The Gordian Knot

37

GEORG GOT OFF THE SUBWAY. The stairs leading up to the street stank of piss. Trucks roared along Houston Street, and the air they churned up made shreds of paper and newspaper pages flutter like tired birds over the dusty median strip. In the distance he could make out green fire escapes fronting red brick facades, which looked like urban hanging gardens.

On the right he looked down quiet, well-tended streets. Behind a church dedicated to Saint Anthony of Padua, whose Romanesque style reminded him of the Wilhelmine style of his high-school gym, he turned onto Thompson Street. Again, well-preserved four- and five-story buildings, on the ground floor shops selling antiques, art, or fashion. Above the buildings at the end of the street the towers of the World Trade Center seemed near enough to touch. At the next intersection Georg was on Prince Street.

Only by looking closely could he read above the entrance of the building on the corner, in faded gold lettering, 160 PRINCE. Café Borgia II was just opening for business across the street. He sat by the window and ordered an orange juice. He studied the building on the corner as if he would have to sketch it from memory one day. Red brick, high windows, decorative gables whose gray stone rose up like crowns, forming little temple friezes on the top story. Beside the entrance, there was the Vesuvio Bakery on one side and on the other a bar whose window advertised Miller beer in swooping, red-neon writing. The building had five stories. Between the second and third a band of gray stone looped around the building. There were black fire escapes, and a hydrant in front of the entrance.

The café was empty. The radio was playing oldies. On the street a Vesuvio Bakery delivery truck drove up. A mail truck came, stopped, and drove on.

Even before he could make out Françoise’s face he recognized her walk, the bouncy swing of her skirt and hips, the small quick steps of her short legs. She was pushing a shopping cart; sometimes she gave it a forward push, letting it roll, then catching up with it. She was laughing. No, it wasn’t a shopping cart, it was a stroller; out of which two tiny arms reached up.

In front of the entrance she carefully lifted up the baby. When Georg was fifteen, and for the first time unhappy in love, at school one afternoon he saw his sweetheart from a landing. She was down in the hall, leaning on the railing, cuddling a kitten from the litter of the janitor’s cat. Nevertheless, jealousy tore through him so painfully, so physically, in a way he had never experienced since. Now he saw Françoise holding the baby on her arm and wrapping it in a blanket, and for a moment jealousy convulsed his body and reminded him of the scene with the kitten.

With her foot and free hand Françoise folded the stroller and went into the building. Rage built up in Georg, a cold, bright desire to strike out, hurt, destroy. He paid and went across the street. Fran Kramer, fifth floor, apartment 5B. The outer door was open. He went up the stairs. Bicycles, strollers, tied bundles of cardboard, and garbage cans stood on the landings. The folded stroller was leaning beside the door to 5B. He rang.

“Coming!”

He heard her move a chair, come to the door, put on the security chain, and unlock the door. The child was screaming. The door opened a crack. He saw the chain and Françoise’s frightened, familiar, and forlorn face.

With a kick he broke the chain and pushed the door open. She recoiled, pressed herself against the wall, covering her breast with her hands. He was struck by the stains on her blouse and her oily hair; he had never seen her other than well-groomed and stylish.

“You?”

“Yes, me!” He stepped into the small vestibule and shut the door.

“But how… what… what are you doing here?” She looked at him horrified.

“What am I doing here in your apartment?”

“In my apartment, in the city… where have you been? How did you know?”

“That you lived here?” he asked.

“How did you find out?…”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t know I was in town? You of all people?” He shook his head. “The child is crying.”

Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way to the living room. “I’m sorry… I was just…” She went over to the baby, who was lying on a blanket on the floor waving its arms and legs, and picked it up. Her blouse fell open and he saw her breasts. She sat down on the sofa and put the dripping breast into the crying mouth. The child closed its eyes and sucked. Françoise looked up. No longer upset, no longer afraid. She pushed her lower lip out a little. He knew that gesture. She knew she looked coquettish and sulky like that. In her eyes was the plea for him not to be angry at her, the certainty that he couldn’t be angry.

His anger burst out again. “I’m going to stay here for a while, and if you tell Bulnakov or Benton or the CIA or the police… if you mention anything to anybody, I’ll kill the child. Whose is it? Are you married?” He hadn’t even considered this possibility. He glanced around the living room and through the open door at the bedroom, looking for signs that a man was living here.

“I was.”

“In Warsaw?” he asked, with a scornful laugh.

“No,” she answered seriously, “here in New York. We’ve just divorced.”

“Bulnakov?”

“Nonsense. Benton’s my boss, not my husband.”

“And whose child is it?”

“No… yes… well, whose do you think?”

“For heaven’s sake, Françoise, can’t you say anything besides no and yes?”

“And can you stop cross-examining me in this terrible, revolting way? You come bursting through the door, break my lock, upset Jill, and me as well. I don’t want to hear any more!” She said that in her little girl’s voice, whimpering and tearful.

“I’ll beat it out of you, Françoise, word for word if I have to! Or I’ll hang the child up by her feet until you tell me everything I want to know. Who is the father?”

“You are-you won’t harm her, right?”

“I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense! Who is the father?”

“My ex. Are you satisfied?”

He felt his old helplessness return. He knew he could not hurt her or the baby, but he doubted that she would tell him the truth even then. He would only hear what she thought he wanted to hear in order to get the painful situation over with. She was a child who lived in hope of immediate reward and in fear of immediate punishment. She had no sense of the importance of the truth.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Critically… no, judgmentally.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I didn’t know… didn’t want things to happen the way they did,” she said. “It lasted much longer than I thought it would, and it was so wonderful to be with you. Do you remember what we were listening to when we were driving to Lyon? A potpourri of music.”

“I do,” he said. How he remembered the trip, and the night, and the other nights, and waking up beside Françoise, and coming home every evening to Cucuron. The memories were about to seize him and bear him away like a wave. Sentimentality was the last thing he needed.

“Let’s talk about that some other time,” he said. “I slept last night on a bench in the park, this morning I was chased by Benton’s people, and I’m dog-tired. Since Jill is asleep, put her in the crib in the bedroom and I’ll sleep there in your bed. I’m going to lock the door from the inside. I know Benton’s men can break the door down, but don’t forget that I’ll be right next to your child, and can get at her before anyone comes bursting in.”

“But what if she starts crying?”

“Then I’ll wake up and let you in.”

“But I don’t understand…”

She looked at him helplessly, and he noticed again the little dimple above her right eyebrow.

“You don’t need to understand,” he said. “Just behave as if nothing happened, forget you saw me today, forget that I’m here, and see to it that no one finds out!”

She remained seated. He took the baby from her arms, laid it in the crib, and pushed the crib into the bedroom. He locked the door, undressed, and lay down to sleep. He smelled Françoise. From the adjoining room he heard her weeping softly.

38

HE WOKE UP AROUND TWO. There was a gentle knocking. He got up and looked at Jill-she was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth.

“What is it?” he whispered at the door.

“Will you open up?”

He thought for a moment. Was it a trap? If it was, and the child in his power didn’t offer him any protection, then he had no chance anyway. He pulled on his jeans and opened the door.

She was wearing the dress she had worn on the trip to Lyon, the pale blue- and red-striped dress with the big blue flowers. She had washed her hair, put on makeup, and was holding a baby bottle in her hand.

