Word got around the kitchen that evening that Dalmann had a sensational companion. The entire team, one by one, peeked at his table from the serving counter and gave their opinion: dancer, model or tart.
Makeda was a luxury that, strictly speaking, Dalmann could not afford. Shares in the largest bank, where his supposedly safe investments had been made, had not recovered at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. The bank, which was being propped up by the state, had just announced a loss of 20 billion francs – a loss never seen before in the country’s economic history. Customers had withdrawn 226 billion francs, and shares had lost almost two thirds of their value over this period. In addition, the American tax authorities were threatening to revoke the bank’s licence if it did not hand over the data relating to a few hundred US citizens suspected of tax evasion. Without a licence in the United States, the largest Swiss bank might as well shut up shop.
On the other hand, the business with Staffel and van Genderen had taken a positive turn. Although the new management, under pressure from shareholders, was desperately trying to rescind the deal between Kugag and hoogteco, he no longer cared as his commission had been paid, and to the right bank.
He was amazed how quickly van Genderen had talked poor old Staffel round; he had no idea how he had managed it. He did have a suspicion, though. The rumour (spread by a gossip columnist for the big daily paper) that Staffel’s wife had filed for divorce gave some indication. Not Dalmann’s problem either.
In a different field, the intermediary and consultancy work was also going beautifully well. That is to say, the business involving his Thai and Pakistani contacts, Waen and Fajahat. The two men had reached an agreement with Carlisle, the products had been sold to the United States and then delivered to Thailand and Pakistan. Dalmann doubted they were still in these countries. Most likely the Thai consignment had made its way unofficially to the Bay of Bengal and been loaded on to LTTE ships; the Pakistani one had probably been shipped officially to Colombo.
Of course, all that was beyond Dalmann’s responsibility. All he had done, and perfectly legally too, was offer up his services and receive an appropriate commission. If he hadn’t done it, somebody else would. This fee had also been deposited at a smaller, but more solid bank.
This supplementary income did not make him rich, but it made his luxuries seem less ill-advised.
40
At about nine o’clock in the evening two small aeroplanes flew from the north towards Colombo. The cockpits were manned by the two Black Air Tigers Col. Rooban and Lt. Col. Siriththiran. They had taken off from a street in the encircled war zone. Rooban had left behind a letter in which he implored the young people to join the Liberation Tigers.
They parted company shortly before reaching the capital. One of the planes flew towards the airbase at Katunayake; the other’s target was the air force command centre in the middle of Colombo.
At 9.20 there was a blackout in Colombo. A few sirens were audible.
Maravan was in a Tamil grocer’s when the news came through. The sound of whooping and clapping suddenly erupted from a room at the back. The owner came into the shop and bellowed, ‘We’ve bombed Katunayake and Colombo! We haven’t lost yet!’
Maravan had picked up some sali rice, long pepper and palm sugar, and was waiting to pay by the cash till. But customers and staff were jabbering away wildly to each other. Katunayake and Colombo! Bombed! And the army’s forever saying the Tigers have been conquered! We haven’t lost yet!
Maravan went over to the shopkeeper. ‘Completely defeated, Rajapaksa said, completely defeated!’ he yelled, his voice cracking.
‘Could I pay, please?’ Maravan said.
‘And they said Prabhakaran had left the country! Not a trace of him. There’s a photo of him with the two pilots on the internet! Ha!’
‘Could I pay, please?’
‘Aren’t you happy?’
‘I’ll be happy when there’s peace.’
The following day Maravan experimented late into the night burning cinnamon bark in his smoker. When he opened the kitchen balcony door to let fresh air in again, he could hear cheering and clapping above him. He went onto the balcony and looked up at the window.
On the kitchen balcony of the flat next to his stood Murugan, a husband and father who smoked on the balcony. He was also looking up.
‘Another air attack?’ Maravan asked.
‘Slumdog Millionaire.’
‘Slumdog millionaire?’
‘A film about a young man from Mumbai who lives in the slums and wins a million on a TV gameshow. It’s cleaning up at the Oscars. And the Ratnams are cheering every time.’
‘But the Ratnams aren’t Indians, are they?’
‘More Indian than Swiss, like all of us.’
Dalmann was concerned with neither the events in and around Sri Lanka nor the Oscar ceremony. He was a man of business and this, dear God, was providing plenty of excitement in itself.
His bank, for whose recovery he sent prayers to heaven every night, had begged the Government’s permission to release the customer details of 300 American citizens accused of tax evasion. This was the nail in the coffin of bank secrecy.
Saab, the Swedish car manufacturer belonging to the ailing General Motors, was bankrupt. Not that this surprised Dalmann – he had never had much time for these four-wheeled understatements for intellectuals – but the fact that the Government had allowed it to happen made him think.
Germany had announced an economic stimulus package of 50 billion euros and pushed up new borrowing to record levels.
And now this.
Schaeffer arrived while he was still in bed, where he would love to have wallowed a while longer in Makeda’s scent.
Dalmann kept him waiting for an hour, then came into the breakfast room showered, shaved and rather too perfumed. His colleague was sitting with a cup of tea and two garlands of apple peel.
‘What’s so urgent?’ was Dalmann’s greeting. He could sense this was no small matter.
‘The anti-arms export crowd.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘They’ve tracked down Waen.’
‘And?’
‘They were given a tip-off that he’d bought armoured howitzers that had been returned to the US.’
‘You know as well as I do there’s nothing illegal about that.’
‘But they’ve found out he’s supplying them to the Tamil Tigers.’
‘That’s his problem.’
‘I’m glad you seem so relaxed about it.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘They’ll publish it in one of their leaflets, one of our journalist friends with a good nose for a story will dig around and it’s not impossible they’ll come up with your name.’
‘In connection with Waen?’
‘In connection with Carlisle. You helped arrange his acquisition.’
‘So what?’ Dalmann sounded unperturbed. But they both knew he could not afford to be named in connection with such a deal.
Schaeffer got up. ‘I just wanted to warn you.’
‘Wait, not so fast.’
Schaeffer sat again.
‘What can we do?’
‘Not a great deal.’
‘But a little?’
Schaeffer pretended to consider this long and hard. ‘We could perhaps ensure the publication taking the lead in this matter is one over which we could exert a modicum of influence.’
Dalmann nodded. There was only one such paper. ‘How do you plan to arrange it?’
‘I’ll give them the tip-off about Carlisle. On the condition they keep you out of it.’
The man was good. He got on your nerves, but he was good. ‘And how are you going to prevent another journalist from researching the story?’
‘Journalists don’t research their colleagues’ exposés. They copy them.’