“Our discussion had run into the small hours, which is not unusual with clients of Oriental or Asiatic origin,” Annabel continued, after due reflection. “There was tension in the Oktays’ household. Mr. Karpov did not wish to trespass further on their hospitality. He is a man of considerable sensitivity. His irregular status was becoming an anxiety to them, and he was aware of this. They are also about to leave for Turkey on vacation.”
She was still addressing her replies to Ursula, not Werner. She was phrasing them in short sentences, clearing each one with Ursula before she moved to the next. Ursula, sphinxlike, was squinting into the middle air with half-closed eyes while the relaxed Herr Dinkelmann seated beside her preserved his fond smile.
“Describe your route exactly, please, Frau Richter! Also methods of transportation. I have to warn you, you are potentially in a dangerous situation here, not only from Issa Karpov. We are not policemen but we have responsibilities. Go on, please.”
“We went on foot to the Eppendorfer Baum, then took the underground.”
“Where to? Please give the entire story, not piece by piece.”
“My client was fraught and the train distressed him. After four stations we took a taxi.”
“You took a taxi. Always one thing at a time. Why must you put out your facts like gold coins, Frau Richter? You took a taxi where to?”
“At first, we had no destination.”
“You are joking! You gave the driver an address: a crossroads less than a kilometer from the American consulate! How can you say you had no destination when you gave a destination to the driver?”
“Very easily, Herr Werner. If you could enter for a moment into the mentality of many of our clients, you would understand that such things happen every day.” She was brilliant. Not a word out of place. Not a foot fault. She had never been this good at the family forum’s games of legal lying. “Mr. Karpov had a destination in mind, but for his own reasons he didn’t wish to share it with me. Those crossroads lead in several directions. They also suited my own purpose very well, since I happen to live quite close to them.”
“But you didn’t take the taxi direct to your apartment! Why not? He could have walked from there, and you would have been safe and sound at home already. Or have we hit another insuperable obstacle in your story?”
“No, I most certainly did not take the taxi to my apartment.” Straight into Werner’s face.
“Why not?”
“Perhaps I didn’t go to my apartment.”
“Why not?”
“Perhaps I am disinclined to show my clients where I live. Perhaps I decided to go to the apartment of one of my many lovers, Herr Werner.” Of whom you would so dearly like to be one, she was thinking.
“But you dismissed the taxi.”
“Yes.”
“And you walked. We may not know where to.”
“Correct.”
“And Karpov walked with you, clearly! He would not leave a pretty woman like you alone in the street at half past four in the morning. He is a sensitive man. Not dangerous at all. You said so. Yes?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, he didn’t walk with me.”
“So he walked also, but in a different direction!”
“Correct. He set off north and vanished. I assume he entered a side road. I was more concerned that he should not follow me than in observing where he went.”
“And after that?”
“What do you mean, after that?”
“You haven’t seen him since? Had contact with him?”
“No.”
“Not even through intermediaries?”
“No.”
“But he gave you a phone number, naturally. Also an address. A desperate illegal immigrant does not obtain a talented young woman champion one day and dismiss her on the next, I assume.”
“He gave me no phone number or address, Herr Werner. In our work, that’s also quite normal. He has the phone number of the Sanctuary. I naturally hope we shall hear from him again, but we may not.” Once more seeking Ursula’s tacit confirmation, but receiving only the remotest nod. “That is the nature of our work here at the Sanctuary. Clients enter our lives and they disappear. They need time to talk to their companions in distress, to pray, to recover or go to ground. Perhaps Mr. Karpov has a wife and family who are already here. We are seldom admitted to the whole story. Perhaps he has friends, fellow Russians, fellow Chechens. Perhaps he has placed himself in the hands of a religious community. We don’t know. Sometimes they come back next day, sometimes in six months, sometimes never.”
Herr Werner was still considering how to launch his counterattack when his hitherto silent colleague decided to enter the conversation.
“So how about this other fellow who was at the Turks’ house on Friday night?” he inquired, in the convivial tone of a man who liked a good party. “Big, stately fellow, nice clothes. Old as me. Older even. Is he also a lawyer for Karpov?”
Annabel was remembering her law tutor at Tübingen, discoursing on the arts of cross-examination. Never underestimate a witness’s silence, he liked to say. There are eloquent silences, and guilty silences, and silences of genuine bewilderment and silences of creativity. The trick is to know what kind of silence you are hearing from your witness. But this silence was her own.
“Is this part of your coordination, Herr Dinkelmann?” she asked playfully, while desperately collecting her thoughts.
The clown’s smile again, the perfect curve. “Don’t flirt with me, Frau Richter. I’m too susceptible. Just tell me now: Who was this man? You brought him with you. He stayed in the house for hours on end. Then left on his own, poor fellow. Walked all over town, like he’d lost something. What was he looking for?” He appealed to Ursula. “Everybody walks in this story, Frau Meyer. It wears me out.” Then back to Annabel, at his leisure: “Come on. Just tell me who he is. A name. Any name. Make one up.”
