The Lucifer Network (31 page)

And where the hell was he? They'd had breakfast together – a rare event with her shifts – and he'd said nothing about going out.

Listlessly she unpacked the groceries then went to the bedroom to change into trainers. She'd been on her feet all day, clothes shopping in Oxford Street. Just looking. The only place she could afford anything these days was at charity shops. Although it was nice to have a break from work, she almost dreaded these days off, tending to find reasons to go out because Rob got on her nerves if she stayed at home. He'd started playing heavy metal, which she couldn't stand. And in the evenings they both drank. Not for pleasure, but so that when they went to bed they were too pissed to think about why they weren't having sex any more.

She wandered into the living room and was about to switch on the TV when she noticed he'd left his computer on. She stared at it. The screen was black – it turned off automatically – but the power lights glowed on the tower. He never left it on when he was out normally. The computer was his private world. She never used it – couldn't because you needed a password to start it up. She knew how computers worked, though. One of the girls who shared the night shift had a laptop which she brought in sometimes. Sandra walked over to the trolley, listening to the soft whirr of the machine's cooling fan. Listening too for the sound of Rob's key in the lock.

Timidly she reached out and touched the mouse. The screen hummed and came to life. She'd half expected to see pictures of girls showing their fannies – he spent hours on the Internet when she was out. She knew that, because whenever she rang to say hello, the line was engaged. But on the screen it was his e-mail program. Her friend on the ward had the same software on her laptop. One very quiet night they'd dialled into the net from the ward extension for a few minutes, totally against the rules, because her friend wanted to show her what it was all about.

The main window on the screen said Inbox. There was a list of e-mails he'd received, many from people called Peter. Different surnames, but always Peter. Odd. She turned away. This was wrong. Rob was entitled to his privacy. She thought of shutting the computer down, as he himself must have meant to do before going out, but there was so much about him she didn't know now. Like that cupboard of his on the wall which he always kept locked.

She swallowed her fear, put her hand on the mouse and ran the cursor up the list of mail. The last one received had been two days ago. She glanced over her shoulder. Through the open living room door she could see into the hall and to the glass-panelled front door. Nobody there. Nobody about to come in.

It couldn't harm. He'd never know.

She double clicked. The letter appeared in the bottom half of the screen.

Congratulations!

She began to read.

After she'd read it once she sat down, covering her mouth with her hands. It had to be a joke, this. Some game. Some piece of cyberspace role playing.

Then she read it again and began to feel sick. Sick
at what it might mean and sick with guilt. Quickly she stood up, closed the screen window, then shut down the computer. She was finding it hard to breathe, as if she had a heavy weight on her chest.

Suddenly there was a shadow outside the front door. Metal grated on metal as the key went in. Rob . . .

Sandra ran for the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and turned on the taps.

Vienna

In the third act of
La
Traviata,
as Violetta lay dying upon the stage, Sam became aware that Günther Hoffmann was overwhelmed by grief. He half turned and saw by the light spilling from the set that the old spy was holding a handkerchief to his face and his shoulders were shaking. A few minutes later as the final applause died and the audience got to their feet, Hoffmann remained where he was until a silk-gowned lady to his right made it rudely clear that she wanted to pass. It wasn't until they'd filed out into the cream and gold lobbies that Hoffmann could bring himself to speak.

‘It was Ilse's favourite opera,' he confided hoarsely.

The departing audience carried them through the main doors and out onto the Ring. Once in the fresh air Hoffmann shook his head like a dog.

‘
Um
Gottes
willen!
I need a drink.'

‘Better than that,' said Sam, ‘I'll buy you dinner.' He'd begun to feel sorry for the old spymaster, but told himself to get a grip.

The night air was stickily warm. They squeezed onto
a tram for a couple of stops to get away from the opera crowds, then found a restaurant which Hoffmann said was good for schnitzels. To a muzak track of Strauss waltzes they ordered food and a large carafe of Wachauer Riesling. Hoffmann said it was better than the usual Grüner Veltliner. The wine arrived quickly. When he took a mouthful he puckered his lips.

‘Ach. This is not so good.'

