Skin in the Game, page 25
Klein looked over to Hawkins and raised his eyebrows.
“One more name for the rest of what you know.”
“Agreed.”
“Georg Hegel. The march of history. Any given situation contains tensions that make it inherently unstable, fueling change. The dialectic. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Conflict is the engine of change. If we are to hold on to any hope for a new world order based on justice, someone has to stand up to global capital.”
“You have not disappointed, Mr. Hawkins. Things are not going totally smoothly for Density. The president is not proving to be as compliant as initially expected.”
Klein blew a smoke ring in the air.
“Density is going to up the ante. Through Serbon, they are planning to assassinate the president and install the current foreign minister in his place. The foreign minister is more easily influenced.”
“How do I get to Serbon?”
Hawkins observed Klein as he filled his pipe once again. On one level, he was just a scheming little man, but he was a scheming little man with access to information, and somehow that gave him more presence, more panache.
“To understand Serbon, you must understand its founder, Zakhar Kurst. Kurst once believed he could use his skills to influence political outcomes. He was a patriotic Russian. Once he witnessed the rise of the oligarchs who profited from the fall of the USSR, his efforts became focused entirely on wealth. He has seen many men rise and fall. Most of all, Kurst is an independent. He works for no one. He has some ties with Density today, but he has no doubt already thought out an elaborate exit plan should he need to realign his interests at any point in time. He will be at the consortium meeting, acting as head of security. You must think of a way to outsmart him and expose his activities to Samarrai. A little insight that might prove useful—Kurst has a weakness. He cannot control his desires. He is a brute of a man, so these desires find their way to the surface in the most offensive forms. He is an astute tactician, making him a formidable opponent, but he does not think clearly when he is around women or alcohol.”
Hawkins lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew the smoke into the cool autumn air. Kurst. He’d heard that name before.
“Shall we take a walk, Mr. Klein?”
The two men strolled down Unter den Linden, into a setting sun. Cars rushed by in either direction as they walked under the bright green leaves of the trees in the pedestrian mall.
“You didn’t choose any of the illustrious names from literature. Goethe. Thomas Mann. Why not?”
“I was looking for concepts I could use quickly. Easier to find these in philosophy than in literature.”
Hawkins pictured Sofi’s face for a fleeting moment, then she vanished.
“This monument we are leaving now is dedicated to the printing of books, free speech, access to ideas, freedom of ideas. Do you think we will one day dedicate such a monument to those who pioneered the Internet and the ideas that sprang from this new information exchange?”
“I don’t know. Gutenberg’s press was important technology, but not a guardian of free speech or a guarantor of access to information in and of itself. I suppose it depends on who you believe controls the Internet. If anyone like Joseph Goebbels was ever able to gain control, then the outcome would certainly be farce and tragedy.”
“The left, free-thinking, by its very nature always fragments. The right, power, is a vacuum, seamless. You will now go to Zurich, I believe. There, you will find the evidence you need to take to Samarrai.”
At the Brandenburger Tor, Klein pointed upwards.
“Our Quadriga, Professor. The Chariot of the Gods. You think these are the same four horses referred to in the Book of Revelation? Conquest, war, famine and death. The apocalypse?”
“I prefer to interpret it as a single vision of the deliverance of daylight and the dispersement of night.”
“Only that which is alike differs. Or perhaps, only differences are alike.”
Klein passed him a slip of paper.
“Here are the details for one of my colleagues in Dubai, Matta Hafez. Matta will help you with local matters. I wish you success in your endeavors.”
Hawkins held the piece of paper in his hand and looked up at the detail of the Quadriga. The goddess Victoria held a standard, with an iron cross positioned at the center of an olive wreath. Victory and peace. Sentiments seldom possessed by one man. He looked over to Klein, but he had disappeared.
*
Hawkins passed through the Brandenburger Tor and walked down Ebertstrasse. Couples strolled through the Tiergarten, arm in arm. He was about to wave down a taxi when he felt the barrel of a gun shoved in to his back.
“Keep walking, straight ahead,” said the man. The accent sounded American.
They walked south toward the Holocaust Memorial. When they reached the grid of concrete slabs, the man directed Hawkins into the monument. As they walked toward the center of the memorial, Hawkins felt as if he were surrounded by stone coffins set in black and gray. The ground sloped up and down, the man leading them to a place where the slabs of concrete towered over their heads.
He slammed the heel of the gun into Joe’s back. Joe fell to his knees. He felt the barrel against the back of his head. With a sudden surge of energy, he grabbed the man’s right calf and twisted himself backward, bringing the man crashing down over his right shoulder. They struggled for the gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see people walking back and forth along the aisles, taking no notice of the two men struggling.
At last, Joe forced the gun out of the man’s hand, raised it high and smashed it into the side of his head. He stared down at the plump red face. He was breathing, but unconscious. Joe rolled over and caught his breath. He reached into the inside pocket of the man’s jacket and pulled out his passport. Donald Palmer. American. Diplomatic status. He heard the chatter of people approaching from the end of the aisle. He dropped the gun, rose and sprinted off in the opposite direction.