“I think Jill will wake up in about an hour,” she whispered. “Will you give her her bottle? When you’re finished, hold her upright on your shoulder and gently tap her on the back until she burps. And if she’s wet, you’ll have to go get a fresh diaper. They’re in the bathroom.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to deliver some translations.”

“You’re no longer working for Bulnakov?”

“Yes, I am, but I’m still on maternity leave. I’m translating as a sideline-New York is expensive, you know.”

“Were you at the Yankees-Indians game last week?”

“It wasn’t much of a game. Did you see it? Now I have to go. Thanks for babysitting.” From the apartment door she waved to him, that coquettish fluttering of her hand.

He lay down again. He couldn’t sleep anymore, and listened to Jill’s satisfied cooing and gurgling. Then he took a shower and shaved with the pink ladies’ razor he found on the edge of the bathtub. Under the sink he found some detergent, soaked his underwear, shirt, and socks, and put on his jeans and the biggest sweater he could find in Françoise’s closet. When he went over to Jill’s crib, she was lying with her eyes open. She looked up at him, screwed up her mouth, and began screaming until she turned red. He lifted her up, forgot where Françoise had put the bottle, and ran through the apartment looking for it. Jill wouldn’t stop screaming.

He had never wanted to have children. He had also never wanted not to. The subject had just never interested him. When he and Steffi had gotten married, it was understood that one day they would have children. And with Hanne, who had had herself sterilized, having children was not an option. He had a godson, the oldest son of his school friend Jürgen, who had become a judge in Mosbach, married at twenty-three, and had had five children. Georg had taken his godson to the Frankfurt Zoo and the Mannheim Observatory, had read him bedtime stories whenever he visited, and for his tenth birthday had given him a big Swiss army knife with all its blades, screwdrivers, bottle openers, corkscrews, scissors, file, saw, magnifier, tweezers, toothpick, and a tool to scale fish. Georg would have liked to have had a knife like that himself. It was too heavy for the practical boy, who wasn’t the least bit interested in fishing.

Georg found the bottle. Jill emptied it in a flash and went on screaming. What does the brat want now? he wondered. He remembered the instruction to hold her upright and tap her lightly on the back; he did so, she burped, and continued screaming.

“What more do you want? Why are you screaming at me at the top of your lungs? Men don’t like women who scream, and they don’t like ugly women, and if you go on like this your face will get crooked and you’ll be ugly.”

Jill quieted down. But as soon as he stopped talking she began screaming again, so he talked and talked, rocked her back and forth, walked her up and down. He couldn’t bring himself to utter “oochy-coochy-coo” or “patti-patti-poo,” though he realized she’d be just as pleased with those as with any fairy tales, Wild West stories, or detective stories he could remember.

He put her down on the cabinet in the bathroom and removed her wet diaper. It wasn’t only full of pee, but full of poop too. He washed her bottom and rubbed lotion on it. He waved Jill’s legs in a cycling motion, moved her arms left and right, up and down, and let her hands reach for his thumbs and hold them tight. He pinched the fat on her thighs, arms, and hips. She squealed with delight. Actually, there’s almost no difference between little children and little kittens, he thought. Children are more work-one invests more in them, and that’s why people later have more to offer than cats have. But that’s as it should be. He studied her face, looking for some sign of comprehension. She had thin dark hair, a high forehead, a snub nose and snub chin, and no teeth. He couldn’t make out what was going on in her blue eyes; when he bent over her, he saw his reflection in them. She laughed. Was that a sign of comprehension? On the edge of her ears he discovered a thick dark down. She was still holding on to his thumbs.

“My little hostage. No more flirting when Mama comes home. She mustn’t find out what a paper tiger I am. Is that clear?”

Jill fell asleep. Georg laid her in her crib, called Jürgen in Germany, and asked him to disregard the letter he hadn’t yet gotten. He had decided to replace the old story with the new one, so Jürgen shouldn’t bother with the instructions he had enclosed. “But why? And what are you doing in New York?” His friend was concerned.

“I’ll call again,” Georg said. “Say hi to the kids.”

Georg knew there were problems that had to be dealt with and decisions to be made. What should his next step be? What were the others planning? What can I do? he wondered. What do I want to do? But the outside world was far away. He knew the feeling from being in a train: the only things that separated you from the passing landscape, cities, cars, and people were a thin wall and thin glass. But this separation and the speed were enough to encapsulate you. And also, you could no longer do anything where you started from, or at the place you were to arrive. When you got there you might deal with problems and decisions-but in your capsule you were condemned to passivity, and you were free. Also, when no one knows that you are sitting in the train, when no one is expecting you and you are traveling to a completely unknown city, being cut off takes on an existential quality. No car trip can compare with it; as a driver you are busy steering, or as a passenger you are involved in what the driver is doing. In Françoise’s apartment Georg was experiencing the same isolation from the world. Of course, all he had to do was walk out and involve himself with the life outside. He knew that that was what he faced, that he had to do it and would. He didn’t feel inwardly blocked. It was just that the train hadn’t yet arrived, and the schedule with the arrival time had been lost.

He sat in the rocking chair in the living room and looked out the window. An inner courtyard with a tree, fire escapes, clotheslines, and garbage cans. He couldn’t distinguish from which apartments the noises came: hammering, the clatter of pots and pans, a saxophone, children’s voices, and women chatting loudly across the courtyard. Françoise didn’t return. The shadows climbed up the walls. Around six Jill woke up, this time without screaming. When she fell asleep again he rinsed his clothes and hung them up to dry. Twilight was coming on. The sky over the neighboring houses and the World Trade Center turned red.

Françoise came home carrying a large brown shopping bag. “How’s Jill?”

“She’s asleep.”

“Still? She usually wakes up around six.”

“She did. I made some tea for her and gave it to her in her bottle.”

She looked at him skeptically. “I’m sorry I’m so late. I had to drop by Benton’s.”

“So you really… Where are they? How much time do I have to come out with my hands raised?” He stood up.

“No!” she called out. The shopping bag fell and burst open as she threw herself in front of the door to the bedroom. “Don’t do anything to her, don’t! I didn’t say anything about you! There’s an article about you in the Times, wait, I’ll show it to you.” She thrust out her left hand at him as if she were fending him off, bent down, pulled the newspaper from the ruins of the shopping bag, and began leafing through it. “I found it. Here.”

“I know the article.” So she really believed he was capable of doing something to Jill.

She straightened up. “Next week my vacation is over, and in any case I wanted to go to Townsend, and after reading the article…”

“Did you speak to Benton?”

“Yes, he’s pretty annoyed. He didn’t want that article in the paper. The painters in the stairwell called an ambulance and the police; then the reporters came, nosed around, and the man you pushed down the stairs gave them your name. After he came to, he didn’t know what he was doing. It’s turned into a circus, Joe said, a regular circus.”

“Joe is Benton?”

“Yes. Do you know that the other one, the one who fell into the elevator shaft, broke both his legs?”

“How should I know that? I didn’t have time to stop and look.”

“Why did you do it?” she asked anxiously. He had become strange to her. Someone who lashes out indiscriminately, and before whom she had better watch her step.

“What did he tell you? Bulnakov-Benton-Joe; soon I’ll be calling the bastard sweetie and honey.”