‘No, it's pretty vile,' Sam concurred.

‘You know, in German we have a name for such a wine,' Hoffmann told him, a twinkle returning to his slate grey eyes.

‘Something like rats' piss, you mean?'

‘Ja. Similar. We call it
Hemdzieher.
You know why?'

Sam frowned. ‘Shirt-puller?'

‘Ja. Because the wine is so
sauer
it suck the shirt up your backside.' Hoffmann smirked at his own crudeness. ‘We would have been better with the Veltliner. We can change it.'

Sam shook his head. ‘As rats' piss goes, I've tasted worse. The second mouthful was better than the first.'

He wanted to broach the subject of Vladimir Kovalenko, but decided it was wiser to do so obliquely. ‘Will you stay in Vienna now you're on your own?'

Hoffmann ruminated for a moment. ‘It is too soon for such a question.' He picked up a beer mat and tapped its edge on the table. ‘But . . . when it is my time to die, then I would like to be at home.'

‘Home?'

‘Greifswald. The house of my parents it is still there. Someone rents it now, but perhaps in a few years I will go back. It depends.'

‘On what?'

‘On how it is in Germany then. What sort of country it has become.' His eyes flared for a moment, then he
looked away as if to hide some secret passion. ‘But most of all when I die, I want to smell the sea,' he added quickly. ‘Like Caspar David.'

‘The painting in your apartment . . .'

‘Ah. You remember. Caspar David Friedrich he was born in Greifswald. He wanted his last days there, but must die in Dresden, because of no money for the journey.'

‘You won't be in a hurry to move from Vienna, surely?' Sam suggested, edging the conversation to wherehewanted it to be. ‘You must have many friends here.'

‘Some friends, yes,' Hoffmann replied cautiously.

‘Old contacts passing through . . .'

Hoffmann grew wary, suspecting new ground was being broken. ‘I lose touch with people,' he answered firmly.

‘Even with Vladimir Kovalenko?'

Hoffmann blinked, then quickly got his face back under control. ‘Kovalenko . . .?'

‘He's lived in Vienna almost as long as you.'

‘Why do you ask about him?'

‘Oh, because there are a lot of people trying to find him. Including the Kremlin. He disappeared for a while, but I'm told he's back in town.'

Hoffmann's leathery face became a mask. ‘So, you had another reason to come here.'

Sam shrugged, as if it didn't matter that much. ‘Have you seen him?'

‘Kovalenko . . . I met him once.' His expression was as blank as fresh-washed paint. ‘A
playboy.
Why do you want to speak with him?'

Sam was saved from answering by the arrival of their schnitzels, vast slices of meat that filled the plates, with side dishes of potato salad and lettuce.

‘Guten Appetit!' said the waiter, checking they had all they needed.

‘It is not easy to starve in Vienna,' Hoffmann mused, surveying the plates. He looked up again. ‘Why you are looking for Vladimir Kovalenko?'

‘Because of something he was involved in a year ago. Supplying dangerous materials to terrorists.'

Hoffmann stopped in mid chew, his eyes widening. He put down his knife and fork and took a swig from the glass. ‘What materials?'

‘Something pretending to be red mercury.'

The eyes stayed rock steady. ‘Red mercury does not exist.'

‘It's not what the
label
said,' Sam countered. ‘It's what was inside that we're worried about.'

‘What do you think it was?' Hoffmann asked, unblinking.

‘Something nuclear.'

‘Ah, yes.' The German nodded. ‘And you know who is the customer?' His question was studiedly casual.

Sam shrugged. ‘We have an idea he spoke Arabic.'

For some reason Hoffmann appeared relieved.

‘You know where Kovalenko is?' Sam pressed.

‘A man such as he have many reasons why he don't want to be found,' the German said, swirling his glass as if to sniff the wine's bouquet, then thinking better of it.

‘You ever work with him?' Sam prodded. ‘Give him introductions? Contacts?'

‘
I?
' Hoffmann looked pained. ‘I am an old man living on my pension.'

And I'm the Queen of Sheba, thought Sam.

Hoffmann cut another chunk from his schnitzel and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘You know why we can never live in peace with the Arabs?' he asked suddenly.