He found himself in the middle of the monument, unsure of how to get out. As he looked around, the heads of people appeared and disappeared all around him. He was panting and felt faint. He walked aimlessly through the maze of concrete tombs, taking no notice of anyone around him. In the background he heard a siren screaming. Finally he made it out and looked back, having no idea what path he had taken.
*
He walked through streets of the Mitte and ended up in Gendarmenmarkt. He ordered a beer at an outdoor beer garden between the Konzerthaus and the Franzosischer Dom. He put on his sunglasses and laid his Berlin tourist map on the table. He took out his phone and dialed Frank Clemens.
“They’re safe now, Joe. We took out one guy. Turns out he was working for Raze. There is a cyclone of disinformation circling around.”
“Where are they? Where are Lucy and Tamara?”
“I’m taking extra precautions at this point. I never thought it would escalate to attacking a US citizen and her child on US soil. They’re safe.”
Not a direct answer. He looked over at a waiter wearing suspenders and leather trousers. He had a small mustache and was staring straight at him. Joe opened his tourist map.
“Did you find out anything more on Baexter and Mandrake?”
“Raze has major contracts with the US government. It’s hard to say which departments. All the contracts are classified. National security. I suspect both State and CIA are involved.”
“Is Raze linked to Baexter and Mandrake?”
“Raze is working as a security agent for both companies. No one knows its exact role. It’s supposedly confined to work outside of the US. That’s why this incident with Lucy and Tamara took me by surprise. Raze is liaising with a CIA agent currently working out of London. Name’s Palmer.”
“I think I just met him.”
He scanned the beer garden. All around him, men and women were laughing, drinking large steins of beer, eating giant pretzels.
“Say what? His name keeps coming up in relation to Baexter and Mandrake. He’s meant to be heading over to Dubai to coordinate security and intelligence matters. Working closely with Marlon Freeman from the State Department. They’re attending a meeting organized by DIA.”
“OK, Frank. I’ll call you back.”
Hawkins placed his right forearm down on the table. He stared at his right hand. The hand that hit Palmer. It was shaking. He pressed it into the table, then looked up. The waiter was serving a couple at the other end of the beer garden. Joe dropped some coins on the table and walked away.
Chapter 25
Bertram Mercier pulled his face away from Kris Maarten’s clavicle. He pushed himself off her body and stood next to her bed. He ran his eyes up and down her naked body, each limb tied with a rope to a leg of the bed. The restraints were redundant at this point. She lay motionless, swallowed by his black eyes, resigned to his next move.
Mercier pulled up his trousers.
“That was a good start, mon petit chaton.”
He checked his appearance in the mirror as he reassembled his shirt and tie.
“I was always so jealous of Sam. How it was he could have his way with you, I really will never understand.”
Kris closed her eyes and her breathing slowed. Mercier circled the bed, making sure each of the restraints was neatly tied. He pulled out a comb from his back pocket and ran it through her hair on top of a pillow. He pulled at the sheets underneath Kris and straightened them, making sure to puff the pillows before he backed away.
He held his two index fingers up, with his thumbs touching, and looked through as if into a camera.
“Perfect.”
He folded his arms on his chest.
“Now, you will give me the information you have given to this brother of Sam. Brother of Sam. It sounds ridiculous, does it not?”
“I haven’t given him anything.”
“Speak up, my darling.”
Mercier pulled a Microtech switchblade from his front pocket. He pushed a button, and the blade slid out. He ran his finger over the sharp side of the blade.
“Kris, do you think we stopped watching you after you left our little nest? Really, you do underestimate us, don’t you? So disappointing.”
Mercier kneeled over her and gouged a cut along her left forearm a few inches long. Blood oozed from the wound. Kris let out a scream from the pain, then held her mouth shut. Tears rolled out from her eyes.
“One last time. I am in a hurry.”
Mercier leaned his face into her breast and licked around her nipple. Kris closed her eyes once again and started to cry. Her entire body trembled. Then she stopped herself and stared straight into his eyes.
“He gave me a USB stick. Sam gave me a USB stick. I gave it to Joe.”
“What files were on the USB stick?”
“There was only one. I couldn’t open it.”
Mercier stood upright. He held the knife in his hand as if it was a paint brush and closed one eye. He moved to several locations in the room, eyeing her from the point of the blade. Standing directly behind her head, he stopped. He held the blade still.
“Aha! That is it! I am a genius.”
He leaned over, hovering directly above her head, and locked eyes with hers. She widened them as a last plea for mercy. He raised the knife and pulled it down sharply into her chest, twisting it as it passed between two ribs. A pulsing fountain of blood sprayed from her torso.
He edged backwards, raised himself and cleaned the knife with a loose sheet. Then he checked his shirt for blood and picked up a towel to rub out a small stain. He tied his shoes, put on his jacket and straightened his hair in the mirror. He moved to a chair in the corner of the room, lit a cigarette, took a few long hauls, and studied the dead body on the bed. He pulled out his mobile phone, checked his emails and then dialed Richard Blumee.