“He said you’re no longer satisfied with the money you got in Cucuron, that you want more and are trying to blackmail him.”

“And what would I blackmail him with?”

“You found out that we… that he… that you weren’t dealing with the Russians in Provence, and you threatened to tell the Russians, and they’d be angry.”

“He says I came to him with this idiotic blackmail? And what was I supposed to have got from him in Cucuron?” Georg was really angry. “How stupid do you think I am? You know yourself that it’s bullshit-what’s this song and dance about? God, I’m fed up with your lies, fed up, fed up!” And with every fed up he gave her a slap in the face. He clenched his fists. She shielded herself with her arm. They stood opposite each other. Eye to eye, her terrified look and his enraged one. He took a deep breath. “It’s over, I won’t do anything more to you. Does Benton come here sometimes? Are you still having an affair with him?”

“That’s over. Anyone who comes here calls me up ahead of time in case the child’s asleep. You needn’t worry. And I certainly haven’t breathed a word to anyone. I don’t want to lose my babysitter, either.” She looked and sounded different from one minute to the next. At first fearful, then conspiratorially serious, and with her last words cheerful, with a wink. “Oh look at this mess!” she said, picking up the burst bag. Milk was leaking onto the floor. “Will you help me with supper?”

Later, when they went to bed, he was unyielding. He took the bed next to Jill, while Françoise slept in the living room on the couch. He locked the door; he would hear Jill if she woke up, and if he didn’t, Françoise could knock and wake him up. He did hear Jill when she woke up in the night, even before Françoise did, and went into the other room and woke Françoise up. She gave Jill her breast, and he fell asleep. She took off her nightgown and slipped beside him under the blanket.

39

ALREADY BY THE NEXT DAY living together had become oddly routine. It reminded Georg of their last days together in Cucuron.

“What were you thinking, when from one day to the next you didn’t come back? Without a word?” Georg saw the pale blue morning sky through the venetian blind. Françoise lay exhausted and satisfied beside him, her head on his arm.

“Joe sent me to New York and told me to stay here.”

“But what were you thinking, I mean about me, about us?”

The strain of her concentrating was visible. She didn’t understand his question, but wanted to do the right thing: not disappoint him, but satisfy him with the proper answer.

“Don’t think so much,” he said. “Just tell me what happened.”

“It was my job. And Jill was on the way, and you were beginning to act crazy. I couldn’t risk my job, because I soon would have to provide for Jill and couldn’t rely on you anymore. You’ve always been… you always want more, and keep doing things that ruin what you have. In Provence, at any rate, you ruined everything with your pride and stubbornness. You just had to quarrel with Joe. In life you have to be content with what you’ve got.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You see? You don’t understand.”

“Aren’t you getting any support for Jill?”

“No, I don’t know who the father is.”

“Benton or your ex… Might she be mine?”

She raised herself on her elbow and looked down at him.

“That’s sweet. Sometimes I wished it. How you were in my mind when I was walking along Madison Avenue and a man ran in front of me who was wearing your aftershave, and I ached with longing.”

“And later, when Benton came back to New York, he told you that he had finally got the better of me, bought me out?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to know what really happened?”

“Not now. Jill will be waking up in a minute.” She pushed the blanket away and kissed his chest.

Georg spent most of the day alone with Jill. Fran, as he now called her, was finishing her new translation at NYU. He called Helen, who had been given an appointment at Townsend Enterprises. He played with Jill, fed and bathed her. He read around in Fran’s books and systematically went through her closets, the boxes under her bed, and her desk. He found out that she was thirty years old, came from Baltimore, had gone to Williams College and Columbia, and had been married for six years to a David Kramer. In a drawer he found a photo of himself; he was lying in the hammock in front of the house in Cucuron, with Dopey on his stomach. When Fran came home at six, dinner was on the table.

The following days passed the same way. Evenings and mornings, when they had slept together and Fran was purring with satisfaction, Georg got occasional answers to occasional questions. She had hung up the picture of the cathedral in Cucuron because when she had been a student, she had lived across the street from the cathedral and had been happy and wanted something to remember New York by. Yes, Townsend Enterprises was owned by Joe Benton. He had gotten around in the world, first as an Orthodox priest, then with the U.S. Marines, and then in an ashram in California. When he became a private detective, at first he had worked under his own name. But as his commissions got riskier and his clientele more well known, he had to assume disguises. Fran had worked for him for four years, and had become his lover in the second year. The commission for Gorgefield Aircraft was the biggest she could remember; it brought Joe thirty million. She was sorry it had cost Maurin his life, she said. But Georg had the impression that she didn’t care, and that she was somehow making him responsible for the attack on him and the death of his cats. Joe had connections to official authorities. “One hand washes the other, you know. Sometimes he needs the officials, and sometimes they’re happy to have a problem disposed of unofficially. CIA? No idea whether it’s the CIA or one of its offshoots.”

Politics didn’t interest Fran. So she wasn’t interested in the political dimension of her work, let alone the moral dimension. But, Georg asked himself, am I any different? I told Helen that for Benton/Bulnakov it would mean a defeat to pay me money, and that this defeat was what mattered to me. But what did I want to do with the money? Punish and avenge myself and cash in-I made it pretty easy for myself.

Nevertheless, the question remained what really interested Fran. Her job? She seemed to have an obsequious relation to her work; the obsequious relation to Benton had been part of it. “Did you love him?”-“He wasn’t bad to me. I have a lot to thank him for, he even wanted to pay for Jill.”-“Why didn’t you let him?” Georg wanted to hear her answer. Her submissiveness reminded him of the fatalism with which one submits to the weather, come rain or shine. So she could have taken Benton’s money as a gift from heaven. But no. “I can’t do that, because I don’t know whether he’s the father.” She seemed surprised at his strange question, morally surprised. So the theory about the weather was out. Still, the job for her was just a job, just like the weather is only the weather; it left her uninvolved.

Jill? Fran’s life revolved around Jill. At the same time, Georg saw that in dealing with Jill she was strangely businesslike; Jill was a practical problem requiring practical solutions. When Fran breastfed her it was a technical procedure of providing and receiving nourishment. There was no mother-child intimacy. Georg recalled paintings in museums that radiated more warmth than the sight of Jill at Fran’s breast.

And me? Is she interested in me? Does she love me? Georg often had the feeling that for her he too was a piece of the world that one can’t change, that one had to accept, happy when he was happy, and bending under his blows. Every day she was happier with him. He noticed it. And why not? He took care of Jill, cleaned up and cooked for Fran, and slept with her. When she had her orgasm, when cries burst from her and she held on to him tightly-Now, he thought, now I’ve gotten through to you, shaken you. But when afterward she stretched out, she reminded him of a dog eagerly splashing through water and shaking itself dry, the drops spraying all around. He had not gotten through to her, shaken her, but was simply one of the pleasures the world offered.

Sometimes he wanted to grab and shake her. As if there were another Fran in the Fran he was with, as if he could break through the shell in which she, whether happy or sad, seemed uninvolved and unreachable: to hack his way through the hedge of roses and shake the sleeping princess awake if he couldn’t kiss her awake. He knew the feeling from Cucuron. Once, leafing through Helen’s books, he had come across the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. He knew that the king’s son who kissed the sleeping princess awake had simply come at the right time. The hundred years had passed, and the day had come when she was to awaken again. Sleeping Beauty is not to be awakened simply by a kiss.

