The Oktober Projekt (31 page)

‘It’s in the blood, Harry, you know that.’

‘Okay, okay, you get your good faith,’ announced Harry. ‘Our
first mutual friend wanted to prepare the ground for your officer. She was
going to follow the trail I’d locate.’ He tried another smile without
success.
 

‘Did the trail start at the Brazillia Casino by any chance
Harry?’

‘You’re one hundred per cent ahead of me, here Nick, huh.
Someone offering better terms than me?’

‘This is personal, Harry, Angie’s dead and it wasn’t natural
causes.’

As with all deals especially when agreeing terms, there comes a
moment of extreme danger, and an inner sense told Harry that this was what he
faced right now. ‘You think this is all connected, Nick?’

‘No doubt about it Harry.’

Harry whistled, nodding thoughtfully he took in Nick’s news,
which actually caused him to shiver. ‘Sure, it all begins at the casino, but I
only gave your officer the facts, lit up the trail. I got no involvement in
what happened to her,’ said Harry, making absolutely sure Nick knew whose side
he was on. ‘What terms you offering now Nick, because if this is personal then
things get tricky, know what I mean?’

‘Full payment on completion Harry, expenses and a retainer as
of now.’

‘That’s a dumb deal, Nick, know that,’ offered Harry. ‘You
don’t mind me saying that Nick, huh?’

‘I don’t mind Harry, but it’s all I’ve got,’ said Nick. ‘I want
an answer by tonight or I’m going to expect you to disappear.’

The snow ran into Bransk’s eyes but he didn’t wipe them,
keeping his hands low by his side visible and still. Above them a helicopter
hammered through the low cloud, and Nick withdrew into the shadow.

‘You’re going to tie up all the lose ends for me, Harry. I’m
short on time, you want me to spread the word that you’re off the books,
unreliable, a risk?’

‘Hamburg’s good to me, okay. I do plenty of business here with
my regular clients. I have a lot to lose. I think perhaps you should know
that,’ said Harry, sounding deeply offended. ‘Okay, okay, I accept your kind
offer,’ Harry said, for once not absolutely sure of his ground or safety.

‘So what did you give my officer?’ Nick asked.

‘An introduction to someone who had access to inside.’

‘Do I get to meet them?’

‘That’s not possible, Nick, he’s keeping out of sight, okay,
tucked himself away the day after your officer ran into that spot of trouble.’

‘What else do I need to know?’

‘The casino is sort of private, invitation or recommendation
only,’ Harry said. ‘Blackjack, roulette, dice, whores and dancing girls go
right across the scale; high-class, low-class, no-class.’

‘A single owner?’

‘One-man show, Nick, know what I mean. The whole lot is owned
by a shrewd operator called Günter Blümhof, but if that’s his real name is
anyone’s guess.’

‘Background?’

‘Blümhof came from the rough side of the tracks, okay, and
through some risky deals with persons unknown, he managed to get enough finance
to buy his first club. This gives him the muscle to progress, not much, but
enough. The Brazillia and his sideline of strip bars keeps his head above water
pretty damn good. It’s a very capable operation and protects its privacy, okay.
You don’t want to get caught asking any wrong questions, not here in Hamburg or
you end up with no face.’

‘I need a way in, Harry, a recommendation to get me through the
door.’

‘This is risky, okay. I sent your officer in there and look
what happened.’

‘It’s not a request, Harry.’

There are types of men in this world that Harry Bransk knew you
could walk away from, forget them, ignore them and take on life with the same
hunger. This he knew did not remotely apply to Nick Torr. In Vienna during a
clandestine skulking meeting with an East German official threatening to
defect, Bransk, young and too fierce, pushing for a move up the scales, broke
all the rules in the book and a good few more. Attempting to land the East German
himself, Bransk was lucky to escape with a knife wound in his arm as Nick
finished the deal for himself, having no qualms in breaking the neck of Harry’s
attacker, a Stasi thug who’d planned to bundle Harry across the Czech border.

‘This is bad, Nick, you’re asking a lot, okay.’

Listening intently, Nick had folded his arms and wore the same
impassive look across his face as he had done that night in Vienna.

‘Is there something that you want to add, Harry? Something that
I need to know?’

‘These people, Nick, well, they’re nervous, suspect everyone.
This goes wrong and they going to hit us hard. You, me, maybe Petra, Jack, all
of London’s representatives in Hamburg.’

‘You got options on this, Harry? You taking more than sides
this time? Got something to settle perhaps?’ asked Nick, unfolding his arms, an
act that somehow heightened the feeling of misgiving for Bransk.

