“Sure, I’ll have a glass of port with you.”
Conrad sat on the sofa next to his coat. Frank poured two glasses of port, handed one to Conrad and sat on the opposite sofa. The fireplace between them was loaded with logs but Conrad had never seen it lit—perhaps just as well, because the room was already suffocating under the blanket of central heating. Even so, a crackling fire would have been a nice touch for two old colleagues of sorts, looking back on their decade’s acquaintance.
Conrad sipped at his port and nodded appreciatively, but before he could comment aloud, Frank said, “So what’s on your mind, Conrad?”
“I’m thinking about quitting.”
He’d said the words and it was done now. Even if he changed his mind immediately, they’d have him marked as potentially volatile, someone who might become a liability or a threat further down the road. With those four words he’d started a process that, in one way or another, could not be stopped. The challenge now was to keep himself moving and hold the advantage.
“I didn’t know you smoked.” Frank looked sheepish, an admission that it hadn’t been funny; maybe a realization, too, that Conrad wasn’t much of a foil for witty banter. Seriously, that’d be a shame, not least because you’re good. But you know, I’ll guarantee this has something to do with turning thirty—everyone has a wobble at thirty.”
“I’m thirty-two. Anyway, that’s not it. I just want to do something different with my life. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Have you been reading Charles Handy?” Conrad looked baffled by way of response. “You know, the business guru? The Empty Raincoat? This whole idea of the multicareer life.”
On several occasions in the past, at times like this, he’d wondered if Frank was a junkie of some sort—prescription drugs, that kind of thing—but he knew it was an act, that a person couldn’t do Frank’s job without being mentally above water. This was just one of Frank’s games, and Conrad knew he had to play along to get to what he wanted.
“Frank, what are you talking about?”
“I guess that’s a ‘no’.” Then Frank sprang his little verbal ambush and was pleased with himself, like he was a dazzling trial lawyer working a witness. “So, would this have anything to do with killing a certain old man in Chur two weeks ago?”
Conrad smiled, thinking back to Chur, to the sun shining on the cafés in the square. As unusual as this snowfall was for early November, it was nothing compared to the Indian summer they’d experienced two weeks before.
Frank took Conrad’s smile as an admission and said, “At least you killed him. But I’ll be straight, I never dreamed he’d get to you. He was a wily old bastard, a talker, but I never dreamed he’d get to you.”
“It wasn’t Klemperer, as such. Something did happen in Chur, but ... I just had a moment of clarity, you know? I can’t do this anymore.” Frank looked troubled, possibly by the logistics of replacing him, possibly by something more sinister, but either way, Conrad was eager to move on now. “Changing the subject, I was thinking of all the people I’ve dealt with over the last ten years, all the people who know what I’ve done, who I am.” He laughed as he added, “All the people who could pick me out of a lineup.”
“And?” Frank seemed genuinely intrigued by the shift in the conversation.
“It’s amazing really—Brodsky, Carrington, Deschamp, Steiner ...”
“Who’s Steiner?”
“The guy I first worked with for you.”
“Schmidt,” said Frank, correcting him.
“Of course. I don’t know why I thought it was Steiner. Anyway, he’s dead, just like all the others, just like Lewis Jones.”
“You’re an unlucky guy to be around,” said Frank, smiling, seeing this list of names as some sort of humorous parlor game.
“Or it’s a line of work with a very brief life expectancy. By my reckoning, the only people in the business who know me and are still alive are Julius Eberhardt, Freddie Fischer, and Fabio Gaddi.”
There they were, all introduced to him by Frank back in the early days—Eberhardt, his employer; Fischer, who supplied him with arms, Gaddi, who provided documents when he needed them. He didn’t know if Fischer and Gaddi worked for Eberhardt or if they were independent operatives—he’d never needed to know and had never been curious.
He’d dealt with them only as they’d related to him and he’d deal with them in the weeks ahead on the same basis. They’d been his world for nine years, a closed and claustrophobic world that he was about to dismantle piece by piece.
“When did you meet Gaddi?”
“I didn’t, but we’ve spoken on the phone, and the guy makes my passports and papers—I’d say that counts as knowing me.”