The Business

Was I paranoid, or just being sensible?  I got a prickly feeling on my forehead and jumped off the swing, walking towards the trees that would hide me from the château on the far slope.  I rang Hans on the car phone.

'Yes, Ms Telman?'

'How are things going, Hans?'

'I have your luggage, Ms Telman.  Where should I meet you?'

'At the Avis office in town.  In twenty minutes.'

'Very well.  I shall be there.'

I walked to the Hertz office, hired an Audi A3 and drove it round to a corner opposite the Avis lot, then crouched down and phoned Dessous.  Not available.  Madame Tchassot then; put my side of the story, assuming Poudenhaut had gone straight to her.  Answer-machine.  Tommy Cholongai.  In a meeting.  I looked up the number for X. Parfitt-Solomenides, the guy who'd also signed the Pejantan Island deal but whom I suspected wasn't involved in Hazleton's scam.  Not taking calls.  I was starting to get really worried now.  I actually started to call Uncle Freddy.

Thulahn; the Prince.  All land lines out.  Luce, then.  Luce, please be there…

'Yup?'

'Thank fuck.'

'What?'

'You're there.'

'Why, what is it, hon?'

'Oh, just getting paranoid.  I think I've just committed commercial suicide.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

I told her as much as I could.  This probably only made the whole story even more complicated than it was anyway, and it was pretty complicated in the first place, but she seemed to get the gist. (Maybe too quickly, a part of me thought.  Maybe she's in on it somehow, maybe she's like some sort of deep-entry spy put there by…but that was just too mad.  Wasn't it?)

'Where are you now?'

'Luce, you don't need to know that.'

'But are you still in Switzerland?  Or was this auto-da-fé shit with the Ferrari conducted in Italy, where it is probably a capital offence?'

'Hold on, my luggage has just arrived.' I watched Hans pull up to the kerb across the street in the silver 7-series.  No other cars seemed to be following him, or drew up nearby at the same time.  Nobody else in the BMW, either.  Hans got out and peered through the window of the Avis office as he put on his cap.

I got out of the A3. 'Keep talking to me, Luce.  If I get cut off suddenly, call the police.'

'What, the Swiss police?'

'Yeah, or Interpol or somebody.  I don't know.'

'Okay.  But now I need to know where the hell you are.'

'Yes, you do, don't you?' I said as I crossed the street, dodging honking traffic and gesticulating drivers. ' Ah, fuck you too, asshole!'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Not you, Luce.  Hans!  Hans!'

'You all right?'

'Shouting at the chauffeur.  I'm in a town called Château d'Oex in the Vaud Canton, Switzerland.'

'Right…This isn't that chauffeur, is it?'

'No.  Hans, danke, danke.  Nein, nein.  Mein Auto ist hier.'

'Ms Telman.  You are crossing the road in the wrong place.'

'Yes, sorry.  Could I just take my luggage?'

'It is in the trunk.'

'Fine.  If you could just open it, I'll take it.'

'Where is your car?  I will drive to it.'

'That's okay.'

'No, please.'

'Right, okay.  It's over there.'

'Please, get in.'

'It's just across the road, Hans.  I'll jay-walk again.'

'But this is not a place for crossing.  See.  Please, you will get in.'

'Hans.  There's no need.  I'll walk.  Okay?'

'But here it is forbidden.'

'You okay, Kate?'

'Fine.  Fine so far.  Hans, please either open the trunk or get in the car and chuck a U-ie.'

'Yeah!  Do as she says, Hans!'

'I don't think he can hear you, Luce.'

'What is a U-ie, please?'

'U-turn.  It's a U-turn, Hans.  Perform a U-turn.'

'That is forbidden here too.  See.'

'Jeez.  Anal or what?  That guy needs therapy.  Let me talk to him, Kate.'

'Quiet, Luce.  Please.  Hans, look —'

'Oh, you want me to stay on the line but you want me to shut up, right?'

'Right.  Hans.  Could I have my luggage?'

'Please, you will get in, I will to the other side of the street drive, and all is good.'

'Did I hear that right?  Did he really the verb at the end of the sentence put?  Well, haw-haw-haw!'

'Luce —'

'Please.'

'No, Hans.'

'But why not, Ms Telman?'

'I don't want to get into the car.'

'You don't want to get into the car?'

'That's right.'

'You tell him, kid.'

'Why do you not want to get into the car?'

'Yeah, come to think of it, why don't you want to get into the car?'

'Oh, for fuck's sake.  Torture and death can't be any worse than this.  Okay, Hans, you win.  I'll get in.  We're going over there.  The green Audi hatchback.  Okay?'

'Yes, I see.  Thank you.'

'You got into the car?'

'I'm in the car.'

'What's happening now?'

'Hans is getting into the driver's seat.  He's taking off his cap.  He's putting it on the front passenger's seat.  He's putting the car into Drive.  He's checking his mirrors.  We're driving off.  We're in the traffic now.  We're heading down the street.'

'Cool.  Any nice shops?'

'Will you shut up?…We're going quite a long way down the street.  We haven't done a U-turn yet.  I'm starting to get worried.  Hold on.  Hans?'

'Yes, Ms Telman?'

'Why haven't we turned round yet?  The car's back there.'

'It is forbidden.  The signs.  See.  It is forbidden.  Up here we may turn.  I will turn there.'

'Okay, okay.'

'Now what's happening?'

'We're slowing down.  We're turning up a side-street…we're turning down another street…and another…and back on to the main street.  Yeah, heading back towards the Audi.  Looks cool.  Looks cool.'

'What fucking Audi?'

'My hire car.  Right.  We're here.  I'm getting out.  Thank you.  No, I can…Ah, thank you, thank you. Vielen dank.'

'Ms Telman.'

'Thank you, Hans. Wiedersehen.'

'Goodbye, Ms Telman.'

'Yes, thank you.  Drive carefully. 'Bye… Luce?'

'Yeah?'

'Thanks.'

Call me really fucking paranoid, but I left the hire car at Montreux, took a taxi to Lausanne and used cash to buy a ticket on a TEE to Milano via the Simplon tunnel (good dinner, pleasant talk to a terribly camp and charming textile designer and his gruffly butch partner; relaxed).  Cash again to buy a tourist ticket on a delayed Alitalia 747 to Delhi via Cairo; upgraded once we were in the air using my non-company Amex (stewardesses less glamorous and more efficient than last Alitalia flight a few years ago; coffee smelled tempting, but avoided).  First so empty I could have got up to any amount of shenanigans, if there had been a willing partner.  Slept — instead — very well indeed.

In Delhi, going through the formalities, I tried calling Stephen.  The phone just rang and rang and rang, the way phones do when the person at the other end is there, hasn't got their answer-machine or voicemail switched on, but can see your number and name on their phone's display and just doesn't want to talk to you. 'Stephen, don't do this to me,' I whispered. 'Pick up the phone.  Pick up the phone…' But he didn't.

I tried elsewhere.

'Mr Dessous?'

'Telman?  What in the hell is going on?'

'You tell me, Jeb.'

'Was it that bastard Hazleton?  Is he the Couffabling son-of-a-bitch you were talking about?'