The snow had soaked through Harry’s overcoat. He could feel it
on his shoulders, cold damp patches slowly spreading down his back and arms but
he closed his mind to the discomfort.

‘Not this one. Strictly business all the way.’

‘The rules of engagement have changed now, Harry. You earn your
fee and a bonus by making the arrangements, starting with getting me through
the door tonight.’
 

‘Sure, whatever you want, Nick. Harry’s officially working for
you, nothing’s impossible. I’ll see what I can do, where do I reach you?’

‘That doesn’t work like that this time either, Harry. You give
me a number I can reach you twenty-four-seven.’

‘Sure,’ agreed Harry, taking out his phone.

After Nick had stored the number on his mobile, he turned
having nothing more to say. Walking to his car Harry opened up the collar on a
heavy overcoat bought in Stockholm, and thought of how this deal could be his
last, if he played it right he might even have enough to retire.
 

Fifteen

Casino Brazillia

Hamburg, December

Sometimes
you needed to establish the facts and decide how much of you was evil,
how much was good for no other reason than to prove a point; to italicize a
right to freedom, to take risks because someone you loved had died. Just
sometimes you behaved totally irrationally when revenge had got under your skin
and poisoned your system. Nick was possessed of those very symptoms when he
moved away from the antique shop, through a cold night loaded with snow and
headed towards the port. The introduction provided by Harry carried as securely
as contraband as he made for the river through brightly lit cobbled streets.

Groups of Turkish
Gastarbeiters
smoked in doorways marginally lit; fathers doubled by manual work and
tall fiery sons probing Nick’s intentions with wide hostile eyes, questioning
his right to be in their territory. I’m passing through, don’t worry, Nick’s
body language declared. His head bowed, his hands gripping the lining in his
pockets as he read everything around him; the starched washing airing out of
high windows, a violinist’s inflamed melancholic practise chords drifting away.
At a restaurant open until four a.m.,
customers formed hazy dark profiles at round
white damask covered
tables. He strolled by a cinema showing Turkish films, unpronounceable names
and gory segments on lurid billboards. Distance required; don’t stop, don’t
tempt fate. He walked fast to the edge of the Reeperbahn and the Casino
Brazillia, a mock Gothic castle with a fortified door.

He pressed a buzzer and a door slipped its catch, an electronic
invitation into a reception styled on Brazilian themes. Panoramas of Rio were
screwed precisely down bare brick walls and he stood by the largest, Christ on
Corcovado Peak by a door without a handle and a house telephone on a clear
glass cube.
Over it a printed proclamation:
DIAL 400 AND WAIT. He obeyed and heard a badly played samba then a nasally
‘Yes?’

‘A friend of mine recommended the tables here,’ Nick said
loudly, drowning out the digital band.

‘The name of your friend?’

Tell them Herr Norkus recommended the place; he’s a big player
in Hamburg, carries weight, Harry had told Nick. ‘Herr Norkus,’ Nick said
without hesitation.

‘Wait please,’ advised the voice, the line going dead.

The eye of a closed-circuit camera picked up his scent. Body
heat, infrared censors? The technology of control, and he’d no idea who was
deciding how valid his claim to be a friend of Herr Norkus really was. One nice
big smile, show off your remaining teeth they might be discussing how to knock
down your throat. What cover did you use Sally? Our fifteen minutes of fame,
two shadows in need of a home. When the door opened it let loose a fast Latin
beat and a twenty-year old groomed to wear an evening suit he’d already
outgrown. Clean-shaven and smooth skinned, he walked stiffly as though a
shotgun rubbed against his thigh.

‘Herr Norkus is a valued member,’ he declared, doubting if Nick
ever would be.

‘He said that I would enjoy your hospitality.’

‘That is true,’ he smiled but didn’t appear happy. ‘We are not
one of Hamburg’s most exclusive casinos, but confidentiality is our ultimate
aim,’ he said with gravitas, guiding Nick down steep carpeted stairs. How many
people have had accidents here Nick wondered, a nasty fall, a broken neck?
Anything violent arranged within reason.

The attendant produced a registration card and looked bored by
the routine, manoeuvring it aesthetically on a polished steel and smoked glass
desk. Carefully he explained which lines should be filled in. When Nick had
lied in ink signing himself as Herr Greiz, the attendant recited the menu of
the casino which covered three levels. The first devoted to mini-roulette,
black jack and baccarat, the second a cabaret show based on the Rio theme, the
third an informal bar where guests if they so desired, could select a companion
for the evening. He yawned while Nick decided.