But Annabel had put on her father’s face, the one that said never mention this subject again.
“My client has a potential benefactor here in Hamburg. As a man of position, he wishes to remain anonymous for the time being. I have agreed to respect his wish.”
“Let’s all respect it. Did he speak, or just sit and watch, this anonymous benefactor?”
“Speak to whom?”
“To your boy. Issa. To you.”
“He’s not my boy.”
“I’m asking you whether your client’s anonymous benefactor participated in your conversation. I’m not asking you the topic of that conversation. I’m asking: Did he take part? Or is he deaf and dumb?”
“He took part.”
“So it was a three-cornered conversation. You. The benefactor. Issa. You can tell me that. You’re not breaking any rules. You sat there, the three of you, and you chewed the fat together. You can tell me yes or no.”
“Yes then.” And a shrug to go with it.
“A free exchange. There were issues to discuss between you that you can’t reveal. But you discussed them in a free and unobstructed manner. Yes?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.”
“You don’t have to. Just answer this. Did you enjoy a full and uninhibited exchange between the three of you, an easy flow, with no obstructions?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Yes. It is. Did you?”
“Yes.”
“So he speaks Russian, like you.”
“I didn’t say so.”
“No, you really didn’t. Somebody had to say it for you. I admire that. Your client is a fortunate boy.”
Herr Werner was making a last effort to recover his ascendancy.
“So that’s where your Issa Karpov went when you left him to himself at four-thirty in the morning!” he cried. “He went to this anonymous benefactor! Maybe the terrorist paymaster, even! You left him at the crossroads in a rich area of town, and as soon as you were safely out of the way, he went to the house of his
benefactor. Do you think that is a reasonable hypothesis?”
“It is as reasonable or unreasonable as any other hypothesis, Herr Werner,” Annabel retorted.
And surprisingly it was the genial and passé Herr Dinkelmann, rather than his brash young superior, who decided that they had detained Frau Meyer and Frau Richter quite long enough.
“Annabel?”
They were alone, the two of them.
“Yes, Ursula.”
“Perhaps it would be better if you gave this afternoon’s meeting a miss. I suspect you may have important claims on your time. Do you have anything more you wish to tell me about our missing client?”
Annabel hadn’t anything more to tell her.
“Good. Ours is a world of half-measures. Perfect solutions are not within our gift, however much we may wish otherwise. I think we have had this conversation before.”
They had. About Magomed. We cannot expect an institution to deliver our personal utopias, Ursula had told her, when Annabel led a staff protest march on her office.
This was not panic. Annabel didn’t panic. Not in her own book. She was responding to a critical situation that was in danger of unraveling.
From the Sanctuary she cycled at top speed to a petrol station at the edge of town, keeping an eye on the twin mirrors mounted on her handlebars for signs that she was being followed. What the signs would be she had no idea.
At the cash desk, she bought a handful of loose change.
She dialed Hugo’s cell phone and got the answering service, which was what she had expected.
She dialed Information and got the number of the hospital where he worked.
Monday was a conference all day, he had told her. Call me on Monday evening. But Monday evening was now too late. The conference, she remembered, was about the restructuring of the hospital’s mental health wing. She spoke first to a hospital switchboard operator and, after some hard bargaining, to the assistant to the hospital’s administrator. She was Dr. Hugo Richter’s sister, she said, it was an urgent family matter, could he possibly be called to the phone for a brief conversation?
“This had better be good, Annabel.”
“My client’s blown up in my face, Hugo. He needs a clinic now. I mean really now.”
“What time is it?”
Hugo, the only doctor in the world who never has a watch.
“Ten-thirty. In the morning.”
“I’ll call you in the lunch break. Twelve-thirty. On your cell phone. Is it operative or have you still not charged it?”
She wanted to say, “No cell phone,” but said, “Thanks, Hugo, really thanks,” instead. “It’s working fine,” she added.
In the garage forecourt, two women were doing something to a battered yellow van. She dismissed them from her mind. Herr Werner’s vans would be spotless. Filling time, she rode to her favorite shopping mall: the freshly pickled herrings that he likes, plain dark organic chocolate, Emmental cheese for what she prayed would be their last evening in the apartment. And her favorite brand of still water, which was now his favorite too.
Hugo rang precisely at twelve-thirty as she knew he would, wristwatch or no. She was sitting on a park bench with her bike propped against a lamppost. He began aggressively, which she hoped was a good sign.
“Am I supposed to be the doctor who’s referring him to this place? Sign a chit for him without even knowing his name? Because that’s a nonstarter. Anyway, you don’t even need a false chit,” he went on, before she could reply. “They’ll have some in-house quack who’ll feel his pulse and diagnose a thousand euros a day. I’ve got two possibilities. Five-star rip-off joints, both.”
His first suggestion was in Königswinter, which she discarded on the grounds of distance. His second was ideal: a converted farmhouse near Husum, by train just two hours north of Hamburg.
“Ask for Herr Dr. Fischer and put a clothes-peg on your nose. Here’s the number. And don’t thank me. I just hope he’s worth it.”
