A shadow falls, p.14
A Shadow Falls, page 14
part #2 of Jenny Aaron Series
‘Were you here with your father?’
‘No.’
Pavlik comprehends. ‘Did I ever tell you that he tried to woo me away from the Department?’
She shakes her head.
‘It was ages ago, before your time.’
‘Didn’t you fancy the GSG 9?’ Aaron asks.
‘Too much time in the barracks. The drill doesn’t suit me.’
‘You were in the Armed Forces for five years.’
‘You should have seen the file they kept on me.’
The conversation moves up a level. ‘I can’t figure Demirci out,’ Aaron comments. ‘Marrakech would at least warrant a small set. She’s usually so careful.’
‘She still is.’
‘In what way?’
‘Svoboda has tightened the reins. She has to inform him of every mission. She wouldn’t be able to keep a set secret from him. In any case, you’re a red rag to him, Demirci is keen to let sleeping dogs lie. We aren’t really here.’
Hesitantly she says: ‘Something is bugging you.’
‘Flemming. The fact that he spoke out against you, it’s just like him. He doesn’t fit in, I can’t seem to get straight with him.’
‘Who has he come to replace?’
‘Kalli.’
‘Bigfoot Kallweit? He’s dead?’
‘No, damaged meniscus.’
‘Why was Flemming appointed?’ she asks.
‘He was with the Special Forces Command, went to Afghanistan three times. He carried a wounded comrade twenty kilometres across the mountains and saved his life.’
‘What – he isn’t police?’
‘He’s a demolition ball with ears.’
‘That can come in handy sometimes.’
‘When he came to us, he broke the instructor’s nose in the first combat training session. The great philosopher Tom Waits once said: “The way you do anything is the way you do everything.”’
‘Think of Baltzer. He did his own thing too, but he was as solid as a wall,’ she reasons.
‘And then he bit the dust all alone in front of a wall. We stand together and we fall together. Otherwise you don’t belong in the Department.’
‘There’s something else.’
Pavlik is silent for so long that she starts to worry.
‘I’m a big girl now,’ she says.
‘Demirci asked Helmchen to bring her the Avignon file.’
*
Ten things that Aaron never mentions:
chloroform
newspaper clippings
suicide letters
Chagall
retained bullets
vets
Wanjuscha
deposit boxes
Nitrazepam
Avignon
*
They walk across the square without a word. Drive to the hotel without a word. Aaron heads for her bedroom without a word.
Pavlik holds something under her nose. ‘Sniff this.’
She can’t believe it.
‘I nabbed two grams.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Come on. It’s good quality stuff.’
Would it be better to crawl off to bed, take a tablet and spend the half hour until it takes effect feeling as miserable as she has been for the last half hour?
While they lie on the cushions and Pavlik rolls the biggest joint of all time, she asks: ‘When was your first time?’
‘When I was sixteen, three mates and me. We bought the dope from a guy who called himself Dr Spaceweed. We went down to the branch canal, then we fired up the torpedo. I was so high that I took my clothes off and staggered home in my underpants. Round the corner from ours, I bumped into Birch.’
‘You bumped into a birch?’
‘No. Rudi Birch. Our neighbour. He was in his seventies, a total square. He looked me in the eyes and said: “Right, my lad, you’re going to come and crash on my sofa, and when you’ve slept it off I’ll give you something to put on.” He was still a square, though.’
Aaron takes the first toke, instantly feels herself going dizzy, then sinks into a warm tingling sensation that whisks away her thoughts. She takes another pull and passes the joint on.
‘And you?’ Pavlik asks.
‘At my school there was a boy, Tim, and I knew: He’s the one. My parents were out. We fumbled about a bit, but we were both so nervous that we were screwing it up. He’d brought along a blim. Perhaps also to impress me. In any case, it helped.’ Says: ‘elbed’. ‘Afterwards we counted the stars on my bedroom ceiling.’ Says: ‘feiling’. ‘The door opened and my father walked in. He’d never even seen me with a boy before, and here I was in bed with one. And his nose was working OK too.’