‘I can think of a few reasons.'

‘Because their music is strange to us.'

‘That's one I hadn't thought of.'

‘If they like Brahms and Puccini then we can live together with them. In Europe each country is different, but because we like the same music so we can be friends. But Islam makes a sound which hurts our ears. It makes people here afraid of them. And when people are afraid of foreigners they get angry. It was like that in the Nazi time.' He stopped, as if deliberating how far to pursue the point.

‘And like that in Austria today?' Sam prompted. ‘Is that what you're saying?'

‘This is a small country,' Hoffmann explained philosophically. ‘Keeping their race pure is always important for such peoples. And with the Balkans on their borders they fear being drowned by refugees. It is the same in Germany. And in your country. It is why so many people want that the refugees are sent back.'

‘Europe is drifting towards the right . . .'

‘It is inevitable. In France, Germany and England there are socialist governments now, so the next swing will be in the opposite way. People can feel sorry for the victims of the Serbs but . . .'

‘. . . won't want them in their own back yards.'

‘Exactly.' He ate another mouthful. ‘I agree with them. Don't you?'

Sam shrugged. He didn't want to get into a debate about refugees.

‘But you ask about Kovalenko,' Hoffmann said, returning to the point. ‘I cannot help you to find him.' He said it with a galling finality that brought the topic to a close.

As they finished their food they chatted about the meanderings of European politics since the collapse of
communism. Eventually Sam paid the bill and Hoffmann asked the waiter to call him a cab.

‘For you too? They come usually very quick.'

‘Thank you, but I'll walk. My hotel's not far.'

They made their way outside to wait for Hoffmann's car. The night air was still muggily warm. When the taxi came, Hoffmann reached out his hand.

‘It was a pleasure to meet you again. Please give my regards to Jo.' With that he ducked inside and the vehicle sped off.

It was nearly midnight. Sam heard a church clock striking early. Trams still lumbered past, but he guessed they'd be heading for their depots. He began to walk, returning to the Ring and then eastwards towards the 3
^rd
District and the Pension Kleist. He needed to be on the other side of the road. He paused in front of the luxury Marriott Hotel, where there was a pedestrian crossing controlled by lights.

Suddenly, as he waited for them to turn green, a limousine brushed the back of his legs as it swung into the bay in front of the hotel entrance.

‘Hey, watch it!' he yelped, stepping quickly out of its way.

It was a chauffeur-driven car, a fat silver Merc, which halted under the Marriott's canopy. The rear door opened before the driver could get to it. A woman in a blue dress got out, followed by a man in a dark suit. She turned as if to say goodnight to him, her face towards the road.

It was Julie Jackman.

THAT VILE WINE
must have got to him. This had to be an illusion. He shook his head like an idiot, but the image didn't change. Julie was dressed in something blue and satiny, with jewels at the neck that could have been diamonds. She was got up like a goddam princess, her hair pinned back with a shiny clasp.

Behind him the crossing light ticked, evenly at first then more rapidly as the green light flickered its way to red. He stood motionless, unseen by the couple standing in the hotel entrance who were engrossed in a tense conversation. After a matter of seconds the car that had delivered them swished away again and they went inside, the man's hand pressing against Julie's back as if forcing the issue. Some completely irrational part of his brain told Sam that this was Vladimir Kovalenko that Julie was with. But the height was wrong and this man had hair.

His mind began to fizz. He felt a strong impulse to hurl himself into the lobby and get his fingers round that slender neck, but he suppressed it.

There was a reason she was here and it couldn't be coincidence, he decided. Some hack must've spotted him leaving Heathrow that morning. She was here because
he
was, and the man with her had to be another sodding journalist.

A tram bell clanged behind him – he'd inadvertently stepped into the road. He hopped back onto the pavement then gingerly approached the hotel's entrance, keeping to the shadows. Through the glass he observed the pair standing by the lifts, Julie gleaming like a kingfisher, but keeping at arm's length from the man. Sam saw his face for the first time. Older than her by about twenty years. Dark, straight hair. Well-built and upright. The lift doors opened and closed and the couple were gone.