Once Georg did grab Fran and shake her. It was on a Sunday, and for the first time she hadn’t gone to the library to translate, but spent the whole day with him. They took Jill into their bed, and the three of them bathed in the bathtub. They had Bloody Marys and eggs Benedict for breakfast, and read their way through the thick Sunday Times. At two, the phone rang. Fran picked up, said “yes” and “fine” and “till then.” At three she began saying that Sunday together was lovely, but she wasn’t used to their being together so much. She needed her space, and time to be alone. He agreed, and went on reading. She asked him whether he didn’t feel that way too, and whether he wouldn’t like to go out for a few hours.

“In this weather?” He shivered.

“It’s just a little rain. It’ll be like a blanket, you won’t be seen or recognized. You’ve been cooped up in the apartment all week.”

“Maybe later.”

At three-thirty she got to the point. “Somebody’s coming at four, and I’d be happy if you could leave me alone with him for a while.”

“Who’s coming? What’s going on?”

“Sometimes… a man comes to see me and we…”

“You sleep together.”

She nodded.

“Is he the one who called up before?”

“He’s married, and only knows at short notice when he can get away.”

“Then he calls up, comes over, you fuck, and he buttons up his pants and leaves.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Do you love him?”

“No. It’s… he is…”

“Benton?”

She looked at him, afraid. How he knew and hated that glance. And the small, shrill voice in which she finally asked him: “You’re not going to do anything to me? Or to Jill?”

The old feeling of helplessness and fatigue came over him. No, he thought, I won’t put up with that anymore, but I won’t beat her either. “Fran, I don’t want this. I’m not sure what our relationship is, but everything will be ruined if you sleep with Benton now, and I don’t want everything to be ruined. Don’t open the door when he comes.” Should he tell her he loved her?

But she had already started rationalizing, sentence after sentence, in a whining voice. “No, Georg, that’s impossible. He knows I’m here and that if I’m here I’ll open the door. He’s coming all the way from Queens. He’s my boss, and Monday I’ve got to go back to work-Monday, that’s tomorrow. I won’t let you mess up my life. You’d like that, wouldn’t you! And how do you imagine it? Joe is outside the door, hears Jill screaming and me running around, and I don’t open it? Have you thought of that? It doesn’t work that way. You come bursting into my life and make demands. I never promised you anything. And what do you think Joe is going to do when he’s outside and I don’t let him in? Do you think he’ll shrug his shoulders, go down the stairs, get in his car, and go home? He would obviously think something happened to me when I tell him he can come over and then don’t open the door. He’ll call the super and the fire department, and I wouldn’t like to think what would happen then. I…”

He grabbed her, shook her, and screamed into her face in which her voiceless mouth went on forming sentences: “Shut up, Fran, stop!” She screwed up her face. “You’ll write a note saying you had to take Jill to the hospital, and you’ll leave it on the door downstairs. And if he comes up anyway-I’ll deal with him, which is perhaps the right end for this crazy story! I’ve had it!” Jill had woken up and was screaming, and Georg saw the fear again in Fran’s look. “Do it, otherwise you and Jill will regret it.”

She wrote the note and stuck it on the door downstairs. Benton didn’t buzz. They finished reading the paper, cooked together, and went to bed early, because Fran had to be up early. They made love, and it seemed to Georg that she was so passionate because he was so remote.

In his thoughts he was with Townsend Enterprises, Gorgefield Aircraft, and the Russians. He wanted to bring the story to an end. The way the players were placed and the cards dealt, it looked bad for him. The cards needed to be called in, reshuffled, and dealt again-and why not bring in a new player? If the Russians weren’t in the game, he’d have to bring them in.

40

IF THE THIRTY MILLION JOE had gotten from Gorgefield Aircraft wasn’t enough, and Joe wanted another thirty million from the Russians-how would he go about it? He would make contact, present them with a model construction sketch, and name a price. Joe wouldn’t do this as head of Townsend Enterprises-in fact, he would perhaps go through a straw man. How would the Russians react? They would study the designs thoroughly, want details about all the material, haggle over the price, find out whom they were dealing with, and whether they were being taken for a ride. And how would he, Georg, set his trap?

By the time Fran came home from work Monday evening, he had a plan. Up till then, he had celebrated Fran’s return home according to the image of the ideal American housewife he had gotten from the movies, with Jill on his arm, dinner on the stove, cocktails in the fridge, and candles on the table. It was an ironic game, but an affectionate one. On this evening, Georg was playing another game.

“Which do you want to hear first, the good news or the bad?” he asked.

Fran realized that something was up, and smiled uncertainly. “The good news.”

“I’m leaving in a few days.”

“But you have to… I mean, we…”

He waited, but she couldn’t finish the sentence. She looked at him; the dimple above her right eyebrow was trembling. He was hoping that she would… he himself didn’t know what he was hoping.

“And the bad news?”

“Either you and Jill go with me, or I’ll take Jill alone.”

“Go where?” There was alarm in her voice.

“To San Francisco, for a week.”

“Are you crazy? I started work today and can’t take another week off.”

“Then I’ll go alone with Jill.”

She put down the brown shopping bag and put her hands on her hips. “You really are crazy. You and Jill… What are you up to? What do you hope to gain from it?”

“I’m taking Jill as a hostage if you really want to know. As a hostage so that you won’t say a word to anyone until I come back and get away for good. So you don’t run to Joe Benton and betray me.”

“I would never do that. I haven’t done it all the time you’ve been here.”

“I’m taking her as a hostage so you don’t confess to Benton that you copied the Mermoz documents and gave them to me. For that’s exactly what you’ll do tomorrow or the day after.”

“Oh no! I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it won’t work. Even if I wanted to-I just can’t, I have no idea where he keeps the documents, how I could get hold of them, how I should copy them-”

“You can photograph them. You know how to do that. And don’t try telling me you can’t… You’ve been his lover for years, you still sleep with him, you know he got thirty million from Gorgefield Aircraft, which you couldn’t have learned from the assets report of Townsend Enterprises, you know he arranged Maurin’s murder and…”

“And your cats, don’t forget your cats,” she said. He looked at her, dumbfounded. She again had her shrill little girl’s voice, but at the same time scorn and sheer hatred in her voice and her narrowed eyes. “You on your high horse! You think you’re better than him and better than me. You look down on us. But that’s just the way life is, everyone fights for their own piece of the cake, you too, only not as well! Joe didn’t make the rules!”

“You don’t understand the key point,” he said calmly. “All these years you’ve known Benton well enough to be able to find out where he keeps the Mermoz documents and how you can get hold of them. The point isn’t who made the rules. Okay, Benton didn’t make them, you didn’t make them, I didn’t make them. But the thing is that I’ve finally understood them, just the way you and Benton have long understood them! I have Jill. You get hold of the Mermoz documents. You’ll also get hold of the names of Benton’s contact at Gorgefield Aircraft and a letterhead of Gorgefield’s, a brochure, whatever has the firm’s logo on it. If you want Jill back, you’d better get to it.”

“You really mean it!”

“Yes, Fran, I really mean it.”

