"Then we find him! Kill him! The operation's over!"
"And who kills Charlie?" Becker asked, in the same perfectly reasonable way. "Us or them?"
Suddenly there was more going on in Litvak than he could handle on his own. Under the tensions of the past night and of the day to come, the whole knotted mass of his frustrations, male and female, swam suddenly to the surface of his being. His face coloured, his eyes blazed, as one thin arm struck out towards Becker in accusation. "She's a whore and she's a Communist and she's an Arab-lover!" he shouted, loud enough to be heard through the partition wall. "Dump her. Who cares?"
If Litvak was expecting Becker to make a fight of it, then he was disappointed, for the most Becker offered was one quiet nod of confirmation, as if everything that he had been thinking about Litvak for some time had now been demonstrated. Kurtz had pushed away his blanket. He was sitting on the bed in his underpants, head forward while he rubbed the tips of his fingers in his short grey hair.
"Go take a bath, Shimon," he ordered quietly. "A bath, a nice rest, some coffee. Come back around midday. Not before." A phone was ringing. "Don't answer that," he added, and lifted the receiver himself while Litvak, in mute self-horror, watched him from the doorway. "He's busy," Kurtz said, in German. "Yes, this is Helmuth, who's speaking?"
He said yes; then yes again; and well done. He rang off. Then he smiled his ageless, mirthless smile. First to Litvak, to console him, then to Becker also, because at that moment their differences were unimportant. "Charlie arrived at the Minkels' hotel five minutes ago," he said. "Rossino's with her. They're having a nice breakfast together, well ahead of time, just the way our friend likes it."
"And the bracelet?" said Becker.
Kurtz liked this part best. "On her right wrist," he said proudly. "She has a message for us. She's a fine girl, Gadi, and I congratulate you."
The hotel had been built in the sixties when the catering industry still believed in large, milling lobbies with soothing illuminated fountains and gold watches under glass. A wide double staircase rose to a mezzanine, and from the balcony table where they sat, Charlie and Rossino had a view of both the main door and the reception. Rossino was wearing a middle-management blue suit, Charlie her South African girl guide's uniform and her wooden Christ-child from the training camp. The lenses of her spectacles, which Tayeh had insisted should be real, made her eyes ache when it was her turn to watch. They had eaten eggs and bacon because she was ravenous, and now they were drinking fresh coffee while Rossino read the Stuttgarter Zeitungand periodically regaled her with facetious news items. They had driven into town early and she had almost frozen to death riding pillion. They had parked at the railway station, where Rossino had made enquiries, and they had come on to the hotel by taxi. In the hour they had been here, Charlie had watched police outriders deliver a Catholic bishop, and return with a delegation of West Africans in tribal costume. She had watched a busload of Americans arrive and a busload of Japanese depart; she knew the check-in procedure by heart, right down to the name of the chasseur who grabbed the suitcases from the new arrivals as they came through the sliding doors, loaded them on their little trolleys, and hovered at a yard's distance while the guests filled in their registration forms.
"And His Holiness the Pope plans a tour of all Fascist South American states," Rossino announced from behind his newspaper as she stood up. "Maybe this time they finish him off. Where are you going, Imogen?"
"To piss."
"What's the matter? Nervous?"
The women's room had fluttering pink lights over the handbasins and soft music to drown the whirr of the ventilators. Rachel was putting on her eye shadow. Two other women were washing. One door was closed. Brushing past her, Charlie pressed the scribbled message into Rachel's waiting hand. She cleaned up and returned to the table.
"Let's get out of here," she said, as if the relief had changed her mind. "It's ridiculous."
Rossino lit a thick Dutch cigar and deliberately blew the smoke into her face.
An official-looking Mercedes drew up and disgorged a bunch of dark-suited men with name badges on their lapels. Rossino had started to make an obscene joke about them when he was interrupted by a bellboy calling him to the telephone: Signo: Verdi, who had left his name and five marks with the concierge, was required in cabin 3. She sipped her coffee, feeling the heat of it all the way down her chest. Rachel was sitting with a boyfriend under an aluminium palm tree, reading Cosmopolitan. The boyfriend was new to her and looked German. He was clutching a document in a plastic folder. There were twenty-odd people sitting around, but Rachel was the only one she recognised. Rossino had returned.
"The Minkels arrived at the station two minutes ago. Grabbed themselves a blue Peugeot cab. Should be here any moment."
He called for the bill and paid it, then took up his newspaper once more.
I shall do everything once, she had promised herself as she lay waiting for the morning; everything will be a last time. She repeated it to herself. If I sit here now, I shall never have to sit here again. When I go downstairs, I shall never have to come up again. When I leave the hotel, I shall never return.
"Why don't we just shoot the bastard and be done with it?" Charlie whispered, with a sudden welling up of fear and hatred as she once more fixed her gaze upon the entrance.
"Because we want to stay alive to shoot other bastards," Rossino explained patiently, and turned a page. "Manchester United lost again," he added complacently. "Poor old Empire."
"Action," said Charlie.
A blue Peugeot taxi had pulled up on the other side of the glass doors. A grey-haired woman was scrambling out. She was followed by a tall, distinguished-looking man with a slow and ceremonious walk.
"Watch the small pieces, I'll watch the big ones," Rossino told her as he relit his cigar.
The driver was unlocking the boot; Franz, the chasseur, was standing behind him with his trolley. First came two matching suitcases in brown nylon, neither new nor old. Belts round the centre for extra support. Red tie-on labels. Now an old leather suitcase, much bigger, with a pair of wheels at one corner. Followed by yet another suitcase.
Rossino let out a soft Italian oath. "So how long are they staying?" he complained.
The small pieces were stacked on the front passenger seat. Having locked the boot, the driver began unloading them, but Franz's trolley wasn't going to take all of them at once. One shabby carrier bag in patchwork leather, and two umbrellas, his and hers. A paper carrier bag with a black cat on it. Two large boxes in festive wrapping, presumably belated Christmas presents. Then she saw it: a black briefcase. Hard sides, steel frame, leather name-tag. Good old Helg, thought Charlie; spot on. Minkel was paying off the cab. Like someone else Charlie had once known, he kept his coins in a purse, and spilt them into his palm before parting with the unfamiliar currency. Mrs. Minkel picked up the briefcase.
"Shit," said Charlie.
"Wait," said Rossino.
Laden with parcels, Minkel followed his wife through the sliding doors.