TWENTY-TWO
That Sunday a fierce rainstorm pummeled Lac Leman and Sean imagined that the Russians and USA were waging meteorological war over Europe. Rather than leave the hotel room's comfort, Sean ordered club sandwich from room service and read Heinrich Boll's BILLIARDS AT HALF PAST NINE, figuring the day to be a dead loss. He fell asleep halfway through the book.
In the morning the bells of Emanuel Church tolled eight times. Sean rose from the bed and went to the window. The rain was still falling through a misty fog onto Geneva's lakeside park,
At 8:15am the bellboy entered the room with the pre-ordered continental breakfast. Sean ate, then dressed in the black suit, which he wore on these trips to Geneva. By 9:05am he checked out of the hotel.
Rain splashed off the sidewalk and he sat in the Volvo.
"No walking today." asked Murah.
"A little too wet for my taste."
The big man was unusually tanned and Sean complimented the Yugoslavian saying, "Nice color."
Murah bobbed his head like a tendon had been cut in his neck.
"Yes, I was in Thailand one week and girls big fun. Little brown fucking machine. A man's Disneyworld."
The Yugoslav put the car in drive and the Volvo pulled away from the hotel.
During the short drive Sean studied the driver's profile. Murah's brow had been battered by fists and his ears flattened by a thousand punches. The flutter of his right eyelid indicated nerve damage. Sean had been hundreds of fights throughout his life, but Murah had been in countless life-and-death battles. The flattened knuckles on the steering wheel were a proof that the driver gave worse than he received.
They arrived at the bank on Rue du Fosse Vert. Sean checked his watch. 9:30am. He got out of the car, saying, "I'll be a minute."
"Take this." Murah handed him a chrome suitcase, similar to those photographers used to transport cameras. Sean opened the case. It was empty, but its addition jarred him into understanding what he was for Kurt.
A bagman.
Someone who picked up cash for someone else.
The same as Johnny Fats, who ended up dead in New York.
The marrow in his spine gelled into ice, as he entered the bank. The guards were in place. The tellers were at the tills. Herr Egard sat at his desk and nodded a greeting. Everything about the routine had the feeling of sameness. Sean approached the desk and the banker handed him a packet, saying, "Four hundred thousand Swiss Marks."
"Four hundred thousand francs?"
"Swiss."
Sean signed a document authorizing the transfer of funds. The amount was twice as much as the previous pick-up.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No, I just want to count the money in private."
"As you wish, please come this way." Herr Egard brought him to a thick-walled room and said, "Buzz me, when you are through."
The door shut behind him and Sean suspected these walls would protect him from an atomic blast. Nothing bad could happen to him in here, only outside, so he took his time counting each packet of ten thousand-franc bills, while going over every moment of his trip back to Hamburg.
When he was finished counting, Sean repacked the case, then buzzed the door.
"Alles in Ordnung?" asked Herr Egard.
"Alles ist klar." Sean was envious of the banker's well-ordered world. Except for a few wrong turns early in his life Sean could be leading the same life, but he had no idea how to get back onto that path. He was who he was and nothing was going to change that.
He walked toward the exit and a guard opening the door for him proved that, but once he stood on the steps, a crazy urge to run away came over him.
Sean looked at Murah behind the wheel of the Volvo. The Yugoslav was certainly packing a piece, but his hands were not on the steering wheel. It would take him a couple of seconds to get out of the car. Sean could outrun the big man and melt into the city. He could be in Paris by nightfall and anywhere in the world the next day, but something kept him from robbing Kurt.
Actually someone.
Sean got in the car and the Yugoslav asked, "Is there anything wrong?"
"No, I was just taking a breath of air before I get stuck in the airport all day," Sean lied, not caring whether Murah believed him or not.
"All part of the job," Murah commented, as the Volvo pulled away from the curb. The driver said nothing else on the way to the airport and by the time Sean arrived at the airport, he had settled down to being strictly a courier, instead of a thief.
He walked into the terminal with his travel bag over his shoulder and the aluminum case in his left hand. Murah seemed to be on edge, as he escorted Sean through the terminal.
"Was ist los?" Remembering Kurt's mention of armed robbery, Sean clasped the case, though he could imagine anyone so stupid as to attempt a hold-up it in an airport.
"Nichts ist los?" Murah answered, though his eyes swiveled like a lizard hunting for a fly.
"Who are you looking for? The police?"