‘Oh boy,’ Pavlik chuckles. ‘That would’ve been a great one for the press: Jörg Aaron catches daughter in drug sex orgy.’
She inhales deeply. ‘Even better: Jörg Aaron puts daughter in convent.’
They double up with laughter.
‘His only comment was: “Before your mother comes back, you ought to air this room.”’
‘Cool.’
‘Bloody cool.’
Aaron sees garish acrylic colours flow into each other, as if someone had poured a bucket of water over a pop art painting. They smudge and blur, creating a mush from which colourful bubbles rise up like on the surface of Venus.
They suddenly have a ravenous hunger for something sweet. Giggling, they raid the minibar. The chocolate bars are soon devoured and the lemonade bottles empty, so she rings room service and puts in an order for ten scoops of lemon ice-cream.
‘And a cake!’ Pavlik trumpets. ‘Something gooey with lots of cream on top!’
She passes it on.
‘Hang on! I need two litres of Coke! And some white espresso parfait with redcurrant mousse!’
She gives him a sceptical look. ‘Do they have that kind of thing?’
‘If not, we’ll sue the hotel!’
She orders it. ‘Bien sûr,’ the woman on the other end of the line simply says.
They muck around with no sense of time. Aaron can weave her fingers into a plait, Pavlik sings ‘Come Share the Wine’; they laugh about every silly little thing. The room service waiter knocks. Aaron’s tip causes his voice to do a little skip, which she likes so much that she pops another fifty into his hand.
They flop on the bed and stuff their faces until their bellies can’t take any more. Aaron snuggles up in Pavlik’s arm. Her eyes close and for the first time in five years she sleeps through the night without a tablet.
11
When sighted people wake up in the morning, it gets light. For Aaron it gets dark. She knows that she’s been dreaming, there were colours and images, but she doesn’t know what about.
They check out at nine. Pavlik parks the van in a side road by the Jewish cemetery. They have discussed whether to drive to the bank in it. In the event of needing to make a quick getaway, Aaron would prefer the van to being on foot. But Pavlik is better placed to assess the local situation. The Rue des Berbères ends at the Djemaa el Fna, where the van is no good to them, and the other direction can easily be blocked off.
Apart from her cane, she only takes what she can carry on her person. Cash, passport, mobile, Glock. The gun is as inconspicuous under her short leather jacket as Pavlik’s in his hip holster.
Aaron pictures him in his suit. The shoulder area of a marksman is extremely muscular, enabling him to neutralize the recoil of the gun. Pavlik conceals this with made-to-measure clothing, paid for by the Department. Even his sweaters and flannel shirts come from a tailor. It takes a trained eye to notice how well toned he is.
The alleyways of the Mellah reek of sweat, faeces and rotting meat. Rubbish has been set alight somewhere, acrid smoke hangs between the houses. Aaron knows this quarter. Even with the mint leaves which she rubs between her fingers, she repeatedly has to hold her breath. A bakery floods the lane with the smell of warm flatbreads. Nowhere else are the beguiling and the disgusting so close beside each other. Pavlik had derided her when she’d asked the staff in the hotel breakfast room for the mint. Now, as they pass through a manure – hashish – rose petal – cat piss cloud where rancid fish is offered for sale, he eats humble pie by reaching into her jacket pocket and pinching the last leaf.
Children’s hands continuously tug at her, little begging voices surround her. She gave money to the first ones, but they are growing too numerous. Pavlik has to fend off men who offer to guide them round the quarter. One of them is so persistent that he only lets off when Pavlik threatens to hit him. His angry torrent of words loses itself in the howl of a two-stroke engine coming from one of the countless moped workshops.
‘Where shall we do it?’ Aaron asks.
‘Just up here.’
He turns right and immediately pulls her into an entrance. They wait twenty seconds, then Pavlik leaps away from her.
A man lands beside her. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he barks in surprise. His voice is heavy with cold.
Pavlik says: ‘It’s time we introduced ourselves.’
The liaison officer acts all timid. ‘What do you want? Money?’
