Tretjak (4 page)

 

St-Anna-Platz, Munich, 5pm

There is only one thing the human brain cannot do, and that is
not
to learn. That's what he had always said. That had been the standard opening line to Kerkhoff's famous lectures. Tretjak looked at the picture on the screen. Harry Kerkhoff smiled his arrogant, flashing smile; it was an old photograph, at least ten years old, taken at some festivity or another, at a late hour. Kerkhoff in dinner jacket, Tretjak as well. He was standing next to him in that picture. Kerkhoff still had a full head of hair back then. Later, when he started to lose it, he had immediately had his head shaved. Now he had more of a patch which he needed to shave each morning, he had joked, when Tretjak almost did not recognise him – one shouldn't delay good-byes too long. Tretjak moved the mouse and clicked through a few more old pictures of Harry Kerkhoff, which Google had found – until a newer one turned up. Tretjak picked up the phone and dialled the number of Kerkhoff's son in Rotterdam. But nobody answered.

The room Tretjak was in was originally meant to have been a living room. It measured almost 60 square metres. It had two bay windows and a door leading to a balcony. Tretjak did not need a living room and had therefore had it redesigned. He had had the parquet floor sanded and oiled but not sealed. In front of the windows and the pale balcony door blinds came down to the floor in aluminium strips. Most of the time they were closed, just like now. There was not one single picture on the white walls. Even the steel girders holding up the ceiling where walls had once stood were painted white. When entering the room one noticed two areas, like small islands in the middle of this sea of white. To the right stood a table by the Danish designer Hein van Eek, made up of tiny pastel-coloured wooden pieces, glued together and thickly coated with varnish, 3 metres 20 centimetres long and 1 metre 40 centimetres wide. There were no chairs, only a bench in front of it without a backrest. The whole surface of the table, and the seat of the bench as well, was covered with piles of paper, books, newspaper clippings, files, all neatly arranged, flush at one side, obviously following some kind of order.

On the left side of the room, the other island looked a little bit like the cockpit of an airplane. That is where Tretjak was sitting now, on a simple, grey office chair, with three flat screen monitors arranged on a sort of crescent-shaped base. The connected hardware, modems and printer were hidden underneath, behind light grey lacquered panels.

Tretjak had turned his chair to the left, moved the mouse with his right hand and looked at another over-sized monitor mounted on the wall. It was showing the official University of Rotterdam photograph: Professor Doctor Harry Kerkhoff, 50, Vice-President of the university, Dean of Faculty for Bio-chemistry. On the smaller desktop screens Tretjak had called up several files. Kerkhoff's bibliography, a podcast of his appearance in front of the ethics commission of the EU when he was asked about stem cell research, and media reports about the discovery of his body yesterday. One monitor showed the minutes of their last meeting. That had been eight years ago.

When the brain receives information it immediately processes it, and it will always learn from it. You cannot turn back the clock to the moment when the brain did not have that information. It had been Kerkhoff's great talent to condense his knowledge into short messages, which were easy to understand.

When do you give what information to whom – and what is the result? And the effect? That had been the theme of their meetings over the years: Tretjak had provoked the scientist with questions – and had noted down his answers, analysed them, used them to fine-tune his techniques. When does who get what information?

Maybe his ‘No' in answer to the inspector's question about whether he knew Kerkhoff had been a reflex. The reflex of a man who liked to have the advantage over his opposite as far as information was concerned. Tretjak regretted his answer. Maybe it had been the fault of the tax inspector that he had made the spontaneous decision not to reveal that information.

He rolled his chair back and got up. The wall behind him concealed one single, big cupboard. All the files about his clients and their special cases were contained here. An archive full of connections and intrigue, full of personal secrets, full of information, which at some point somewhere had been useful – and could be again.

