‘I am under no obligation to answer your questions,’ Otto Dietrich said; with a certain dignity, as he tried to wipe his burst nose with the back of his glove. ‘Find me a taxi.’
Hawn propped him against the wall, and with one hand managed to get the man’s broken spectacles back on his face; but at the last moment one of the lenses fell out. ‘Anna,’ he called, ‘try and get a taxi. If you can’t, get the hotel to call one. But hurry!’ He turned to Dietrich and said softly, ‘You won’t hold this against me, will you, Otto? All in a day’s work. When do you next report to Herr Robak?’
‘I am now with my official duties,’ the Austrian said, as the other lens dropped out of his spectacles.
‘Do your official duties include reporting to Robak? Come on, let’s have it!’ Hawn’s free hand had crept up to Dietrich’s face and his thumb reached the place where the man’s nostrils had been. ‘Do you want me to give your nose a friendly little squeeze? Or perhaps my foot might slip and kick your knee again. Just a little tap to jog your memory.’ He raised his left foot and let it dangle.
The man was breathing heavily, like an asthmatic. ‘No, please. You are mistaken. I had certain duties in Istanbul for Mr Robak. Here, I am again official, with the police.’
‘Listen, Otto —’ Hawn was now whispering to him — ‘if you make any complaint about this incident, the story about you and Robak and Istanbul will be in every German newspaper tomorrow morning. I might even tie you in with the murder of Imin Salak — which I am sure you know all about. German readers will, no doubt, be interested to know the extent of the activities of their Secret Service.’ He broke off, as Anna came running up.
‘I’ve got a taxi — it’s waiting at the corner.’
‘Right. Give me a hand with him.’
Together the three of them made an ungainly trio as they dragged the limping, hobbling BND man along the pavement to the waiting taxi. Anna had retrieved his hat and put it back on his bald head, then found a tissue to wipe some of the mess from his face. Hawn pushed him into the taxi and left him to give the address: then stepped back and looked at his watch. It was 6.17. He took Anna’s arm and began to run with her up the street.
The interior of the Hotel Kempinski was instantly expensive and ultra-modern — large, warm, carpets soft and deep; not crowded, but busy — busy with the consuming effort of pleasure: the best cocktails teased up by Europe’s top barmen, and enjoyed by men in thousand — D-mark suits and enamelled girls stiff with jewellery and deep-frozen expressions, as though fearful that their make-up might crack.
Pol was not in any of the armchairs in the foyer; nor was he in any of the several bars or the restaurant. Hawn left Anna in a corner and went to Reception, where the clerk handed him a little envelope with flowers at the corner, like a birthday greeting. Inside was a sheet of the hotel writing paper, with across it a rounded scrawl: ‘I am enjoying a massage. Join me. C.’
Hawn found the sauna and massage parlours at the side of the main hall, near a row of muttering telex machines. He paid a plump handsome woman 15 D-marks, with five extra for the towels; undressed in a steel cubicle with a locker which opened with a key on a loop which he hung round his neck; locked his French passport inside, then passed down a slippery white corridor with a sweet, hygienic smell, somewhere between honey and wet wool. The woman pointed to a door at the far end.
From all round, through the steamy whiteness, came the chaotic rhythm of pounding and kneading and smacking of flesh. The cubicle at the end was locked. Hawn had to identify himself as Monsieur Marziou, before a blonde girl with long legs under a short white coat let him in.
Pol lay on his stomach on the marble slab. A steep wall of towel covered his mountainous buttocks, while the girl returned briskly to the hopeless task of working away at his shoulders and back, both gleaming like sides of ham. He had the appearance of a grossly inflated baby on whom someone had maliciously painted a whirligig of hair and a short pointed beard. His crimson lips were parted, his eyes closed, and sweat crawled down every runnel of fat, as if from a melting snowman.
‘Charles?’
‘You are very late. You had my instructions.’
‘I can explain.’
Pol gave a belly chuckle. He said something to the girl, who nodded and climbed off him — looking rather relieved, Hawn thought. ‘Lock the door,’ Pol said, when she had gone. He waited until Hawn was lying beside him, then opened one eye and blinked painfully through the sweat. ‘We will speak in French, but keep your voice down. This is a very cosmopolitan city.’ As he spoke, he rolled over on to his side, supporting his huge head on his elbow, while his breasts hung down in two soft pendants of flesh with a deep cleavage between them, from which there was a steady trickle on to the tiles below. ‘So, mon chèr Monsieur Marziou! What have you to report?’
Hawn told him about his meeting with Dietrich. Pol listened, shaking with quiet laughter. ‘I hope you were not too unkind to the poor old gentleman!’
‘How the hell could Robak have got on to us that fast?’
‘Ah, you are dealing with a large organization — one that is used to moving fast. The important thing is to move still faster! Which is what you will be doing later tonight. You both have your
