Andy came over and put his hands on Palmer’s shoulders.
‘Don’t work so hard,’ he said. ‘Where’s it get you? We ever going to play golf again? Feels like years.’
‘Soon,’ said Palmer. ‘Soon. We’ll take a decent break, go to the Virgins, play golf, sail.’
‘Count me in,’ said Andy. He ran a quick hand over his father’s hair. ‘Just that one right? Then you go to bed.’
Palmer nodded. When he looked around, Andy was at the door, looking back at him.
‘I used to say that to you,’ Palmer said.
Andy nodded, didn’t smile, a sadness in his look.
‘Goodnight, Dad.’
‘Goodnight, boy. Sleep tight.’
He put his head back, held whisky in his mouth, thought about Andy, about the day Lana drove the Mustang under a car transporter on Highway 401 outside Raeford, North Carolina, 2.45 in the afternoon. She was alone, leaving a motel, lots of drink taken.
Everyone knew who. Two years later, drinking with Ziller, they were old buddies, they’d been through shit together, Ziller said, ‘That day. Who was it?’
‘Seligson. But you know that.’
‘Never thought of killin him?’
‘Wife and a kid, a girl. What’s the point of two dead? And me doing life. Who’d look after Andy?’
The phone on the side table rang.
Palmer looked at his watch. He muted the television sound, let the phone ring for a while, cleared his throat.
‘Yes.’
‘General, I’m sorry if I’ve woken you. It’s Steve Casca.’
‘One forty-five? Asleep? Who does that?’
‘Sir, may I ask you to ring me back?’
Palmer put the phone down and dialled the number showing on the display. Casca answered after the first beep.
‘Thank you, sir. Sir, a minor Langley asset in London has contacted their resident. The asset’s been offered a film. US military personnel in action. Said to be filmed in Africa, some kind of massacre. That’s the asset’s term.’
‘Taken when?’
‘Not known, sir.’
‘What else?’
‘The tape has the numbers One, One, Seven, Zero. Eleven seventy, that is. On a label.’
Palmer closed his eyes. Eleven Seventy. No.
‘We can find nothing on that,’ said Casca. ‘We thought to ask if this might have meaning for you.’
The television was now showing a building with a third-floor balcony hanging away from the wall, hanging from one support. The double doors leading out to it had blown off. In the street, a crowd had gathered, policemen in kepis. It was a French city, possibly Paris.
‘Probably best not to take it any further,’ said Palmer. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to some people.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I’ll need the names, the asset and so forth.’
‘I can give you that now, sir.’
Palmer listened and wrote on the pad. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Steve, I don’t think you need to log this call.’
‘What call was that, sir? Apologies about the time.’
‘Sound instincts.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Steve.’
He’d always thought well of Casca, even after the serial fuck-ups in Mogadishu. He’d behaved well in Iran, he’d showed his worth. Palmer put the television sound on again. The building was the Turkish embassy in Paris. Mortared, four rounds, possibly five. Mortared? An embassy in Paris? The whole world was turning into Iraq.
He muted the set again and dialled a number. Eleven Seventy. Would it never go away?
‘Yes?’
It was the boyfriend.
‘I need to speak to Charlie.’
‘I’m afraid…’
‘Palmer.’
‘Please hold, Mr Palmer.’
It took a while. People had worried about Charlie being a fag. But no one was going to blackmail Charlie. Anyway, faggotry had an honourable history in the service. British fags were another matter altogether.
‘Sir.’
‘Serious situation, Charlie,’ said Palmer. ‘Some things have to happen. I want you to arrange it now and I want you to go tonight and make sure everything’s neat. Neatness is important.’
‘Yes sir.’
23
…HAMBURG…
Baader raised his eyebrows and puffed his cheeks. After a while, he expelled air and said, ‘You’re asking me?’
‘No,’ said Anselm. ‘I’m just going around exposing my personal life to anyone who’s breathing.’
‘When did you last ask anyone for advice?’
‘I had the idea I should change,’ Anselm said. ‘Clearly a very stupid idea.’ It was. He was already full of regret.
Baader looked unhappy. ‘Well, change, you’re almost normal these days. Except for the fingers. Just hung over. Christ knows how you run with a hangover. I can’t walk with a hangover.’
‘It’s my way of punishing myself,’ said Anselm. ‘You get women to cane you. I run. Should I talk to her?’
‘I should cane myself. No, that doesn’t work. Like massage, can’t massage yourself. Can you buy a caning machine? Do they have that?’
‘Everything. They have everything. Are you hearing me?’
‘Jesus, John, talk to her. What does she look like?’
Anselm hesitated. ‘Not like Freud,’ he said.
A smile from Baader, the sly-fox look. ‘Attractive, that’s what you’re saying, is it?’
‘The academic look, not necessarily my taste. The scholar. A certain primness.’ He used the word geziertheit.
‘Glasses?’ Baader was interested.
‘No. Well, yes.’
‘I like glasses. Black frames?’
‘Me, we’re talking about me. Less about you.’
Baader looked away, bent his head, scratched an ear. ‘To be serious,’ he said, ‘what the fuck would I know? The things that happened to you, I can’t begin to…Well, are you feeling okay?’
‘I’m feeling fine.’
‘The memory?’
‘Bits come back. It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.’
‘Well, talking can’t hurt. You’ve never talked to me. Who did you talk to?’
‘I’m sorry I mentioned this. Paid Gerda? If not, I’m looking for another job.’
A hand in the air, a stop sign, gentle. ‘John, relax. Gerda’s paid, the landlord’s been paid, everyone’s been paid. We’re up to date on payments. I’m personally skinned but everyone’s been paid.’
Anselm went back to his office. Talked to anyone? What was there to say? How did you talk about fear, about cringing like a whipped child, about pissing in your pants, other things, sobbing uncontrollably, other things?
Carla Klinger knocked. ‘The new file,’ she said. ‘The chemist. He flew to London. Now I’ve got him on a flight to Los Angeles from Glasgow, took off an hour ago.’
It was a second before he placed the chemist. Yes. The chemist’s company in Munich thought he was planning to defect to the competition. Five years he’d been on a research project, they were close.
‘That’s good work, Carla. Tell the client.’
She smiled her cursory smile, nodded, turned on the stick.
Good work? Thieves, contract thieves, spying, stealing to order, stealing anything for anyone. Anselm thought about the woman they’d found in Barcelona, Lisa Campo. He remembered his reply to Inskip’s question.
What do you think? Charlie gets his money back, they fall in love again, go on a second honeymoon. Eat pizza.
For all they knew, Charlie Campo wanted to find his wife so that he could torture her and kill her. For all they cared. Just a job with a success bonus. Good work? He’d enjoyed it at the start, four of them using Baader’s purloined software, learning how to search the waters for a single rare fish, the net ever expanding, dropping deeper. Sitting in a quiet room, in the gloom, watching the radar, waiting for the blip, waiting for the coelecanth. He’d felt removed from himself, a relief from the running introspection, the endless, pointless internal dialogue. Just the quiet lulling of the electronic turbines, the hard drives spinning, spinning, spinning. But now…
Anselm went down the passage to Beate’s office. She wasn’t there. He was grateful not to have to endure her remarks about health as he went onto the balcony to smoke.