“And how do you imagine you and Jill managing in San Francisco?”

“What’s to imagine? There must be thousands of fathers on the road with their little daughters. Once I’m there, I’ll take her along with me if I can’t get a babysitter, and I’ll feed her and change her diapers.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. If you have any advice, I’m all ears. I could buy one of those baby carriers and sling it across my chest-you know the ones I mean.”

They looked at each other. In her glance there was no longer hate, only sadness. Sadness? Georg had seen her frightened, anxious, remote, rejecting, hostile, cheerful, but never sad. If she can look like that, he thought, then she really is Sleeping Beauty behind the hedge of roses. Whether she could gaze happily with the same seriousness and collectedness… Could she? Now her glance pierced though him-Georg would gladly have asked her what she was thinking. Then there was a bright gurgling in her throat, a smothered laugh that she covered with her hand-perhaps she was amused, imagining Georg with Jill in a sling across his chest. But just for a moment.

“If you really do do that, Georg, I’ll never forgive you! Never! To take Jill from me, use her to blackmail me-I can’t find words for how despicable I think that is, how low, how cowardly! You haven’t been able to fight like a… like a man for your piece of the cake, or perhaps you tried and missed out, and now you want to try in some kind of backhanded way, after the fact… What you didn’t destroy back then in Cucuron you’re destroying now. I know I never should have let myself in for the job in Cucuron, and I ought not to have let it happen between us, or for it to get serious and go on for so long. It was a mistake. I always knew it, but somehow… was it the sex? But never mind. Don’t destroy everything now. Stay here or leave the country-I’ll talk to Joe, and see to it that you can leave without any problems and go back to Cucuron. But don’t take Jill away from me and force me to break into Joe’s safe like a thief!”

“No, Fran. I’m going to bring this to an end. You think it’s already at an end. But it isn’t, not for me.”

Late in the evening she tried once again to change his mind. She tried the next day and the day after. She tried being calm, then with tears and shouting, with reasoning, pleas, threats, swearing, and seduction. Sometimes he noticed with both shock and relief how afraid of him she was, in the same way she was afraid of Benton.

The next day she brought him the letterhead from Gorgefield Aircraft and the name of Benton’s contact there. The day after she brought the cans with the negatives of the construction drawings. On the copies Georg had, the Mermoz logo was barely visible in the lower right corner, where the original had a majestic double-decker plane stamped with the letters M, E, R, M, O, and Z between the upper and lower wings. On a copy, Georg pasted on the Gorgefield logo and covered it with White-Out until even the G, whose arc formed the curve of the earth and whose crossbar formed the fuselage of an airplane, could only dimly be made out. He had Fran make a copy of this copy, and to accompany it wrote a short letter on Fran’s typewriter:

Dear Sirs: The enclosed document might interest you. The entire set will be offered for thirty million. Will you bid? Someone who understands the situation and has complete authority will be available for a meeting in San Francisco. Place and time of the meeting will be furnished to you next Wednesday at 10 a.m. Have your telephone operator expect a message with the code name “Rotors.” The deal must be concluded by Friday of next week.

He mulled over whether he should address the letter to “Dear Sir or Madam” or just “Dear Sirs,” and whether the code name “Rotors” was good enough, but both issues were unimportant. Beneath the address, he simply wrote “Re: Attack Helicopter.” He put the letter and the prepared copy in the envelope, addressed it to the Soviet embassy in Washington, and on Wednesday evening dropped it in a mailbox. He did this in the dead of night with Jill on his arm. He sat for a long time in front of a lamp with the negatives Fran had brought, trying to assess their authenticity and completeness. When he rolled them up again and stuck them in the cans, he wasn’t much the wiser.

On Saturday he booked a flight to San Francisco for himself and Jill. He wanted to meet the Russians on Wednesday, but wanted to talk first with Buchanan, Benton’s contact at Gorgefield Aircraft. But before that, he wanted to find a place where he could meet with the Russians. He would need two days to prepare.

After Fran gave up hope of changing Georg’s mind, she tried to stay out of his way. He was prepared to respect that, but it was hard to do in the small apartment. They didn’t utter a word as they sat opposite each other, or when they met at the door between the living room and the bedroom or in the hallway, letting the other go first or passing each other, barely touching, with Fran lowering her eyes: a withered intimacy that made Georg sad. But sometimes he was reminded of girls in ancient or distant cultures who have been promised to a man and are only allowed to show themselves to him after the wedding. Fran was again sleeping in the living room. Days ago, after their initial arguments, when she had aroused him but still had not been able to make him give up his plan, she made a point of sleeping in the living room.

On Friday evening he greeted her according to the ritual of the past week. In the morning he had gone shopping with Jill, also to accustom himself again to the outside world, and had spent the afternoon in the kitchen. He prepared a Cucuron dinner: tapenade on toast, duck Provençale, and chocolate mousse. She was withdrawn and taciturn, and avoided his glance. Later she didn’t come to him in bed. But in the morning he found in his suitcase a baby sling with which he could strap Jill to his chest.

41

AT THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT Jill screamed. She fell asleep when her screaming no longer attracted the other passengers’ sympathy, but their exasperation. A little four-year-old girl tried to interest Jill in picture books and chocolates. An elderly woman gave Georg advice about bringing up children, especially young ladies. The stewardesses brought blankets, kept diapers handy, warmed bottles, and said “coochy-coo.” They spoiled Jill, and they spoiled Georg.

In San Francisco they were picked up by Jonathan and Fern. A friend from Georg’s student years in Heidelberg had studied at Stanford and shared an apartment in San Francisco with Jonathan, who was a painter, and when Georg had phoned his friend with his request, the friend had arranged for him to stay in Jonathan’s apartment. Georg hadn’t wanted to stay in a hotel with Jill. Besides, Jonathan’s girlfriend Fern, an actress, was between jobs and was willing to look after Jill whenever Georg was taking care of his business. She took charge of Jill even before Georg wanted to let her go.

It had been raining in New York when they left, but in San Francisco the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. He left Jill in the renovated warehouse in which Fern and Jonathan were living with a cat and a Doberman, near the bay. The afternoon was before him, and he wanted to start looking for a place to rendezvous with the Russian.

It was clear what kind of place it should be. He wanted to be able to see whether the man was coming alone, so the place had to be open. Georg wanted to be sure that the man couldn’t follow him, so he would have to be able to disappear into a crowd near the place, or be able to reach a parked car on a lightly traveled street. He would drive off, and, if he didn’t see in the rearview mirror a car following him, he would take one of several detours and lose himself in the tangle of streets. That was how he imagined his getaway. Or, alternatively, that he would disappear into the crowd and get to a public toilet and disguise himself again. It would have to be sufficient to shake off one or more Russians. If the Americans had intercepted his letter and listened in on his phone call on Wednesday, and sent hundreds of men and helicopters after him, he wouldn’t have a chance anyway.

