fiddled, just curious, you understand, pure spirit of inquiry, and…’ ‘What?’
‘It was one of a group of files removed at the same time, a bulk buy. All gone for good. Same remover.’
Alex turned onto her back and he could see her left breast lolling, flat on the breastbone, the nipple prominent. She moved her head, disturbed, as if worried by a fly.
He said softly, ‘How many?’
‘Eight.’
He felt her hand on his thigh, the long fingers moving slowly. Slowly. It was happening again and he had no moisture in his mouth.
‘Run the names,’ he said. ‘That’s good work. And if you’ve got time, do a biog on a Donald Trilling, Pharmentis Corp, that’s P-H-A-R.’
‘Certainly, sir. Enjoy your rest.’
‘Who said anything about rest?’
Her fingers were lying on him, doing nothing, he could feel each finger. Then they closed and she had him in her grip, a silken, strong grip. And there was something to grip.
‘Calling for pizza again?’ she said.
‘A victim of night hunger.’
‘Me too.’
He turned and she put her right hand to his head, he got his mouth on her breast, tried to engulf it, the whole breast, her, the whole of her.
67
…HAMBURG…
‘There’s insurance,’ said Baader. ‘Tilders’ wife and children will be looked after, I’ll make sure.’
Baader looked away, fleetingly touched his desk blotter, the computer mouse, pulled fingers away from them as if they were hot.
‘I signed as a witness when they got married,’ he said. ‘He gave the boy my name. Well, he never said it was for me, but I always thought, well, you know…’ Anselm wanted to tell him that Tilders had not been on the firm’s business. He wanted to confess. But he could not bring himself to.
Later. He would tell him later.
Baader shook his head, gathered himself. ‘What does O’Malley say? This is his business. Fucking around with Kael.’
‘I’ll find out today.’
‘We’ve never…This prick in Munich shot Fat Otto but that was a mistake…’ Baader looked away again. It was a tired face, the signs of too much and too little. ‘On the doorstep, too. That’s so fucking, I don’t know. I can’t…’ Baader shook his head. He made hand movements.
Anselm caught himself doing the same. Language has failed us, he thought. We have no way to express the ache. He went to his office.
The logs stood on his desk, high, two stacks, sixty or seventy files, the records of twenty-four hours, the doings of strangers, their comings and their goings, their gettings and their spendings. He sorted, found Inskip’s pile, found the one he wanted.
The eight names.
He felt something stir in a far corner of his mind, something in a crevice, stuck. He read the names again:
Nothing came to him. He turned to the next page.
Inskip’s notes, in his sloppy hand, ballpoint, some letters upright, some slanting to the right.
A good thing Baader didn’t read the logs anymore. He disliked frivolity. Except in its place. Anselm looked at his slice of view, not seeing it. Early October 1993 was certainly a bad time. They had been kidnapped on 5 October. Within a few days, Kaskis, Diab, and these five American soldiers, probably ex-soldiers, died violently.
There were two more pages from Inskip. The abbreviated biography of Donald Trilling, president of