*
Richard Blumee stared at his mobile with bloodshot eyes. His heart notched up a gear when he saw Mercier’s name appear.
“Richard, I want to know how you are feeling about tomorrow’s meeting with the police.”
Blumee raised his right hand to block the sun from his eyes.
“All set, Bertram.”
“Richard, you know it is vitally important that we all appear to be on the same page when it comes to providing answers to the police. You slipped a little with that Watt woman. I don’t want to see that happen when the police come in to discuss the murder investigation. We must keep our little duckies in a row. You know your lines, correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
Blumee followed a red-wine stain down the front of his shirt, ending at a shirttail hanging out from his trousers.
“We need to put this episode behind us now. We will be closing Passage II in the next week or so. Everyone is a little tense. And we are rather concerned that you are not up to the responsibilities you now have at Density.”
“No, no. I’m totally on board, Bertram. You know how exciting this is for me. I will hold up my end.”
He closed his eyes and sniffled.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
“Excellent. Well then, I will see you in the morning. Shall we meet for morning coffee?”
“Perfect.”
Blumee picked up the bottle of Grey Goose vodka on the coffee table and took a long swig. He slammed the bottle down and staggered over to his desk. He had cleared his papers away. The center was covered in white powder. He grabbed the tightly rolled-up twenty-pound note beside it and inhaled a long line, leaned back and snorted it in. Then he laced a roll-up cigarette with a large pinch of the powder and lit it.
He paced the room as his breathing quickened. He sat down and then stood up again repeatedly and then began repeatedly squeezing his eyes shut and opening them wide as he tried to think straight. He picked up his mobile and called Sofi Watt.
“Sofi, have you made any progress?”
“Richard, are you OK? You sound sick.”
“The homicide cops are coming in to ask more questions about Sam. Mercier is all over my back. I need to know if you can help me or not.”
“I don’t have a definitive response. Look, we will have a deal for you, it just might take some time. Things would move much quicker if you would just come in and make a statement.”
Blumee kicked the leg of his dining room table, cracking it with his leather shoe.
“I have information on everything. I can take this fucking firm down. I need to know I can trust you.”
“Richard, I will do everything in my power to make sure you are dealt with fairly. I promise. Why don’t you come down first thing in the morning and make a statement then?”
Blumee stood motionless. Sweat was trickling down from his temples. His breath was shallow.
“I need to see Mercier first thing in the morning. The police are coming after that. I could meet you at lunchtime.”
“OK. Just go along with the story Mercier wants you tell to the police. Then come in. We’ll work out everything after you’ve made your statement. And I’ll do my best to have a deal for you tomorrow.”
Blumee clenched his fists, then smiled. He walked over to the stereo and cranked up the techno CD he was playing. He snorted a long line and walked out onto his balcony. He stared down at the ground, eighteen stories below.
I’m still flying. His head began to spin as the coke kicked in.
*
Bertram Mercier parked his Aston Martin Vanquish at the side of the road. He replayed the conversations he’d just recorded from Blumee’s mobile. He listened to the receiver for Cadan Blake’s response.
“Your instincts were right, Bertram. I leave it up to your discretion.”
Mercier smiled. His years of work were finally paying off, years of remaining resolute while others—Laith Khaldoun, Sam Hawkins—had risen above him. Now it was his turn to shine in the light. Blake had never taken notice of his talent. Now Blake finally understood just what Bertram Mercier was capable of achieving. Now he could allow his ego to expand. Now he could fill the shoes he had always been destined to wear.
Mercier locked the car and entered the building. He pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. He tightened his narrow navy tie and straightened the collar on his light-blue thin-lapel suit. He pulled tight black leather gloves over his hands. As he got out of the elevator and approached the door, he removed the Glock 30 automatic from its holster.
Blumee answered the door. The buttons on his shirt were out of sync.
“Bertram, so good to—”
He noticed the gun in Mercier’s hand.
“What’s this all about, Bertram? Look, I know my part in all of this. I have it tied down.”
Mercier pointed the gun at Blumee’s head and kept walking forward.
“Come on now, Bertram, let’s work this out. Bertram, surely there is a way we can resolve all of this.”
Mercier pressed the gun up against Blumee’s chest, forcing him back. Walking backwards, Blumee stumbled over the balcony doorsill. Mercier pressed hard against Blumee until he was backed up over the balcony rail.
“Adieu, Richard.”
In one swift move, Mercier wrapped his left arm around the back of Blumee’s knees and hoisted him over the rail of the balcony.
He put the gun back in the holster. He checked himself in the mirror and walked out of the flat, quietly closing the door.
*
Cadan Blake pushed Claire Nelson’s buttocks away from him, forward from her knees to face down on to the bed. The brief moment of stillness had passed. He scowled at the sight of her sprawled on top of the covers.
She turned her face to one side and said, “Shall we have some champers, darling, while you regain your energy?”
Sweat beaded down Blake’s forehead as he rose from the bed. He covered himself with his black silk robe, walked over to the dresser and opened the platinum cigarette case. He tucked one between his fingers and turned to Claire.
“Smoke?”