He rented a car, got a map of the city, and drove off. At first he drove aimlessly, wherever the flow of traffic or the signs and one-way streets took him. He drove through long streets with two- and three-story apartment buildings. They were of brightly painted wood and adorned with bay windows, gables, and little towers. Business and neon signs suddenly jutted out between the first and second stories, advertising delis, Pepsi-Cola, antiques, dry cleaning, auto-repair shops, breakfast, self-service laundries, real estate, restaurants, picture framing, Budweiser, shoes, fashions, Coca-Cola, and more delis. The businesses and signs disappeared just as suddenly, followed by one apartment block after another. Georg drove through residential streets, shorter than those in Manhattan, the architecture more daring, the streets cleaner and emptier, and the small bits of nature greener. He drove over the hills of the city as excited as if he were on a roller-coaster ride. The topography didn’t match the grid imposed on it, so they pointed up at the sky or down onto other streets. One moment he would be looking down at water, container ships, sailboats, and bridges, and another moment at the silhouettes of skyscrapers merging together at one end of the city, and the many arms with which freeways reached out over and between the buildings, over and under each other. He had the window open and the radio on, and let music and wind whistle about his ears. Sometimes he stopped, and stepped out like a tourist wanting to take a picture. But he only looked to see whether a small place was open enough, or a street lonely enough, or whether a staircase leading down from a steep, hilly street led only to a building or to the next street below.

On Sunday Georg forbade himself to look at the city map. He tried to get a feel for the city and its streets without it. He would have noted a suitable place on the map, but didn’t find any. Still, by evening he had an idea of the peninsula, the ocean to the west, the bay to the east, the Golden Gate Bridge to the north. And he had an idea of how the city had originally grown up in the north, on the bay, and later proliferated over the rest of the peninsula.

On Monday morning, with the city map, he proceeded systematically. He drove through the parks and then along the coast of the Pacific. He found isolated places in Golden Gate Park, but their isolation could only shield them from surprise by a hiker, not a purposeful pursuer. The ocean beach stretched out long and open; gray clouds under a gray sky, gulls beating in the wind, a few joggers, a few hikers, a surfer who never got beyond the first wave, a yellow dredger piling up or carting off sand. But in front of the wall separating the road and the beach there were too many cars parked with people sitting in them. He went to an isolated hot-dog stand, and when the man fished the hot frankfurter from the pot of water the steam rose up in a dense cloud. It was cold here; in the morning Georg had started out from the building on the bay under a blue sky, and in the center of the peninsula had driven into the fog covering the Pacific Coast.

Then he thought he had found the place he was looking for. At the north end of the beach the land was hilly and the coast fell steeply to the sea, bending inward toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the bay. A street went up to the top of a hill, and Georg stopped in surprise in front of an acropolis. A square of low buildings and a classical arcade, and in the square in front a large circle with an empty fountain basin in the middle, and broad steps leading to the columned portico. He parked his car and walked around the circle. The sun had dissolved the clouds, and through the trees he looked down on the city, the ocean, and the twin red masts and arching roadway of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below him, two helicopters were flying along the shore. From the golf course, which came as far as the acropolis, one sometimes heard the strokes and voices of nearby players, or the soft hum of a golf cart. He could hear occasional cars in the distance coming closer and fading away again. Otherwise it was completely quiet. An enchanted place.

When he went up the steps to the portico he saw that this acropolis was an art museum, and that it was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. He could imagine the cars that would be parked here side by side on Wednesday. And to destroy the enchanted mood, three cars drove up and disgorged a noisy Chinese or Japanese wedding party. He went back to his car. The bride was pretty.

On Monday evening he had grown tired of the city, but more tired of himself and his purposeful, meandering tourism. He liked the city’s clarity that one could almost touch, its fresh cool breeze despite the relentless sunshine, the variety of its districts, cultures, and enticements. He thought one might portray San Francisco as a seductive virgin in starched frills, a virgin simultaneously flaunting and withholding her charms, while New York was an old hag, heavy and squat, sweating, steamy, stinking, babbling incessantly, sometimes screaming. But he was also sick of his perceptions and his useless sensibility. He hadn’t found the place he was looking for. He parked the car and went to Jonathan and Fern’s place. Jill was still awake; he gave her her bottle and changed her diaper on the long table in the kitchen, where he could roll her right and left. He tried to teach her to crawl. She crowed with pleasure. Then he put her down in the wide bed he shared with her. He was anxious lest she fall out, or that he would roll over on her. She followed him into his dreams.

Jonathan and Fern were cooking, and invited Georg to dinner. Cordial and interested, they asked what his business was. He suffered from his evasive answers, again longing to be normal and open. The couple was happy, although Fern was between jobs and Jonathan had had to interrupt his painting to earn some money. Then all three of them drank too much, and Jonathan became loud and boisterous, took his pistol out of a desk drawer, and shot out the streetlight across the street. Fern laughed and played along, but knew how to let Jonathan know when it was time to go to bed. Georg, too, longed for a relationship that would make him feel as whole and accepted as Fern’s. What the hell, he thought, I long for Fran, whether or not she accepts me or pushes me away. I long to have the life with her that we only lived the shadow of in Cucuron and New York. And if living with Fran is like Fran herself, and there’s nothing left to discover behind what I see and know, nothing more to awaken with a kiss, then I want and like what I see and know.

Everything else could go to hell, he thought: Joe, Mermoz, and Gorgefield, his revenge, the big money. He knew that the next day he would go on looking for the meeting place, drive to Gorgefield, and speak with Buchanan. He realized that the two things didn’t go together or belong together, just like the clarity and intoxication in his head.

42

THE NEXT MORNING GEORG found himself alone in bed. Fern had left him a note that she was letting him sleep in and had taken Jill to go walking with the dog. In his pajamas he strolled through the apartment with a cup of coffee, looking at Jonathan’s paintings.

They were big oil paintings, six by nine feet and larger, in dark, matte colors out of which shone through, here and there, the glowing blue or red of the pattern of a carpet. They showed a nude at the desk, a nude on the sofa, a nude sitting on the floor with her back leaning against the wall, an empty room in which the torso of a man sleeping on the floor stood out against the wall. All the paintings radiated coldness, as if the air in those rooms were thin and the people frozen in their attitudes. Georg took a gulp of hot coffee. Or had Jonathan painted the pictures with painfully restrained passion, the paintings turning lifeless in the process? The next painting was of the back of a television set and a couple: she was sitting on the sofa looking at the screen, while he was standing behind the sofa and turning to leave. Or does Jonathan want to prove that communication is impossible and loneliness unavoidable? Then there were paintings of nature, a glacier landscape in front of which two men were locked in combat; a meadow with a couple sitting, more next to each other than with each other; a forest clearing in which a man is kneeling, holding and kissing a little girl. Now Georg saw the paintings from a different angle. Jonathan didn’t want to prove that loneliness was unavoidable, but everything went to show that it was, whether he wanted it to or not, presumably even against his will and against his attempts to capture and represent closeness. The closed eyes of the man kissing the little girl didn’t express self-abandon but tension; the girl seemed to want to run away.

Georg remembered how Fran had given Jill her breast, and how he hadn’t seen any closeness, warmth, or intimacy in it. Am I the man for whom loneliness has become unavoidable, communication impossible, even the perception of communication? A pack of cigarettes was lying on the table. He lit one. In New York one day he had simply stopped smoking. Now, after weeks of not smoking, the first deep draw was like a blow to his throat and his chest. He took another draw, went into the kitchen, held the cigarette under the running water, and threw it in the trash can.

