A pause. He looked out the window again. “Is that all?”
“No. Give orders to the effect that none of those people will be deported for the time being; that they get a chance to speak to their attorneys; and that they get some real food brought to their cells.”
He nodded. His expression almost made me feel sorry for him. I gave him a skeptical look. “No need to be so down in the mouth. Until now you’ve always acted the sergeant major. It’s your job to hunt people. But to rob them of their money and jewelry, in cahoots with mobsters-if someone happens to tread on your toes after that, you might as well hang on to the old stiff upper lip.”
When he raised his head again, he had aged years. His eyes were murky, and the angular chin was just a brittle and trembling bone. Then he shouted: “What do you know about it! In cahoots with mobsters! Once in my life, I made a mistake!”
I put out my cigarette. “Should I hazard a guess? Koberle found out about that mistake, and you’ve been on his list of collaborators ever since.”
I pushed off from the desk, went to the door, and put my hand on the doorknob. By the window stood a broken man staring at an empty parking lot.
“Anybody can get involved with crooks, and then get blackmailed by them. But as an immigration officer I find you simply disgusting. That file will be in my mailbox by tomorrow morning. And don’t even think about warning Koberle. If he calls, just tell him I’m on my way to Istanbul. Good day.”
13
Ten minutes later I stood in the phone booth by the Pan Am desk and called every newspaper and organization I could think of to tell them about the pending mass deportation. The last call I made was to Benjamin Weiss, director of an advice center for refugees, occasional bass player with the legendary club combo The Wicherts from Next Door, and decent skat player. We knew each other from our university days. He had started out majoring in philosophy, I in law, and we had both dropped out after a year. He, because he began to suffer from insomnia and thought this was caused by his ability to master half the material during lectures; I, because I couldn’t stand the surrounding adolescents constantly snapping their legal briefcases open and shut. Now Weiss lived with his wife, two sons, and fifty shelf feet of jazz records in Gallus, and when he wasn’t working, he was either sick or flying kites with the kids. At the office, there was no reply, and it was too dark to be flying kites. At his home number the phone rang four times until a weak voice replied. “Ye-es?”
“Kayankaya here. There’s thirty people at the airport about to be deported.”
“How many?”
“Thirty.”
“If this is supposed to be an April Fool’s joke-I’m in bed with strep throat.”
“No joke. They had
Somehow, he managed to emit an amused noise from his afflicted larynx. “So where did they want to send you?”
“I suggested Sardinia.”
He repeated that noise, then asked: “What exactly happened?”
“It’s a long story. Why don’t you come over?”
“O.K. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I’ll be in the departure hall.”
We hung up. I jingled my change for a minute before I put it in the slot and dialed Weidenbusch’s number. After I had given him a broad outline of the progress of my investigation, all the way to the bunker, I paused briefly, then said: “But, sad to say, your girlfriend wasn’t there.”
“No? Are you sure?”
“Pretty damn sure. Unless she didn’t want to be recognized.”
“But even so I would think she’d have contacted me in the meantime.”
“She may be unable to do that.”
“What do you mean? If she wasn’t in the bunker-”
“Maybe someone has other plans for her.”
He gulped audibly and asked me to excuse him for a moment. I heard him open a bottle, pour a drink, and smack his lips; then he came back to the phone and sounded full of resolve: “She must have been scared. That’s why she didn’t say anything. I’m sure she’s in that holding cell! I’ll go to the airport.”
“How come you’re so excited, all of a sudden? Yesterday you told me you wanted to get rid of her.”
“Oh, that was just a bunch of bullshit. I was totally exhausted. Please forget what I told you yesterday.”
Weidenbusch came waddling through the waiting area, holding on to his belly with both hands, as I was enjoying coffee and ham on toast and perusing a travel brochure. Panting, he sat down and yelped: “Where are the cells?” The West End yuppie accustomed to sipping red wine had turned into a derelict barfly. He reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, his hair hung into his face, his shirt front was stained, and his eyes had dark rings around them and gleamed feverishly. He took off his glasses and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
I waved my thumb. “Down the moving walkway, turn right, go outside, cross the parking lot. If they don’t let you in, ask for Commissioner Hottges and mention my name.”
“But-you’re not coming with me?”
I shook my head. “Your girlfriend isn’t there. She is somewhere else.”
“How can you know that?”
“I can’t. I just do.”
“Does that mean you’ll go on looking for her?”
“Are you about to offer me another check?”
“No! Just because …” He ran the tip of his tongue across his upper lip. Suddenly his demeanor changed. He got agitated: “You treat me as if I were one of your suspects!”
Then, furious: “But it was I who hired you, and if I feel like it, I can fire you, too!”
“Any time. Would you like to settle our accounts right now?”
Undecided, he fussed with his eyeglasses. Then he jammed them back on. “I’m going to the cells. You’ll receive your check, as agreed, and since we probably won’t meet again-”
He hesitated. Should he shake hands or just leave with a nod?
I waved a piece of toast at him. “If someone is exerting some kind of pressure on you because of Mrs. Rakdee-I mean, someone apart from your mother-you better tell me about it.”
He looked completely bewildered. “Don’t you understand? You’re fired!”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the gray-green mass of a group of senior tourists. I sat there and finished my toast. Soon after that the first journalists arrived. Loaded down with cameras, they trotted through the hall like a bunch of scared chickens, generating excitement among both travelers and personnel. A bomb, hijackers, the Prince of Monaco, or the Kessler Twins? Hundreds of pairs of eyes scanned doors, counters, and seats. Then I spotted Benjamin Weiss. His six-and-a-half-foot tall figure was clearly visible among a group in colorful outfits who stormed through the sliding doors carrying stacks of paper under their arms and immediately started leafleting everybody. I waved and Weiss shuffled over. He was bundled up in an overcoat, scarf, and knitted cap, and what was visible of his face seemed to cry out for bed rest and hot lemon juice. He sank into a chair next to me, stretched his legs, and muttered: “May I have a cigarette?”
“Not the best thing, in your condition-?”
He repeated his request, emphatically.
I lit one and handed it to him. He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“First one in three days. In bed, it’s not so bad, but …” He took a second drag. “I’ve been over there. They’re holding exactly thirty-three of them. Three attorneys are talking with them now. The Protestant honcho has promised to help; the Catholic one is at a Silesian Displaced Persons dinner with Wallmann. The entire Social Democrat party is recording a disc for their election campaign, and the refugee ombudsman of the Greens is having a baby. Her replacement doesn’t have a car but is trying to get here soon. What else-oh yes, the Multicultural