‘I’m Clyde, this is Bonnie. And you? Dirty Harry?’
Harry coughs, Aaron can hear every glob of phlegm. ‘Are we done?’ he asks.
‘We have an appointment at the bank,’ she says. ‘It’s possible that it’s being watched. We want you to keep an eye on the road while we’re in there. If you see anything, call one of us. You’ve got the numbers.’
‘Dream on.’
‘I know your informant leader. He’ll be over the moon when he finds out how clumsy you’ve been.’
‘Screw you.’
‘You wouldn’t enjoy it,’ she retorts.
‘We’ll be seeing you,’ says Pavlik. He takes Aaron by the arm. They head off into the haze of grilled sardines, fresh dog shit, vomit, washing powder and patchouli.
‘What do you think?’ she asks.
Pavlik’s answer goes under in a sudden staccato of hammering and chiselling.
But Aaron knows anyway: it’s pointless.
They round a corner and a fresh breeze sweeps down a wide road. Buses thunder past, mopeds are buzzing around like hornets, interspersed with three-wheeled tuk-tuks with rattling seats and squeaky horns. Soon the hammering from dozens of copper and brass forges swells to a mighty chorus, travelling far into the distance. They are at the Place des Ferblantiers.
‘Taxi stand,’ says Pavlik.
The car smells as if rancid fat was congealing inside it. Aaron sinks so far into the worn-out seat that her knees are angled steeply upwards. It takes three attempts to start the engine. They’re just setting off when something crash-lands on the bonnet. The driver slams on the brakes and fires off a cannonade of expletives, which is met by counter-bombardment.
‘What’s up?’ she asks Pavlik.
‘Melons. A donkey cart has shed its load.’
The driver reverses, wrestles the car into a forward gear and hurtles through an obstacle course of potholes. The Glock is pressing into her back. A whistle warbles.
‘C’est parti! C’est parti!’ Traffic policeman.
Aaron can feel the sun on the back of her neck, they are heading west. According to Bushid¯o, that is where paradise and salvation reside. But Bushid¯o isn’t always right.
They’re not talking anymore, both are fully absorbed now. Ten minutes later Pavlik tells the driver to stop. They walk to the bank. Aaron has unfolded her cane, her movements are hesitant. It wasn’t previously arranged, but Pavlik instantly plays along and stops a good distance away from the entrance.
‘There are steps ahead, honey.’
Aaron carefully feels her way towards them with the cane. She moves so anxiously that a passing tourist offers to help.
‘Est-ce que je peux vous aider?’
‘Merci,’ Pavlik fends him off, ‘ce n’est pas nécessaire.’
It’s cool in the lobby. The clacking of the cane comes back as a clear, sharp echo: marble. To her right, the sound ripples unevenly: counters or desks, quite far away; the hall must be large.
‘I’ll let them know that we’re here.’ Pavlik moves away.
He returns and has somebody with him.
‘Mr Hamdaoui is expecting you,’ a woman says.
Aaron fusses about with the cane. After forty-three short steps they reach the lift. She adds them to the nineteen she took from the entrance and knows that she could sprint out onto the road from here in four seconds.
Even the lift is air conditioned. The woman is wearing something white. She loves Shalimar and too much hairspray. ‘Is this your first time in Marrakech?’ Judging by her English she has lived abroad for some time.
‘Yes. It’s a beautiful city,’ Aaron replies.
The woman’s silence contains the question how a blind person can gauge that.
Long corridor, twenty-eight steps. Anteroom, eleven.
The director’s voice comes out of nowhere. ‘Badr Hamdaoui. Mrs Traherne, Mr Traherne, pleased to meet you.’
You could oil hinges with his intonation. Peppermint disguises the smell of booze on his breath. Something with figs, probably Mahia. Aaron knows the liquor. Eighty per cent, a widow maker. Either Hamdaoui has a serious alcohol problem or he is very nervous.
A drop of spit flies onto her cheek. ‘If you please—’
A deep pile carpet swallows all sound in his office. Pavlik directs her. Aaron waves her stick about, bashes it against the steel table legs a few times and analyses the echo. Surprisingly small room. Two windows. Muffled reverberation from the right, perhaps a wall hanging.