"Die Polizei sind da." Murah motioned secretively at the two uniformed officers against the wall. His porcine eyes shifted from left to right, then he smiled dully. "I'm more worried about the taxman."
"The taxman?"
"What do they do the taxman look like?"
"Like saints. Very evil saints." Obviously Murah did hold any love for the government revenue collectors and as they sat down, Murah announced, "As you Americans say, "The coat is clear."
Sean didn't bother to correct the Yugoslav's mutilation of the phrase and remained quiet, as they sat through the long hours till his departure. When he finally passed through the gate, Sean said, "See you next week."
Murah waved back, glad for this trip to be over, for he could have sworn that the American was planning a runner at the bank and had anticipated him to attempt the same in the airport. He would have hated to shoot him, but a job is a job. He waited for the plane to take off, then Murah returned to his Volvo, ready for another week of work at his car repair shop.
During the Lufthansa flight #3671 to Hamburg the 727 rose through innumerable pockets of turbulence, as a capricious cross-streams buffeted the plane. The aircraft yeed and yawed like a ship at sea. Every passenger on the flight was scared and Sean was no exception. He picked up a Stern Magazine and buried his face in the pages praying for the plane to land. His prayer went unanswered and for the first time in his life he reached for the airsick bag, though he successfully fought back the nausea. They did not clear the overcast, until they were a few hundred feet from the ground. The wind tugged on the plane from all directions and, when the pilot expertly landed on all three points, everyone on board responded with applause.
The quick taxi to the terminal undernoted how little air traffic Fuhlsbuttel handled.
When the airplane's outer door opened, Sean was first out of the plane and swiftly proceeded across the windy tarmac to the terminal. Inside he spotted Kurt behind the separating glass, but when he waved, the German strangely retreated into the crowd.
"Herr Tempo?" a man asked behind him. A stranger using your last name is always a bad sign, whether in person or on the phone. Sean turned around to face a young man sporting a trim goatee and longish blond hair. There was no denying what he was.
"Are you Herr Tempo?" asked the plainclothes policeman.
"Depends on who's doing the asking." Sean noticed that the other travelers gave the two men a wide berth and their whispering glances confirmed that they had already convicted him without an accusation.
"Inspector Brucken." A badge further identified the blonde man as a police officer. "I am with the Hamburg Kriminalpolizei. Would you please come with me?"
It was more a command than a request. A pair of uniformed policemen stood by the arrival gate in a back-up position. Sean had no choice, but obeyed the command and entered the office before the inspector. The walls were painted institutional green. A table and two chairs were bolted to the floor. A two-way mirror was screwed into the wall and Sean recognized he was in an interrogation room.
"What's this all about?"
"You are familiar with Cali Nordstrom or Tommy Letier, also called SS Tommy?" The police inspector's crumpled suit bore the stress of having spent too many hours in a car.
"Maybe I do." The next best thing to saying nothing was to repeat the negative of what you had just said, so he added, "Maybe I don't."
"I know you do, so could you open that case?"
As far as he knew, transporting money was not illegal, though ignorance was no guarantor of innocence, still Sean took a risk and opened the case. It wasn't his money. The policeman's eyes widened at seeing so much cash. Sean had probably responded in the same manner at the bank.
Alex Brucken read from a notebook for a few seconds, then said in clipped English, "You have been taking trips to Geneva every Monday for the last three weeks."
"Am I a hobby of yours?" Sean asked, refusing to be rattled.
"More or less." The plainclothed officer folded the notebook inside his jacket, so it might have been mistaken for a gun in a shoulder holster. "You take this money to Kurt Oster, a business associate of Cali Nordstrum."
"I haven't robbed any banks. All I did was pick up some money from Switzerland and bring it here. As far as I know that is not against the law."
"No, but maybe what happens to the money afterwards is."
"Is this an official investigation?" Sean started for the door.
"What is the difference?" Inspector Brucken grabbed Sean's wrist.
"It's the difference between telling you the truth or telling you to go fuck yourself." He had used the line before in New York and practice makes perfect.
"Consider it unofficial interest." The policeman released his hold.
"Then consider me 'gone', I'll save the 'fuck yourself' for later." Sean saluted the inspector.
"That is very funny, but excuse me, if I do not laugh," the inspector said, as he opened the office's door. "We will stay in touch."
