As he passed the supermarket the two men stepped out and blocked his way.
‘Can we help you?’ The older brother spoke in English.
‘I’m sorry.’
The man switched with ease to German. ‘We were asking if you need help?’
Sutler walked ahead and looked to become lost among pedestrians.
The brothers smiled at Grüner.
‘Thanks, no, I’m fine. Thank you.’
The white of Sutler’s shirt became indistinguishable from other white shirts, other shoulders.
‘Are you looking for someone? Perhaps there is something that you want?’
‘No, I’m fine. Excuse me.’ Grüner held up his hands and again attempted to move on. The younger of the two men, who had not yet spoken, stood directly in his way. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘My brother is learning German. Please. Where are you from?’
‘Hamburg,’ Grüner replied. ‘Are you the police?’
Now uncomfortable, he pushed forward but could not make more than two steps without the men confronting him; a dance in which they remained close but did not touch.
‘I like Hamburg. In Hamburg they have a Christmas market. Not as good as the Christmas market in Trier, but a good market, and they have nice museums. Nothing that compares to our museums, of course, but nice and not to be ignored. I think you are looking for someone?’ The brothers blocked his way. ‘The man you were following? What interest do you have in him?’
‘You’ve made a mistake.’ Grüner looked the older brother square in the eye. If it came to trouble he thought that he would be able to handle himself, but he couldn’t be certain. ‘I’m not looking for anyone. I don’t want to buy anything. I am leaving now.’ He levelled his hand as a final gesture.
‘No.’ The older brother shook his head and showed a small silver knife in the flat of his palm. ‘You can come with us. Please.’
At the sight of the knife Grüner became completely compliant.
* * *
The men escorted Grüner to a cold-storage lock-up at the back of Cossack Travel. The younger brother quizzed the older brother as they strapped Grüner with duct tape to a small office chair. Was it possible, he wanted to know, that the Germans don’t have a sense of humour because the subject always comes at the end of the sentence so that everything sounds like a punch line? He asked the same question of Grüner.
Grüner complained that the tape was too tight about his stomach. He attempted to move his ankles, his wrists, he explained that he had money, but the brothers did not appear to listen. ‘I have allergies,’ he complained, ‘it’s very serious. To the gum.’ He spoke carefully, clearly, made his case without emotion, hopeful that his rational calm would convince them. At school he could hold his breath until he fainted, and he wondered if now would be a good time to pass out.
‘See, this is a case in point. This is my point exactly. It was a joke and he didn’t understand.’
Undeterred Grüner attempted to speak in Turkish. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘You speak Turkish?’ The older brother looked slightly alarmed.
‘I am a journalist,’ Grüner answered, still calm. ‘I work in the Middle East. I speak four languages. I speak Arabic and I speak a little Hebrew. I speak English and French, and I was following a man because he is wanted by American and British intelligence.’
‘But you just said something in Turkish? Is this the language you use to pick up boys?’
The sound of the younger brother zipping duct tape off the roll made it hard for Grüner to hear. Unsure he’d heard correctly, he repeated himself. ‘I am a journalist and I have to get back to my hotel. I am following a British man who is wanted by the police and by British and American military intelligence. It is very important that you let me go.’
‘You either speak Turkish or you don’t.’ The man leaned close and whispered in Turkish in Grüner’s ear.
‘I don’t speak Turkish. I am a journalist — and this man should not be allowed to disappear, it is very important that I follow him. You have to let me go. I will pay you.’
‘But I heard you speak Turkish.’
‘It was a small phrase. I don’t really speak — I mean I know a little — but I’m a photographer, a journalist, I don’t know much more than a few phrases.’
Done with binding him, the younger brother came to the front and Grüner worried that he would tape over his mouth. ‘So you speak a little Turkish?’
Grüner nodded in surrender. ‘I speak a little Turkish. I know a few phrases.’
‘Enough to pick up boys?’
‘Boys? Why are you asking about boys? I was following a man who is wanted by American intelligence.’
The brothers exchanged a glance.
‘Yes, you come here, you speak a little Turkish, and you pick up boys with the little Turkish that you can speak.’
Grüner rapidly shook his head, trying to rid the room of the idea. ‘I don’t pick up boys. I have a wife. I have a girlfriend. They are both women.’
But the man ran to his own chain of logic. ‘No, the only reason a German would learn Turkish is so that he can come to the country to pollute the flower of Turkish youth.’
Grüner shook his head more vigorously. ‘You aren’t listening to me. I’ve told you what I’m doing here. I am following a man called Stephen Sutler. Look at my camera. Look at the photographs.’
‘Is there something wrong with Turkish boys?’
‘No!’ Grüner rolled his head and began to shout. ‘Why have you brought me here? I have to go.’ He struggled to free himself but succeeded only in jogging the chair forward.
The brother started laughing. ‘I’m making a joke,’ he said, still laughing. ‘A simple joke! What is it about the Germans and their sense of humour? Should I tell you when I am joking? Maybe I will hold up my hand next time so you know? Hey, here it is, a joke! I am now making a joke!’
* * *
Grüner could not be precise on the time. The men left, then returned, but neither would speak with him. After another hour, possibly longer, a woman ambled into the room with tea and a modest lunch. He strained to see if it was still light outside, but the open door gave only a view of a wood-panelled corridor. The woman, old and small, with a thin black headscarf, asked the brothers in Turkish if their guest would like something to eat, and Grüner begged her in German, English, and poorly conjugated Turkish to call the police.
‘My wife,’ he pleaded, ‘my mother will be worried.’ In this he sounded sincere.
The woman backed out of the room and the brothers followed after, explaining rapidly that this wasn’t anything she should worry about. Hurry, hurry, hurry, they chided as the door swung closed behind them, they would like coffee.
When the younger brother returned he asked Grüner if he liked films. ‘When I am studying,’ he said, ‘I watch two every day. Every day. It is important to educate yourself. Good for your language, but necessary so that you can follow the narrative, learn the tricks for making films because there are rules.’
‘Is your brother making you do this? I have money. I can pay you. You can buy lots of films. DVDs. I have films at my hotel I can give you. I’m telling the truth. I have many, many films. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone. I will give you films. Many films.’
When the older brother returned the younger brother fell back into his thoughts.
‘What was he talking about?’