They sit down. ‘A small formality first,’ says Hamdaoui.
Something is pushed towards Aaron.
Pavlik had helped her earlier to insert the contact lens. It feels strange to have a copy of Holm’s iris on her eye. As if he was a part of her now. But hasn’t he always been?
The scanner silently sweeps her eye.
‘Thank you.’ Hamdaoui gives a little cough. ‘Pardon me. The procedure by which the funds were transferred to you was very unusual.’
‘Please describe it to me.’
‘Well, Mr Woyzeck opened the account on 4 January.’
Woyzeck.
Büchner’s drama, the subject of her college thesis.
‘On the same day, the remittance arrived from Riyadh. A remarkable sum.’
Aaron withdraws into her inner chamber. What’s the reference? Woyzeck beats his lover Marie to death out of jealousy. That isn’t it. His humiliation at the hands of the captain and the doctor?
No.
Wealth. Inheritance. Giving.
That’s it: the Star Money fairy tale.
There once was a poor child that had no father and no mother. Everything was dead and there was no one left on earth.
In Büchner’s version the girl isn’t rewarded with silver coins. Instead she travels to the moon, which is just a rotten branch, to the sun, which turns out to be a withered flower, and the stars, which are nothing but impaled insects.
What’s the message?
A warning?
‘Mrs Traherne?’
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘Mr Woyzeck informed me that he didn’t have much longer to live and that you were his sole heiress. For the sake of simplicity and in order to avoid the bureaucracy of a testament, he said you would prove your identity by means of an eye scan. I must confess that I was a little surprised. But I can’t think of any reason why I should question it. In the eyes of this establishment, you’re the owner of this account.’
‘Which bank did the money come from?’
‘From the Al Jeddah Bank in Riyadh.’
‘And this was the only time you had any dealings with Mr Woyzeck?’
‘It was our only encounter.’ Tinny rustling. She realizes that Hamdaoui is stretching out his hand. ‘Would you like one?’
‘What is it?’
‘I beg your pardon, how silly of me.’
‘It’s a mint pastille, honey.’
‘No thanks.’
The director’s voice turns a shade more oily still. ‘Mr Woyzeck thought you might be interested in investing.’
‘Do you have any suggestions?’ Pavlik asks.
‘Indeed. Bonds issued by the Kingdom of Morocco, for example, offer a guaranteed 5.375 per cent interest. Tax-free, of course.’
She smiles. ‘Aren’t interest payments prohibited in Islam? What do you call it – riba¯?’
‘We’re not an Islamic institution, madam.’
But the Jeddah Bank in Saudi Arabia is. That’s why the two billion never increased.
‘Of course there are also investment opportunities that offer considerably higher returns,’ says Hamdaoui. ‘Such as the Russian Anadyrneft Group, a rapidly expanding energy company with enormous price potential.’
Aaron and Pavlik can happily believe that. The group is owned by the Smirnowskaja; Interpol has had its sights on it for some time.
‘Or you might want to get involved in the American construction industry. Ambrose & Draytons would be a good choice. We have it from a reliable source that the firm will soon be given the contract for three new casinos in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. That will drive up the shares.’
Part of the Cosa Nostra portfolio.
Hesitantly, Hamdaoui adds: ‘Mr Woyzeck also had a suggestion. He said it might interest you.’
‘What exactly?’ asks Pavlik.
‘C&B Global Basics.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a closed fund, it’s being managed in London.’
‘Closed – that means project-linked?’
‘Yes.’
‘What project?’
Hamdaoui clears his throat in embarrassment. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. I’ve tried to obtain information about it, without success. The initiator of such a fund is under no obligation to make its purpose public.’
‘And who is this person?’ Pavlik asks.
‘That is also beyond my knowledge.’
‘I’m not very conversant with these things,’ says Aaron. ‘Closed? Doesn’t that mean one can no longer invest?’
‘Only in the second phase. Currently shares are still being offered, that much I was able to find out.’