"I'm sure I can bet on that," Sean replied like some tough guy in a movie, but he was relieved to be freed. As he walked through the terminal, Sean thought about what he was going to say to Kurt. Nothing nice, for he didn't have to wonder why he was being rousted. Kurt and Cali were criminals just like the officer said they were. All that talk about this being legal was bullshit, but then Sean had always known that.
Stepping outside he pulled up his collar against the cold the drizzling wind. Summer was almost gone and he was not even close to getting out of town.
A brand-new BMW pulled up to the curb. Kurt was behind the wheel. Sean slid in and they sped from the airport. Kurt's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
"What was that all about?"
"Some policeman sticking his nose where he should not." Kurt answered, which Sean could tell wasn’t the truth.
"He knew about my transporting your money." To Sean's way of thinking Inspector Brucken could have only discovered what he was doing by someone snitching him out. The list of those people aware of his trip was small; Petra, Kurt, Herr Egard, and Murah. None of them would have talked, meaning someone else was taking an interest in what he was doing for Kurt.
"There is nothing illegal about that. If there was, then you would have been arrested, yes?" Kurt's telling him the same thing again had a more false ring to it after his encounter with the police. "That policeman, he is guessing. That is all."
"Then why did he mention Cali's and your names?" Sean was too angry to buy the excuse. He had come three thousand miles to avoid a problem with the police only to find himself getting in deep here. Inspector Brucken might be shooting in the dark, but eventually the policeman would find something, because there was more than likely something to find.
"He is simply fishing for information."
"Then why did you hide?" Sean turned around in his seat. The road was empty, but that didn't make him feel any better.
"It was better that way." Kurt stepped on the gas. The thrust of the car forced them against the leather seats. He nervously drummed on the steering wheel, indicating the gravity of the confrontation. "All that money came from my liquidation of my telex holdings throughout Germany. They send people to jail for tax evasion, so I have been protecting myself. To be truthful, I will be leaving Germany soon. I am tired of this shitty weather. Once I settle my affairs, we can both leave."
"I want to go now." Sean was spooked. Anytime you speak to a cop means things are heading in the direction of jail. While a German prison might be better than Riker's Island, Sean had no desire to be a penal guest of any nation.
As the BMW rushed down Mittelweg, the streetlights came on one by one. The few people on the street were wearing more clothes than the weather required, as if they were anticipating an early winter. Sean fingered the door handle, when they neared Milchstrasse.
"If you want to go, I cannot stop you." Kurt braked sharply, and the big car swerved to a halt. He was angry, because something had fucked up. Even worse was Sean's wanting to bail out. He had to stop the American from going and said, "But I can't pay your percentage from the club right this instance."
"Just pay me from what you have in the case?" Kurt owed him approximately five thousand Marks, which converted to around $3000.
"I have to give it all to Cali."
"Why not me?"
"You will not kill me and Cali would. All I'm asking is for one month more."
"From where I'm sitting one month seems like forever."
"I can use you here. At the club."
Sean looked up at his apartment. The lights were on. Petra was upstairs. She had kept him from running in Geneva. Her and her alone. It was Petra who also made him cave into Kurt by saying, "Okay, I'll stay, but I'm through with the trips to Geneva."
"Thank you, Sean. Thank you very much." Kurt was profoundly grateful, and tears formed in his eyes. Sean was fairly certain it was all an act, but asked, "What is wrong?"
"Well," Kurt hesitated, as he weighed opening up his mind to the American, then he said, "It is Vanessa. She's gone."
"How many days has she been gone?"
"Two."
"Stop worrying. I can tell by the way she looks at you, that this is no fly-by-night affair," Sean assured the driver, though he had never given Kurt anything, but long odds with the platinum beauty. Their worlds were too far apart.
"I'm glad someone sees it that way," Kurt said, as his passenger left the car.
He watched the American cross the street to the apartment building. Sean had a right to be rattled. Someone had talked. Not Cali, not himself, and the banker had too much to lose to blurt out his guts. Kurt thumped the dashboard with his fist. This policeman was a warning from someone other than the police saying they knew exactly what Cali and Kurt were doing.
If Cali found out about this policeman, he would back out of the project. Without the money from the swindle, Kurt would remain a front for Cali and, as much as his friend would take care of him, Kurt had to be his own man.
Cali and Kurt had pledged at the beginning of this project, that no one could stop them. Neither of them had ever said anything about that person being one of them and nothing was going to change that either. Nothing and he drove away into the rain
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