The door to Jonathan’s bedroom was open, and Georg went in. Outside the window, at the level of the sill, was a terrace covered with gravel. He climbed out and looked down at the tops of the trucks and shipping containers of the transport company, and across the way at a loading dock; behind it were warehouses, the insulators and wires of an electricity substation, a tall chimney. And he looked down a street that led to the bay and ended there in an earthen berm. Georg swung himself up onto the roof above Jonathan’s bedroom and stood there. It was a corner building; Georg could see the intersection and had an unobstructed view of all four streets and, farther away, a view of a hill, a freeway, and a gas tank.

There it is! Georg thought, that’s the place I’m looking for! The street leading to the bay must be Twenty-fourth Street, the cross street is Illinois, and its parallel street is Third. I have the Russian take a cab to the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth streets and walk east to the end of Twenty-fourth. From up here I can see the cab stopping on the corner, the Russian walking up Twenty-fourth, and also see if beforehand or at the same time a suspicious car appears and stops on Twenty-fourth Street or Illinois, where there’s never much traffic.

Georg swung himself down. He got dressed and went out. When he stood on the earthen berm, he realized that it must be what was left of a park. Benches, paths, a dock for fishing, two blue port-o-johns, brown grass, and brown bushes. To the left was a short canal; behind it, old trolley cars, the warehouses again, and the chimney of a now audibly humming power plant. To the right was a fenced-in plot with construction material and machines, open ground with man-high underbrush, garbage, and automobile carcasses; farther off, green, yellow, red, and blue shipping containers, broad-legged container cranes, searchlights, and cables. In front of Georg was the bay, which stank of tar and dead fish, and in the distant haze the other shore.

Georg walked along the shore, fought his way through the underbrush, and in its shelter followed the fence that initially led along the shore and then back to Illinois Street. He had thought he’d find Twenty-fifth Street here, but instead came upon railroad tracks leading across a broad expanse to a derelict pier. A dog was wandering about. The wind stirred up dust.

The place was ideal. After the meeting, Georg could observe the Russian going back to Third Street, while he himself could return unobserved through the underbrush to Illinois Street where, covered by the parked cars, he could get back to the entrance of his building. But what if accomplices didn’t turn up before the Russian or with him, but surrounded the place during the meeting? Georg decided to have the Russian take a taxi to the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth streets, walk to the end of Twenty-fourth Street, and wait for a motorboat behind the earthen berm. He would recommend rubber boots. Then the accomplices would go back and forth on the bay with motorboats and binoculars.

Georg had originally thought to show the Russian the negatives in two meetings. He thought it better not to have all fourteen film cans with him at once. But now he had another idea. The place was good for one meeting but not for two, and he didn’t have a place for a second meeting. He had to take care that the Russian didn’t overpower him and take the negatives. He had noticed where Jonathan kept his pistol in the desk.

So, thought Georg, tomorrow: call around ten, arrange to meet at eleven. Give just enough time for the embassy in Washington to alert their man in San Francisco. But what if the people in Washington hadn’t made any preparations, hadn’t sent anyone to San Francisco, hadn’t taken the letter seriously? If, if, if. Me and my ifs! A man was murdered on account of these negatives. They are valuable. Why shouldn’t the Russians take the offer seriously?

43

GEORG DROVE TO PALO ALTO, where Gorgefield Aircraft had its offices and research laboratories. He hadn’t made an appointment with Buchanan, since he didn’t want a phone conversation that would give him only an incomplete picture of what he wanted to tell him, but enough for him to reach for the phone and call Benton.

Georg took U.S. Route 101 south. All eight lanes were filled with cars. Where are all these people going? And why don’t I ever wonder that when I’m on a highway in France or Germany? Is it because the traffic flows differently here? People don’t drive the same here; they’re not only slower because of the speed limit, but also calmer. Hardly anyone passes anyone else. The cars glide smoothly next to one another, sometimes pulling ahead, sometimes falling back, like driftwood on a wide placid stream: as if it wasn’t a matter of getting from one place to another as quickly as possible, as if life was about driving, not staying put.

At Palo Alto he exited the highway. Gorgefield Aircraft was on Alpine Road; after houses with green gardens, streets with green trees, and shops with blossoming flowers and shrubs by their entrances and around their display windows, the street led up into hills covered with grass of a burned golden brown. As the road coiled farther and farther up the hill there were no more houses, no trees, and hardly any cars. A large granite rock inlaid with a bronze company logo stood at the intersection where he turned off to Gorgefield. After another bend he looked down on a wide green valley. The road ended in a loop, on three sides of which stood five-story buildings made of granite or that had granite facades. On the fourth side a parking lot stretched out left and right by the entry-way. Sprinklers were spinning on the green lawns; through the open car window he could hear them hissing, and saw rainbow-colored sunbeams in the spray.

He parked and went to the main entrance, where laurel trees stood in containers. The hall wasn’t cool, it was freezing. He shivered. The doorman looked like a policeman: a badge on his shirtsleeve, a name tag on his breast pocket, a gun on his belt. He asked Georg for identification, but since Georg couldn’t confirm that he had an appointment with Buchanan and wouldn’t tell him the reason he wanted to see him, the guard didn’t let him through. Finally the guard called Buchanan and handed Georg the receiver.

“Mr. Buchanan?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Georg Polger. You don’t know me, but what I have to tell you is quite important. I’d like a brief word with you, but not on the phone. Could you have me sent up? Or come down yourself if you prefer. As far as I’m concerned, the guard can frisk me for weapons, and feel free to bring some weapons yourself-I don’t want to kill you, I just want to talk with you.”

“Could you pass me over to the guard?”

Georg heard the guard say “Yes, sir” a number of times, after which another guard escorted him to Buchanan’s office on the third floor. Buchanan’s secretary served him a cup of coffee, had him wait for a while, and then took him in to Buchanan. He was a small, stocky, middle-aged man wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a tie. He had a strong handshake and numerous spider veins on his cheeks. He offered Georg the chair in front of his desk, and looked at him inquiringly.

“My story will sound incredible, but it’s not important right now whether you believe it or not. The main thing is that you remember it so you can recall it when the time comes. Because when the time comes it will be too late to be telling it for the first time. Do you follow?”

It was only when Georg asked the question that he noticed that Buchanan was slightly cross-eyed. One of his eyes simply couldn’t listen to Georg with interest.

“Go on,” Buchanan said.

“I’m German, West German. As I’m sure you know, the partition of Germany has divided many families. Half my family lives in East Germany, among them my cousin. He works for the Stasi, what you might call the East German CIA. In fact, you could say he’s not working for the Stasi right now, but for the Soviets. You know that the Soviets have the East Germans under their thumb, just as they do the Poles, the Czechs, the Hungarians, and the Bulgarians. That’s also the case when it comes to these countries’ secret services. Now to my point: my cousin has been given a mission that has taken him from France to the United States. The Russians are interested in the design of an attack helicopter that either the Europeans will build under the leadership of Mermoz, or you here in the United States. I don’t know what measures the Russians have undertaken to get hold of the design plans, but my cousin informed me that an American has surfaced offering to sell the plans for thirty million dollars.”

“Who?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment. First, I’d like to show you what my cousin has given me. Does this mean anything to you?” Georg took a can of film out of his bag and put it on Buchanan’s desk. “Feel free to open it and have a look.”