Behind one of the doors was a fridge. Tretjak opened it and took out a small bottle of still Hildon mineral water and a strip of tablets marked Tavor. He swallowed two and drank the water in one gulp. He closed the door, placed the bottle on the floor and sat down in front of the monitors again. He looked into the eyes of the scientist on the big screen and wondered: what were you doing in a horsebox, Harry? What has your death got to do with me? Who called me? You?

Our brain is constantly looking for order. It wants to recognise structure – in everything which life dishes up. Kerkhoff had written a remarkable book on that very subject:
On the Correlation of Emotion and Structural Thought
. We search for the structure of a story, of a movie, the structure of the character of a person we meet, we want to understand a sequence of events by recognising its pattern. ‘Feed the brain of a human being with structure,' Kerkhoff had said, ‘then you take away his fear.'

Tretjak decided he would call the inspector whose card was still lying on the kitchen counter later and tell him the truth: yes, he had known Kerkhoff. In fact, he had known him well.

The digital clock below the screen was showing 7.20pm; it was time, he had to go. The table in the Osteria was booked, as per usual the second booth from the entrance. A client was waiting there. Or to be precise: a man who wanted to become his client. A member of the Bavarian parliament, not a well-known one, more a back-bencher. Tretjak knew only a few titbits so far. The man's name appeared on the client list of some group of call girls or other, who supplied young women from the Ukraine to men for sex, and this group had now been busted. ‘Help this man, Tretjak, fix it. Please.' This was the message he found in his mailbox on his return from Sri Lanka. It had been the voice of a minister, a member of the Federal Government in Berlin.

Tretjak keyed in a combination and all screens went black. For a few moments more he stayed seated and stared at the big black space on the wall. It had been Kerkhoff who had, back then, helped him come up with what he later called ‘the seven commandments' of his job. It had been Kerkhoff who had said to him: ‘what you are doing is interfering in people's lives, interfering with their value system... you are playing fate, you do realise that, don't you? If you want to continue doing this job, then you need firm principles which structure your action, a kind of inner constitution. A few immovable pillars, which you can hang on to. If you don't have those pillars, you'll find yourself at sea, and then things will turn dangerous. Not just for your bank account, but for your soul.'

Tretjak got up, went to his walk-in closet and changed. He chose a clean, white shirt and the dark navy suit he had bought in Milan in March. He put his phone in his pocket and slipped into a light black summer coat. He did not need anything more. Pen and paper would be waiting on the table as usual.

The bell gave off a melodic ring. And the voice on the intercom said: ‘your taxi is waiting, Mr Tretjak.'

 

When Tretjak left the Italian restaurant Osteria, Schelling Street 95, almost four hours later, he decided to walk home. It was not really warm, but the air would do him good. He paused outside the restaurant, buttoned up his coat all the way, looked up to the sky and saw the stars, despite all the pollution. For a very short moment he had a flashback to his youth. That happened rarely, very rarely. And when it did, it happened without warning, as if it assaulted him. Back then, when he was eleven, twelve years of age, a starry night had been an opportunity to escape. Then he knew that that night he could escape the misery of his existence and go away, far, far away. When he went to his room to fetch the suitcase with the telescope he had the blessing of all those who ruled his life back then. They would say something in a language he did not understand. But they said it with a smile and he realised it was something nice.

Tretjak turned his face from the sky and walked in the direction of Ludwig Street at a brisk pace.

The member of parliament had disgusted him. A sweaty man with a fake and at the same time obsequious expression, who had tried the whole evening to win his sympathy. Maybe, Tretjak thought, he really believes he deserves sympathy. Again and again he had outlined, for Tretjak's benefit, what would happen if his name was associated with this group of call girls. His family, his reputation as a politician, his whole life would be damaged.

Tretjak had asked right after the starter, ‘What do you want me to do?' and had repeated the question twice. ‘You are supposed to help me,' the man had answered again and again.