“He is,” she said, and dialed the number.
Dr. Fischer understood the situation immediately.
He understood immediately that Annabel was speaking on behalf of a close friend, but did not presume to inquire into the nature of the friendship.
He understood immediately her views on the need for discretion on the telephone and shared them.
He understood that the unnamed patient spoke only Russian but foresaw no problem in this respect since several of his most experienced nurses came from what he delicately called the East.
He understood that the patient was in no way violent, but traumatized by a chain of unfortunate incidents best discussed face-to-face.
He took her point that a regimen of complete rest, plentiful food and escorted walks might well provide the needful cure. Such decisions would naturally depend upon a detailed assessment of his case.
He understood the need for urgency, and proposed an initial nonbinding interview between patient, carer and consultant.
Yes, indeed, tomorrow afternoon would do very well, would four o’clock be convenient? Then let us say four o’clock sharp.
And just a few more details. Was the patient competent to travel alone or did he perhaps require assistance? Trained assistants and suitable transport were on hand at extra charge.
He understood finally that Annabel might care to have an intimation of the clinic’s basic fees, which, even without additional specialist attention, were astronomic. But thanks to Brue: yes, she said, her sick friend was fortunately in a position to make a substantial down payment.
“Until four o’clock tomorrow then, Frau Richter, when let us hope all outstanding formalities may be swiftly dispatched.” And her name again? Her address? And her profession, please? And this was her regular cell phone number, wasn’t it?
She had brought him her grandmother’s chess set, a treasure. She wished she had thought of chess earlier. It was an activity sport for him. Before a move, he would sit motionless in the place where she guessed he sat all day when she wasn’t there: on the sill of the arched brick window with his long legs folded to his chin and his spidery philosopher’s hands linked round them. Then he would swoop, make his move, spring to his feet again and sashay to the other end of the attic to fly his paper airplanes and pirouette to the rhythms of Tchaikovsky while she contemplated her own move. Music, he had assured her, was not against Islamic law provided it did not intrude upon worship. Sometimes his religious statements sounded more like received wisdom than conviction.
“I’m arranging for you to go to a new place tomorrow, Issa,” she said, picking a lighthearted moment. “Somewhere more comfortable where they can look after you properly. Good doctors, good food, all the decadent Western comforts.”
The music had stopped, the scuffle of his feet also.
“To hide me, Annabel?”
“For a short time, yes.”
“Will you be there also?”—as a hand sought his mother’s bracelet.
“I’ll be visiting. Often. I’ll take you there and I’ll visit you whenever I can. It’s not so far away. Two hours by train”—casually, the way she had planned it.
“Will Leyla and Melik come?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Not till you’re legal.”
“Is it a prison, this place where you are hiding me, Annabel?”
“No, it is not a prison!” She steadied herself. “It’s a place to rest. A sort of”—she didn’t mean to say the word, but said it anyway—“it’s a special clinic where you can get your strength back while we wait for Mr. Brue.”
“Special clinic?”
“Private. But terribly expensive; it has to be because it’s so good. That’s why we need to talk again about the money Mr. Brue is holding for you. Mr. Brue has kindly advanced us money for you to stay there. That’s another reason why you must claim your inheritance. So that you can pay back Mr. Brue.”
“A KGB clinic?”
“Issa, we do not have KGB here!”
She
was cursing her own stupidity. Clinic was worse than prison to him.
He needed to pray. She retreated to the kitchen. When she came back, he was perched in his usual place on the windowsill.
“Did your mother ever teach you to sing, Annabel?” he asked, in a thoughtful voice.
“When I was young, she took me to church. I don’t think she really taught me to sing, though. I don’t think anyone did. I don’t think they could. Not even the greatest teachers.”
“It is enough for me that I hear you speak. Is your mother a Catholic, Annabel?”
“Lutheran. A Christian, but not a Catholic.”
“Are you also a Lutheran, Annabel?”
“I was brought up as one.”
“Do you pray to Jesus, Annabel?”
“Not anymore.”
“To the one God?”
She could bear no more of it. “Issa, listen to me.”
“I am listening to you, Annabel.”
“We can’t escape this problem by not talking about it. It’s a good clinic. The good clinic will be a safe place for you. To stay at the good clinic we’ve got to have your money. Which means you’ve got to claim. I’m telling you this as your lawyer. If you don’t claim, you won’t be able to become a medical student here, or anywhere else in the world. Or whatever it is you decide to do with your life.”
“God’s word will prevail. It will be His will.”
“No! It will be yours. However much you pray, it’s you who’s going to have to take the decision.”
Would nothing persuade him? Apparently not.
“You are a woman, Annabel. You are not being rational. Mr. Tommy Brue loves his money. If I tell him to keep it, he will be grateful to me and continue to assist me. If I take the money away from him, he will not assist me, he will be angry. That is the logic of his position. For me it is also a convenient logic, since the money is filthy to me, and I refuse to dirty my hands with it. Do you wish the money for yourself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”