He chose the bar as a starting point; three he recalled was a
magic number.

Curling in a crescent in a lighter shade of red, the bar
surrounded a sunken dance floor that Nick crossed self-consciously, his back
exposed to whoever he supposed had been told to watch him. A waitress pushed
through the crowded tables, she wore no top her small breasts shining in the
houselights. Setting a paper roundel and a glass of champagne in front of him,
one of her breasts brushed his left cheek.

‘With the compliments of Herr Blümhof,’ she smiled.

Was he being offered her or the drink? ‘He is very generous.’

She shrugged, pouting moist crimson lips. ‘He hopes that you
enjoy your visit,’ she added looking to the end of the bar.

‘I will try my best.’ Nick followed her gaze.

Short, light on his feet, Blümhof waved over with professional
charm. He had a rugged angular face, his hair receding fast above his temples
revealed a hint of grey and was immaculately cut. Dressed in a black suit,
casual black shirt, his age was a mire of contradiction, though Nick guessed it
being nothing above forty-six. He smiled as he walked away, a healer bestowing
a cure on the shoulders of a worthy few with one light touch, making his way
through a door marked ‘Privat’, which somehow signalled a CD to play, shaking
couples onto the dance floor.

‘Tell him thanks,’ Nick said sipping the tepid champagne. ‘I’d
like someone to share my table.’
 

‘You have a preference?’ she asked, tired of smiling.

‘Franziska, if she’s available,’ he said, wondering what sort
of charms she possessed for Galgate to fall under her spell.

In ten minutes Nick had a female friend but it wasn’t
Franziska. Bubbly and eager for him to spend money she’d grinned at the barman
as she flounced over, her hips swinging playfully all the way. No, Sabine
didn’t know why Herr Blümhof was so magnanimous to him she laughed, leading him
out for a dance. No, Sabine did not know why Franziska was not around. Sabine
rubbed herself into his crotch, but knew no other answers.

‘Tell me about Blümhof?’ Nick asked, back at his table refusing
another dance.

‘Me?’ Sabine acted surprised at every question that came her
way; a delaying gap to decide whether it was safe to continue. In her twenties
her long flowing Titian hair made her face seem too plain. She’d tried hard to
lessen her stubby nose and dimples with foundation and blusher but it had gone
on too thick. This guy Greiz worried her, his attitude, those rugged looks. He
belonged to a different group of men who never paid for her body.

‘You worked for him long?’ Nick missed his own glass out when
he poured from a bottle of Spanish champagne Sabine insisted he order.

Sabine giggled, Greiz’s serious eyes wouldn’t let her rest.
‘More than I should, but everyone’s got to pay the rent,’ she said dreamily,
keeping time with the smoochy music.

‘He treats you badly?’

‘Hey, I didn’t say that.’

‘My mistake.’

‘Fine, who’s counting,’ she said, carelessly resting his hand
on one of her breasts. ‘You do what makes you feel good in here. No one’s going
to say a word. We’re all here for drinks and fun.’

She sulked when Nick withdrew his hand.

‘Get many important visitors?’

Souring her lips Sabine twisted a silver ring round her middle
finger. It was fashioned in a belt complete with buckle, and he wondered if it
symbolised possession? Of her or someone else?

‘We have reserved private areas if you really want to be
alone,’ she said, raising his glass to his lips. ‘No one ever forgets Sabine,’
she added, her bare shoulders swaying to the beat.

How many other faces does she own? The voices? The gestures
copied from films? He pushed the glass away and she brought out childish shock;
a badly made veil fluttering briefly on her face.

‘How about visitors who have to be given special treatment?’

Breaking rhythm with the sensuous music she shook her head,
topped up her glass to overflowing. She had a sudden relish to get off the
table and put some distance between her and this stern Greiz. Impressive looks
but too forward in all the wrong departments. She needed a real liquid boost,
something to help her relax not cheap champagne.

‘Don’t talk like that,’ she laughed, playfully reaching down
and stroking his inner thigh.

Gripping her wrist, Nick dumped her hand back on the table and
clamped it there. ‘Have you provided any special services?’

She smiled and he had no way of telling if she meant it for
real. ‘Why don’t you forget about this? Let’s dance again, drink, get to know
each other? No big deal is it? Why worry what others get up to? Relax, enjoy
this while you’re here, let tomorrow take care of what it can.’

