Bamboo and blood

Chapter Two

What I had learned about the young woman murdered in Pakistan fit on a tiny piece of paper, what you might call a short list. That list was in front of me, on my desk. It bothered me that it wasn't longer. I wanted to know what happened to her. It wasn't germane to anything, but it was the start of a chain of events that had almost left me with a big hole in my head. That sort of thing piques my curiosity.

The young woman had been murdered. The murder had taken place in Pakistan. She liked music, was infatuated with Rachmaninoff. That was it; end of list. Everything else was conjecture. She might be mixed up with missiles, and she might have crossed paths with Israeli intelligence. I still didn't know how she died, but if I found out that her neck had been broken, it wouldn't surprise me. French cigarettes somewhere in the picture, too-that wouldn't have surprised me, either. I'd told Pak that her murder wasn't important, that it hadn't meant anything. Maybe so, but I hated to leave it at that. I stared at the list for a few minutes; that didn't fill in any blanks.

Early Wednesday morning Pak was called in to explain why no reporting on the case had come from his unit yet. He was gone for almost four hours. As soon as he reached the front gate, just after noon in a pelting rain, he called me from the gate phone.

"Get over to my office this instant," he said. "Have a pencil and paper; be ready to take down everything I tell you, without a single interruption." He slammed the phone down so hard I could hear it all the way to the second floor.

I was sitting with paper and pencil when Pak walked in. He threw a file onto his cabinet and tossed his coat onto a chair.

"The Minister is angry. He told me he was angry, that's how I know. He did it in an angry voice, with an angry look on his face, in case I missed the point or harbored any doubts. You might say he chewed me out. And do you know why?"

"Tell me when I'm supposed to start putting pencil to paper, would you?"

"Sure, I'll also tell you what else you can do with the pencil."

"The Minister was not happy, that's where you left off. What was the problem?"

"The problem? The problem is that a certain case that was supposed to stay very low profile has become high profile. A certain European city where we are always supposed to blend in with the landscape has decided it doesn't want to have anything to do with us anymore."

"I can't be blamed for that."

"The hell you can't." He said it slowly, without any emotion. It wasn't a threat, more like a warning, and not the sort of warning Pak threw around idly. "When Sohn picked you out, it was for a reason. Or haven't you figured that out yet? I thought when your own skin was in jeopardy it would heighten your sense of reality, but maybe not."

"One thing at a time. Forget my skin. What about the Minister?"

"The Minister wasn't happy when Sohn said he needed to borrow you. The Minister frequently is unhappy, but he doesn't brood on it. If Sohn wanted you, that was that, it didn't matter what the reason was. The Minister, as he made clear to me, expected you to do what you were told and then get back to work."

"I thought Sohn and the Minister didn't get along."

"That's not the point, not even your concern, and I'll tell you why. It isn't your concern because it isn't my concern. It doesn't matter to me who gets along with whom these days. In fact, it's not even clear to me these days if anything matters at all."

I put down the pencil. "Strange, I never expected to hear that from you."

"Let's stay on target, shall we, Inspector? We're talking about you, not me. We're not dealing with your expectations, but with the mess you created."

"A minute ago it was a problem. Now it's a mess."

"Stick around, it's about to become a disaster. The ambassador at the mission in Geneva sent in a report. His security people asked around."

"I'll bet they did. I'll bet they found out everything they could from their Portuguese dollies."

"What?"

"I wouldn't pay attention to the security man. I'd wring his neck first."

"Wring it, or break it?"

"Don't tell me I'm being accused of murdering Sohn. Because if I am, I'm going back to my apartment. They can come for me there; I won't make you suffer the embarrassment of having me led out of your office." I stood up to go. "I know who is behind this, and so do you."