‘Please try and find out more. If you do, I think I can guarantee a bonus,’ said Liz.
‘I will try,’ said Mischa. His anxiety was escalating.
‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘There is one more thing. When I told my brother I was coming to Berlin for three weeks, he was very amused. “Why Germany?” he asked.’
Why indeed? thought Liz. Mischa said, ‘I explained I was here for three weeks’ attachment to the Embassy. My real task is to form an assessment of NATO preparations if we Russians are ever to… come west.’
‘You have some sources here?’ Liz asked, suddenly alert.
‘Possibly,’ said Mischa. ‘But that is not what I have to tell you now. My brother said, “We have something going on in Germany too.”’
‘Did he say what or where?’
‘No,’ said Mischa. Liz saw his hands were starting to tremble and she decided not to press him. She sensed he was very near the edge.
But Mischa seemed to get hold of himself and re-engage with her. ‘I think the German operation is connected to the one in the United States.’
‘The one that is now defunct?’ When Mischa looked at her, puzzled, she said, ‘Kaput.’
‘Yes.’ He was staring at Liz, then stood up abruptly. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’ He crossed the room and disappeared through a door marked WC. When he comes back, thought Liz, we’ll go outside and sit on a bench in a quiet part of the garden where he can see that no one is following him.
But ten minutes later she was still sitting alone at the table, facing the fact that Mischa was not coming back.
14
The following weekend Irma was at home when Dieter Nimitz arrived from Brussels, and to his relief she seemed to be in a good mood. He went upstairs and showered and changed; when he came down, he found her in the kitchen preparing supper. She had never liked cooking and saw food as fuel rather than a source of pleasure. But though he was quite a good cook and ate well during the week in his Brussels flat, Irma didn’t welcome him in the kitchen except for Saturday night, and so yet again they sat down to a bland supper of sausage, sautéed potatoes and green beans.
‘How was your week?’ he asked dutifully.
‘Good enough,’ she said, which as always discouraged further questions. He had learned not to press her – not if he didn’t want to have his head bitten off. But all week he had been wondering about the letter he’d seen from the orphanage, asking about the young man who had gone on a Freitang school trip abroad and not returned. He couldn’t have said exactly why he was so interested in the matter. Perhaps it was the rarity of learning anything about her work, since Irma was uncommunicative, and scrupulous about storing all her documents in a locked filing cabinet.
She said, ‘Did you see the Commissioner this week?’ She often asked this, as if his future depended on the Commissioner’s favour, whereas it was Van der Vaart who would determine Dieter’s future, and Van der Vaart who had made it crystal clear that Dieter’s career was staying right where it was.
‘No. He was visiting Austria – the refugee camp.’
‘Any news from there?’
He shook his head. In fact, he and his colleague Matilda had been copied in on the Commissioner’s email from Carinthia, reporting on what he had found. The situation was even grimmer than previously thought. The Austrian authorities seemed to be expending most of their energy on preventing more refugees from entering the country, rather than on looking after those who had already arrived.
But he didn’t want to discuss this with Irma; she would have endless questions, and he was tired. What he most wanted at home was a complete break from the depressing rigours of his job, so he said nothing now about the Commissioner’s report.
They had planned to go into Hamburg the next day to see a sculpture exhibit, but in the morning Irma cried off, saying she had some unexpected work from school to deal with. She insisted that he go on his own, however, and he left the house at about eleven o’clock. He walked to the train, stopping only to buy a newspaper, but at the station he found a group of people gathered outside. Two policemen stood blocking the entrance to the ticket hall.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked a woman.
‘There’s been an incident,’ she said. ‘Someone jumped in front of a train. They’ve closed the station while they remove the body.’ She looked at him, hesitating for a moment, then seemed to decide it was safe to add, ‘It was a foreigner.’
He stood wondering what to do; it seemed unsympathetic to ask the policeman how long it would take to bring out the corpse. He supposed he could take a taxi into town instead, but it would be very expensive and Irma would complain. In any case, no cabs were waiting on the rank. He could take a bus, but that involved a bit of a walk, and he would have to change at least once on his way into Hamburg.
What a nuisance, he thought, then felt slightly guilty, remembering the poor soul who had caused this disruption to his plans. There was nothing for it, he supposed, but to go back home, where Irma would be working in her study, and he could make lunch for them both. The prospect was unenticing; no doubt she would want to ask more questions about how he’d spent his week, and when he was likely next to see the Commissioner.
He decided to have lunch out instead, and he found a café across the road, where he ate a bowl of pork and bean Eintopf and drank a small beer. Then he walked slowly home, wondering if Irma would allow him a brief nap that afternoon. As he turned on to his road he saw a car approach from the far end, near his house. It was a silver Mercedes saloon, travelling rather too fast for this quiet suburban street. As the car passed, Dieter stared at the man behind the wheel. He wore a jacket over a shirt and striped tie, and had a square, rugged-looking face, with an old-fashioned moustache that followed the curving contours of his upper lip. Intent on driving, he didn’t even glance at Dieter.
At home as he opened the front door, Irma emerged from the back of the house. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, as she came towards him.
He was taken aback by her tone. ‘There was an accident. On the track. They cancelled the trains.’
‘You might have told me,’ she said, her voice rising.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said mildly. ‘I didn’t think it would make any difference. Is something wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m busy in the kitchen,’ she said, and retreated down the corridor.
He went upstairs, but decided not to take a nap. He looked for the book he was reading, a novel by Günter Grass, but it wasn’t by the bed and he couldn’t find it in his little study. He went downstairs and called out to Irma in the kitchen. ‘Have you seen my book? You know, the one by Günter Grass?’
‘No. Isn’t it upstairs?’
‘I can’t find it. Never mind, I’ll look in the drawing room,’ he said, and opened the door.
‘No,’ she cried out from the kitchen, but he was already in the room. It was rarely used except when they had visitors and was formally furnished, with Dresden china on a side table, two heavy armchairs with chintz covers and a deep sofa that might have dated from the days of the Kaiser. Irma had traditional taste, and this room was really hers and hers alone.
There was no sign of his book, but the room felt slightly different from usual. What was it? He sniffed – and smelled the faintest hint of cigarettes. Odd – Irma hated smoking and forbade it in the house.