He thought about evenings in Israel when he was a child, hot balmy evenings like this, and he felt nostalgic. London was a grand city, a great city; in spite of the bad that was happening in England, London still retained its dignity. But to Baenhaker, after five years here, the doors were still as closed as the day he had first stepped off the aeroplane at Heathrow. Twenty months ago, those doors had opened for the first time, in the form of Amanda. He had someone to share the city with, to share all the experiences of his life, at least the ones that he could talk about. Now he was back in the loneliness, hoping that maybe, one day, a single unmarried secretary that he fancied might join Eisenbar-Goldschmidt or, alternatively, that somewhere, as in that gutted building where he had first met Amanda, there might be someone else that he could find to love, who would also love him. But so far, no one.
As he walked down the street, he decided to do something he rarely did; he went into a pub, and had a pint of bitter. He stood at the counter, looking around. The barmaid was about forty, not bad-looking, but not the girl he dreamed of. The rest of the bar was full of men, mostly in suits that were too thick for the heat.
He downed the pint slowly and then left, feeling a little drunk. He went down the steps of Cannon Street tube station, bought his ticket and stood on the platform; opposite him, a long slender leg, wrapped in a sensuous Pretty Polly stocking, slunk out from a poster. She was the girl for the discriminating man, the poster told him. He was discriminating, but evidently someone must have got to her first.
He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the dark tunnel; there was no sign of a train. A young plump negress stood near him, clutching a carrier bag; two men, extremely drunk, in short-sleeve shirts, were having an argument about football players. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here any more; he wanted to be back in Israel, on a kibbutz, in a large family of his own people. He was tired of this existence, tired of the sacrifice. Someone had to do it, he knew, but he didn’t feel any longer that it should be himself. He wanted the lushness, the dryness, the heat, the wind, the smell of fruit; he wanted to go out and dig up fields under a blazing sun, not to be standing here on this platform which smelt of damp sacks and old socks.
The train arrived, the doors opened, and he sat down. They slid shut again, and he looked around the carriage, looked at ten faces numbed into silence by something — perhaps the same shyness, perhaps the same apathy, perhaps the same boredom. He looked at them aloof, for he was a big person, an important person, and they were nothing. He had been instructed to kill men for his country; what had they been instructed? To bring home chicken dinners from Colonel Sanders?
Then he felt afraid, and a wave of guilt hit him. Two nights ago he had killed, and thought no more about it. It had even made him feel good. He wondered what had happened to him, that he could kill as easily as this and then think no more of it. He wondered if it was normal or if, somewhere, in the last five years, he had lost a vital part of himself. He cast an eye around to ensure no one was looking at him; then he closed his eyes and began, without moving his lips, to say a prayer. ‘Please God, guide me to do what is right, amen,’ were the words with which he finished the prayer. He opened his eyes and felt better again, warmer, more courageous; he had succeeded in passing the buck to his Creator. It was up to God now to decide what Baenhaker did, and it would be God who would have to carry any blame.
The doors slid open at Earls Court, and Baenhaker got out; he had a lot of work ahead of him, and he wanted a clear head. He wanted to relax tonight, and thought about whether he wanted to read a book or see a movie. He felt that he didn’t want to be alone tonight, didn’t want to go back to his flat. He decided that what he really fancied was getting laid, but he had no idea where he could get a whore in Earls Court. The only whores he knew were the two at the Israeli Embassy who were occasionally wheeled out for blackmail purposes, but they were going to have to be replaced soon; at thirty-six and thirty-nine, with three and five children respectively, they were getting beyond the point where they could successfully pass as innocent young chambermaids.
Then he decided, to hell with it, he would get straight on with his work. He left Earls Court tube station and walked in the direction of Redcliffe Square. When he had returned to E-G, he had changed back into his casual clothes, and he felt inconspicuous as he walked along.
He had found Rocq’s address while going through Globalex’s offices, had photographed it along with everyone else’s — but Rocq’s he had taken special note of. He thought it mildly curious that in addition to working less than 400 yards from where Rocq worked, he should also live less than 400 yards from where Rocq lived.
He scanned the square for any signs of a Porsche, and saw none; then he walked down past number 34, where Rocq lived, without stopping; he carried on to the end of the terrace, then walked around the side, to check the terrace from the rear. It was eight o’clock, but still fairly light; certainly light enough for people to be clearly identifiable. He figured that on a Friday evening, Rocq would either be out or have gone away for the weekend; he was pretty sure he would be safe for the few minutes he needed in Rocq’s flat.
He rang the bell and waited; after a few minutes, he rang again. Either no one was in the flat, or the bell wasn’t working. He slipped the latch on the front door of the building, with a small piece of plastic in his pocket, and walked in. It was a typical communal entrance; cream plastic lino, a few circulars lying on the floor, a take-away pizza menu, an invitation to join a new religious sect, and a scattering of letters. One for Miss A. Moussabakias, two for F. A. Watling FCA, and one for Lady Rowena Melchenth-Henty. That last name added a certain class to the place, he decided — not that he’d ever heard of her, but there was no one titled living anywhere in his tip, unless it was the phantom curry-freak, which he doubted.
If Rocq had any great valuables in his apartment, he wasn’t giving any hints away with the lock he had on his door — a child of three could have picked it with a piece of wet string. Baenhaker closed it quietly behind him, and took a careful look around. The door opened into a huge open-plan drawing room and dining room. A white wall-to-wall shag carpet filled the floor area; there were two white velour sofas facing each other across a massive marble coffee table. By a window was a white marble topped table, with black lacquered legs, and a black lacquered chair; the dining table was smoked glass and had eight white velour-upholstered carver chairs around it. The colour in the room came from several vivid geometric original paintings. He walked down a corridor and came to a large bedroom. The bed was low and massively wide; built into the headboard, and matching bedside-tables were stereo speakers, lights, and a complete control panel on each side, which Baenhaker presumed was for the television at the foot of the bed. The bed was unmade and well tousled; a large fur rug hung off the side of it. It looked like a good romp had taken place in it. Baenhaker noticed the photograph of Amanda beside the bed, and emotion began to well up inside him again; he looked at and puzzled over the large roll of polythene on the floor by the wall. He walked over to the bedside telephone, and pulled a tiny microphone from his pocket, when suddenly there was the sound of a key in a door — then voices:
‘Amanda, you have the most filthy mind!’
‘And you love it, don’t you.’
‘I feel so horny I don’t know if I can wait to get to the bedroom.’
Baenhaker froze, and cursed himself for not having jammed the door lock. He looked frantically around for an escape. He rushed over to the window; it was double glazed, and only a small portion at the top would open. They were coming towards the room. He did something he had never done before in his life: he dived into a cupboard.