During those kind of meetings in the Osteria, Tretjak always sat with his back towards the entrance. That is why he did not notice the very attractive lady in a black trouser suit entering the restaurant. Only when he got up to go to the gents – in fact, he just wanted a break from the exhausting conversation – did he notice her. She sat at the bar, long, straight brown hair, unobtrusive make-up, no jewellery except a big silver ring. For a split second, when he passed her, he had the feeling that she wanted to say something. But then Mario, the waiter, pushed himself between them.

‘You don't want to change your life, do you, not at all,' Tretjak had told the member of parliament at the end of the meal. ‘You just want to get away with it.' He had thought of Kerkhoff and the first of the seven commandments, the simplest one: a job you don't want to take on you turn down. ‘I have no access to police files, I can't manipulate evidence, do you understand?' he realised that most people did not believe him when he said this. Was there anything Tretjak really had access to? ‘All I could do for you is to get you a new telephone number. How old did you say the girls were?'

Tretjak saw in the parliamentarian's face that he had not cottoned on to his irony. Back in the old days he wouldn't have made such a remark. He would have stayed polite and cool. The guy would complain to the minister but that would not matter. The minister knew Tretjak's principles – from his own experience.

‘I am sorry, sir,' he finally said. ‘I can't take this job. You can remain seated, finish your wine. The bill is paid. You are my guest.'

When Mario brought him his coat, he noticed that the woman from the bar was now gone. Mario noticed his glance and smiled. ‘She urgently wanted to talk to you. She said it was very important.' The waiter had strict instructions not to interrupt any conversation at table two.

When Tretjak reached Ludwig Street, he walked towards the Feldherrnhalle and the illuminated Theatiner Church. Just as he turned into the Hofgarten his mobile phone rang, indicating that he had received a message. Tretjak took the phone out of his pocket and read:
I am the woman from the Osteria. I need to talk to you.

Tretjak was not overly surprised that a stranger had found out his number. But he decided not to react, put his phone back in his pocket and walked on. The phone rang again. The message was exactly the same. Tretjak paused again – this time he wrote back:
you can speak to me only on recommendation.

I have a referral
, the answer shot back.
From your father.

Tretjak froze. A passerby might have mistaken him for a newly planted tree. Then he raised the phone to his ear, making a connection to that unknown number. A woman's voice answered.

‘Hello?'

‘That is the wrong recommendation. I haven't spoken to my father for 20 years and I intend to keep it that way. This is the end of our conversation.'

Tretjak was determined to push the red button but hesitated for a split second. That was how he still caught the beginning of the sentence: ‘You are making a mistake, don't you understand...' before the call was cut.

He was still standing between the trees. The pale blue light of the phone's display illuminated his face, when he entered a service code, which instantly changed his mobile phone number – and automatically sent a message with the new one to all his registered contacts. It would take this woman some time to reach him again.

13 May

Munich, Hofgarten, 10am

Gabriel Tretjak did not have a secretary, an office, or any employees. He delegated nothing. He valued this exclusivity: the people who hired him could be sure that Tretjak was personally going to fix their problem, which was necessary. It was he who sent the email, wrote the letter, went on the trip. A one-man show, which ran smoothly only when it was perfectly organised. Over time he had honed the procedures. Tretjak had consulted a specialist, an Indian by the name of Rashid Manan, whose business it was to restructure the organisation of big hospitals all over the world. Manan worked in Beijing, New York, and Mumbai as well as in Paris. He had developed the method of competing priorities, which he made the core of every new plan for the hospitals. In any hospital, questions competed with one another every minute of the day: Which was the most important case and therefore had to be dealt with first? What was the second most important and therefore came next? And so on. The clinic with thousands of patients was the hardware, so to speak, which needed a software package. And Rashid Manan provided that.

Tretjak moved the same questions into the centre of his daily working routine. What had to be done at once? What could wait until tomorrow? Or a week? What could be put off for a longer time? And what had taken care of itself? He was constantly working on different timelines, which he coordinated afresh each morning.

This morning he had planned to make four telephone calls. The fourth was probably insignificant, and had nothing to do with the other important timelines. It was this call, however, which would leave him clueless and worried.