The Elegant Lie

…

Babcock was sitting with his feet up on his desk, a black market Cuban cigar in one hand and a tumbler of bourbon in the other. He could hear the clip-clop of feet down in the street below as people made their way home from work. The office was empty. Everyone else had already gone home. Babcock often lingered in the embassy at the end of the day. His wife did not like him smoking in their apartment and there was no point holing up in some cafe, because the smell of a Cuban cigar was enough to make him the focus of attention from everyone who even caught a whiff of good tobacco. This was the only place where he knew he would be left in peace.

Then the phone rang on his desk.

If his secretary had been there, she would have answered it and told the caller that there was nobody there by his name. She always began things that way.

Babcock stared at the phone, willing it to fall silent.

But the phone kept ringing.

Babcock groaned and swept his feet down to the floor. He looked at the cigar and then at the tumbler, wondering which hand to free up, and decided on the bourbon. Placing the glass on the desk, he took the phone receiver and pressed it against his ear. Through the purr of static, he could hear the sound of train announcements, but it was too garbled to make out the language. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

‘It’s Carter.’

Babcock settled back into his chair. ‘Sounds like you’re on the move.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, you got yourself out of here just in time,’ said Babcock.

‘Why’s that?’ asked Carter.

‘They’re all dead,’ Babcock told him.

‘All of them, you say?’

‘Dasch, his daughter, Ritter. The German police just announced it.’

Carter knew that wasn’t true, because Teresa was standing right beside him, but he wondered how Babcock had become convinced of it. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Some guy who worked as a guard at the front gate of Dasch’s compound showed up for work two days ago and found Ritter with a bullet in his head. He’s the one who called the police. They said it looked like suicide, but who the hell knows? While they were searching the area, they discovered that a whole section of the field beside the compound had caved in. It turned out to be that bunker you told me about. The police went in there with heavy equipment and found Dasch’s body buried under the rubble. There was no trace of Dasch’s daughter, but they knew she hadn’t run away because her passport and all her papers were still there. They think she might have been down in the bunker with Dasch when the cave-in occurred. They tried to look for her, but the roof was too unstable and they couldn’t get to her body. As for Garlinsky, and whoever he was working with, there’s no way we’ll ever find them now. The only person the German police are still looking for is you, so it’s a good thing you called when you did. First thing in the morning, I’ll send out a notification of how you’ve been working for us. I’ve got the draft right here.’ He picked up the sheet of paper on which he had scribbled the announcement, then let it slip through his fingers back onto the desk. ‘Then you can get your life back, just like we agreed.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Carter.

‘You don’t want what?’

‘What we talked about.’

Babcock sat forward and put his elbows on the desk, keeping the phone receiver hooked under his chin. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You don’t want me to make the announcement?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you do realise that I’m the only living person who knows you aren’t actually a criminal? If I don’t set this straight, there’s nothing I can do to protect you.’

It was quiet at the end of the line.

‘Carter?’ said Babcock. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure about this? After all we put you through?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘All right,’ said Babcock, ‘but I wish to God you’d tell me why I’m doing this.’

Again, he received no reply.

‘Carter?’ Babcock called into the receiver. ‘Hey, Carter, are you there?’

There was only the rustle of static, like waves breaking on a beach in the distance. Babcock sighed and hung up the phone. He picked up the piece of paper on which he had drafted the announcement, crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then he slowly put his feet back on the table and puffed at his cigar until the embers glowed again. As the dry, sweet smoke filtered into Babcock’s brain, turning lazy pirouettes among the rafters of his skull, his memory of Nathan Carter was already fading from his mind, as if it had never been there.