‘Is there a place these special guests go?’ Nick asked, drawing
her near feeling her fear, her resistance. ‘What about Franziska, why is she so
special. You know Franziska?’

She rubbed her bare arms suddenly cold. Glancing past him along
the bar she looked for help or a command; all she got was a slow song that
trembled across the floor bringing more groping couples out of their secluded
midnight booths.

‘You ask too many damn questions, know that? Sure we have VIPs
here. I don’t get asked if I object. Maybe they spend all their time on the
tables, maybe they’re making eyes at different girls. Think I keep a record?
You want me or not?’

And while we’re engaged Blümhof will be making his checks. Nick
laughed and squeezed her arm tighter.

‘So is it Franziska who provides the special treatment?’

Pitching back the contents of her glass Sabine poured another,
not needing to look when to stop.

‘If anyone asks, wants to know, I tell them you’re not
interested in me, changed your mind. Moody, talked too much, got a turn off at
the start, your wife and kids got in the way. You married? Got kids?’

‘No.’
 

‘Doesn’t matter, we’ll say your family’s the reason. I do this
for free okay. Now go, straight out, don’t think of coming back. You trouble
for sure. Me? I’m making a living and like my face the way it is. Go, walk out
like I’m not the last girl in the world. Go, don’t even bother to smile back.
Maybe I see you when I’ve finished here. After three, in Bar Z up the street.
Maybe I won’t.’

A few couples were dancing to a livelier tune when Nick walked
through them, erotic promises and grim determination binding them together. On
the stairs the young attendant in his badly fitting suit stood reverently to
one side, allowing him to pass, no body contact, no force. He guessed those
came at a price too.

• • •

Bar Z never closed. An oak clad cellar
long and dowdy it bore the scars of not satisfying primal requests; its
battered easiness accommodating changing moods, for those who wanted to get
drunk, or those who just wanted to talk. The colour scheme was neutral brown
applied to walls, ceiling and floor. Bench seats and solid pine tables were
laid in rows, Nick opting for a spot by the kitchen next to double swing doors
that wafted in the smell of sauerkraut and fish every time a waiter sprang
through. A coffee machine gargled on the counter, in the corner a Wurlitzer
played love songs and forgotten popular hits from CDs. Romantic he thought,
drinking his beer. Sabine arrived at three-thirty, her red hair tucked up in a
cowl. She grinned at the barman and walked over to Nick, her hips still
provocatively swung. In a patch of candlelight from the wooden chandelier over
their table her make-up had a worn jaded sheen.

‘Changed your mind about some pleasure?’ she asked, coyly
unhooking the cowl from her hair, throwing out handfuls of curls to dry in the
bar’s appetising breeze.

‘No.’

‘That’s sad, a real waste for you…for me. Suppose you’re the
type who want to put the world back on course.’ She lit a cigarette with a
capricious movement of her hands, the smoke finding its way down through her
nostrils. Her eyes jumped every time the door up to the street opened.

‘Waiting for someone?’

‘Someone with a million and a place in the sun.’ She smoked
hard, nicotine a replacement for joints, cannabis a halfway house from the
serious space powder she’d used to satisfy her craving; crystal transport to
keep her mind fuzzy and warm. ‘Herr Blümhof’s interested in you,’ she held her
breath, anarchy in her pale eyes, taking him in as a waiter brought over a
vodka she drank as a habit. She went for a drink and her hand shook fiercely.
‘Blümhof’s not such a proto guy, okay, unique as a complete shit. I can talk
here, understand?’ she explained, her glass hitting the table with a thud.

Nodding Nick admitted that he did, leaving Sabine adequate
space to fill.

‘I’ve been clean for six weeks, got myself a place lined up at
a refuge.’

Two girls danced together in a centre aisle, blonde and
brunette their heads laid on each other’s bare shoulders, their high stilettos
scuffing to a country and western ballad.

‘Franziska?’

‘Sure, I know Franziska.’

Tipping back the vodka, she called for another with a vicious
wave.

‘My best ex-best friend, see. We cried and loved together from
a long time ago. A complete friend okay, personally speaking. Crazy, always
giving it breath on how she was going to be different. Earn for a year or two,
then find the right Prince Charming to settle down with and have kids. Fantasy,
nightmare, rubbish between her ears.’ She took the fresh vodka off the waiter’s
tray and took a hard pull.

‘She the one who offers special services for important
clients?’ he asked, estimating how long before the vodka took her out of his
reach.

‘Who knows,’ she said shrugging. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’