‘You’re eating in your sleep, Inskip,’ Anselm said. ‘Wake up and go home.’
‘Home,’ said Inskip, not opening his eyes, ‘is where they have to take you in. That is not the situation at my lodgings.’
Inskip was new in the job, six months, but he was suited to it, not a normal person. He’d been recommended to Baader by someone who knew his father, once a lieutenant in the Army of the Rhine, now something in the British Foreign Office, probably an MI6 employee. Inskip’s mother was a German doctor’s daughter and he’d learned German at her knee.
Inskip had a degree in mathematics from Cambridge and his only real job had been six months as a junior lecturer at an English provincial university.
‘Kicked out for GMT,’ Inskip had told Anselm one night. They were standing on the balcony, smoking, snowflakes dancing in the cold light from the windows.
‘GMT?’
‘Gross moral turpitude. I committed an unspeakable act.’
‘What was it?’
‘Search me. No one would speak of it. I was off my face, drink and drugs, so I had no recollection. Anyway, I couldn’t be bothered to ask, told them to fuck off. Loathed the place, all ghastly grey concrete, stuck out in these fields, students thick as sheep.’
Now Inskip opened his eyes. ‘The Indonesian’s on the radar. Two minutes ago.’
‘Where?’
The man’s name was Sudrajad. He had not been sighted in Europe since stealing four million dollars from a French construction company trying to swing a contract in Indonesia. The French wouldn’t have felt so bitter if they’d got it, but it went to Americans who made a member of the Soeharto family a partner in their firm.
‘Swissair 207 into Zurich from New York, 11.20.’
A list of names, dates and numbers appeared on his computer screen. Inskip began to scroll it.
‘What name?’
‘Hamid. The Malaysian passport.’
‘Told them?’
‘I’m looking for a hotel…here it is. Schweitzerhof. One night. There’s a limo booked.’
‘Tell them. He may go somewhere of interest on his way to the hotel.’
The clients chasing the Indonesian were a Paris firm of commercial investigators, good clients.
Anselm went into his office and read the night reports. The Serrano watchers said the woman appeared to be paid off at the station. Serrano and the bodyguard went to the Hansa Bank, where the case went into a safe-deposit box. The bodyguard left and Serrano took a cab to the Hotel Abtei in Harvesthude and had not left the premises. This information had been passed on to O’Malley in London.
In the tray was a long complaint about payment from Gerda Broeksma, the firm’s representative in Amsterdam. They couldn’t afford to lose her. If Anselm understood the figures, she had brought in almost 5 per cent of the firm’s turnover in the past year. Holland was good for business. The Dutch were a suspicious lot. They knew that people who left their sitting room curtains open at night were not necessarily without anything to hide.
Anselm went down the short passage to Baader’s office. The door was open. He was on the phone, beckoned, pointed to the Marcel Breuer chairs at the window. Anselm sat down. Baader stopped grunting into the phone and came over.
‘What?’
‘Gerda. She says we’re three months behind. She wants to quit.’
Baader put his chin on his hands, closed his eyes. He had long lashes. ‘Why does everyone go to you? The caring fucking ear. You running a complaints booth?’
‘I don’t encourage it, Stefan,’ said Anselm. ‘Believe me.’
Baader didn’t open his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I know you don’t. I’m in shit, John. Uschi’s skinned me, her fucking lawyer.’
Anselm didn’t feel much compassion. He’d rather liked Uschi, a failed singer. Baader had met her through someone who worked for Bertelsmann in the music business. Despite dressing like an old-school
‘Then my cousin tips me off, this bio-tech company, get in big and get rich,’ said Baader. ‘But he didn’t tell me to get out even quicker, the whole thing’s just gas, a fucking Zeppelin. The prick, I’m going to kill him.’
Pause. ‘I may have to sell some of the business,’ he said. ‘A big piece.’
‘Hell of a business to sell,’ said Anselm. ‘Eighty per cent clearly illegal, the rest lineball.’
Baader opened his eyes. They were dark brown, something of the intelligent dog in them. Alsatian dog. ‘But there’s a buyer.’
For years, Anselm had been waiting for this. ‘Yes?’
‘An English company.’
‘Yes?’
‘Mitchell Harvester. Corporate risk management, that sort of thing. Take 51 per cent, give us all their work.’
‘Mitchell Harvester? Is that so? They approached you?’
‘Well, indirectly, sounded out, yes. They’ll do it through a nominee company, no direct involvement.’ Baader looked at him, didn’t blink. Nothing.
Anselm stared back for a long time, waited for a sign. He got up, knee pains, left knee worse, found a cigarette and lit it with the old Zippo, disregarding the policy on smoking.
‘Stefan,’ he said, ‘I want you to consider whether fucking teenagers hasn’t destroyed important parts of your brain.’
Baader frowned, the single eyebrow dipping in the middle. ‘What’s wrong, don’t want to work for them?’
‘For that arm of the United States government, no.’
The frown disappeared. Baader smiled. He looked even more vulpine. ‘John,’ he said, ‘I understand your position. But relax, it’s not a problem.’
‘No?’
‘No. They want you sacked before we do the deal.’
‘Fuck you.’ Anselm sat down. ‘Can we talk about business? I pulled fifteen grand yesterday. Against my better judgment.’
‘That’s my man,’ said Baader, the little smile. ‘Already I feel more able to resist a takeover.’
7
…JOHANNESBURG…
Niemand parked near the Chinese wholesaler’s barred premises in a filthy side street near the market square. Two street boys appeared, danced around him, offered all manner of services. He gave them several notes to guard the car, opened his jacket to show them the gun and threatened them with certain death. To get to the door, he had to step around papers, car bits, cartons, bottles, food containers, pieces of styrofoam, a new pile of human excrement with a filter cigarette stubbed out in it.
The guard, a huge man, knew him.
‘Where’s the Chinaman?’ said Niemand in Zulu. He called the Chinaman
‘Deliveries,’ said the Zulu. He was behind a steel gate. A shotgun was leaning against the wall, an old Remington, grip polished with hand sweat.
The Chinaman supplied Soweto hawkers, met them on the fringe to hand over goods, payment in cash, not one cent of credit. Niemand and Zeke had ridden shotgun for him for a few months before the escort service job came up. They had been held up four times: Chinaman 4, hijackers 0.