Buchanan put on his glasses, opened the can, took out the negatives, held them up in front of the window, and slowly unfurled them. “Yes, this does mean something to me.”

“I am to ask if you are prepared to pay for the pertinent background information. My cousin intends to defect to the West-next year, or the year after-and could do with a nest egg. He would inform you when he finds out who the American seller is and has proof. Perhaps he can even arrange a meeting and call you on short notice.”

“All I can say is that this is a very strange story,” Buchanan said, puckering his lips and rubbing his chin.

“I’m aware of that, as is my cousin. But there’s no risk for you. At worst, it would be a waste of your time, at best you could-for a price we still have to discuss-locate and secure a hole in your system. By the way, here’s something my cousin told me to give you.” Georg took two photocopies out of his bag and placed them in front of Buchanan. They were identical, except for the lower right side where on one copy was Mermoz’s double-decker logo, barely visible, and on the other, the Gorgefield airplane circling the world.

“And why, if I might ask, would I want two copies of the same thing?”

“I have no idea,” Georg said, leaning back in his chair. “So what do you say?”

“You mean about the money?”

“Yes.”

Buchanan shrugged his shoulders. “What sum does your cousin have in mind?”

“He says that the whole set is on sale for thirty million,” Georg replied, taking the negatives from the desk, rolling them up, and putting them back in the can. “He doesn’t want that much from you, since he says you’ve already paid. He’s thinking one million.”

“Just a lousy million, because we’re supposed to have already paid a lousy thirty?” Buchanan again rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t add up. Why would your cousin tell us what we need to know with nothing but a promise from me to you that he’ll be paid? What court in the world could he turn to to get his million?”

“He’ll turn to the press. If you don’t pay, he’ll sell his story to the papers. He thinks that isn’t an option you’d be particularly pleased with.”

“So that’s what he thinks? Well, tell your cousin we’ll pay the million.” He looked at Georg warily. “Or should we first of all focus on you?”

“What more do you want to know?”

“I know you’ve told us everything that this cousin of yours has commissioned you to tell us, and that you don’t know more. But perhaps you’re not your cousin’s cousin after all, but your cousin in person: the only cousin in this game. Or if your cousin does exist, perhaps you can give us a bit more background. I imagine you and he must be in contact. Might your cousin in fact be your uncle?” Buchanan looked at Georg sharply.

Georg laughed. “If I don’t have a cousin, how could I be a cousin myself? But jokes aside, why would I want to play charades? As for my being in contact with him, the way it works is that he calls me.”

Buchanan raised his hands and slapped them against the desk. “Damn! Do you know what happened to me this morning? I gave away the wrong puppy. My golden retriever had a litter, and six pups are more than I can handle. I wanted to keep one, but, believe it or not, by mistake I gave away the one I wanted to keep.”

“So why don’t you ask for it back?”

“Ask for it back? Ask for it back? I gave it to my boss. Am I supposed to tell him the puppy’s too good for him? That he can have one of the others?”

Georg got up. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Good luck with the puppy.”

“You don’t seem to give a damn about what happens to the puppy,” Buchanan said, walking Georg to the door. “Good-bye.”

Georg sped down the winding mountain road with his radio turned up all the way. His shirt fluttered in the wind. “It worked!” he yelled triumphantly. “This is the beginning of the end for you, Joe Benton! It doesn’t matter what Buchanan thinks of my story, but, believe me, he’ll be less and less pleased with your side of things!” Georg imagined Buchanan giving Benton the sack: “You’re such an idiot, Benton! You were underhanded in your dealings-it doesn’t matter in how many ways, but you were underhanded. I have no time for people like you!” Georg thought, the one thing that upsets me is that you’ll probably never find out that I was the one who dug your grave! Buchanan won’t tell you about me, just as you didn’t tell him about me either. But who cares! Georg chuckled. And now for the Russians. And why not bring in the Chinese too, the Libyans, the Israelis, the South Africans? It’s like a cocktail where you throw in all kinds of spicy things: one sip and you hit the roof. If the world wants to dance to a crazy tune, it might as well be mine!

Jill brought Georg back down to earth. She was lying on the bed with her eyes wide open. She had vomited and was whimpering. Fern’s diagnosis was an upset stomach. Georg could only see that the poor baby was suffering, and he had a bad conscience. Fern suggested he give her some Coca-Cola.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“If you have an upset stomach, you drink Coca-Cola. Everyone does it. My mother even had a little bottle of Coca-Cola syrup always handy.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting I give Jill Coca-Cola! How old were you when your mother used that household remedy on you?” Household remedy! Georg had to force himself even to use the words. Household remedies were wormwood, chamomile and linden blossom tea, compresses, and alcohol rubs. Coca-Cola as a household remedy! America really was a new world.

Fern was exasperated. “You can’t expect me to remember if I was given Coca-Cola when I was two months old, but I was given it ever since I can remember.”

They got a can out of the refrigerator. Georg picked Jill up, dipped his finger in the brown liquid, and then popped it in her mouth. She sucked at his finger, and he repeated it a second time and then a third.

“Do you think that’s enough?” he asked.

Fern had been watching carefully. She flicked a lock of hair out of her face and said with conviction, “Five should do the trick.”

He dipped his finger two more times, and then carried Jill onto the terrace, through the rooms, down the stairs to the laundry room, and back up the stairs. He kept mumbling softly to her, telling her fairy tales and crooning lullabies. By the time he got back to the terrace, she was asleep. He sat down carefully on the edge of the deck chair and looked down the street, counting five abandoned car wrecks and three sailboats in the bay. He watched a dirigible heading north.

44

ON WEDNESDAY, AT PRECISELY TEN in the morning, Georg called the Soviet embassy in Washington from a pay phone.

“Embassy of the USSR, can I help you?”

“I would like to leave a message under the code name ‘Rotors.’ Have your man in San Francisco take a cab to the corner of Twenty-fourth and Third streets, then walk east on Twenty-fourth all the way to the end. Have him wait there for a motorboat that will appear at eleven. Did you get all that?”

“Yes, but…”

Georg hung up. It took him ten minutes to get back home. He didn’t hurry; it would take a good fifteen minutes for the embassy in Washington to contact its man in San Francisco and tell him where to go. Fern and Jill were at the Golden Gate Park, and Jonathan barely looked up from a new painting he was working on as Georg went over to the desk. “If you want some paper, it’s in the top left-hand drawer,” Jonathan said. Georg took the gun out of the bottom right-hand drawer. It was still unclear what Jonathan’s new picture was to be of.

By twenty past ten Georg was lying on the roof. Illinois and Twenty-fourth streets were quiet. From time to time he saw a van, trucks with or without containers, construction machinery, and delivery vehicles. For ten whole minutes there was no car, then at ten-thirty a police car drove slowly up Illinois Street, made a U-turn at the intersection, and slowly drove back down. At ten-thirty-five a big, squat Lincoln turned onto Twenty-fourth Street from Third. Its exhaust pipe rattled and its springs groaned as it drove over the rough pavement of the intersection. The Lincoln came to a halt at the end of Twenty-fourth Street. Nobody got out. Dense traffic was rumbling on Third Street and on the highway beyond.

Georg was nervous. The police car. The Lincoln. What he needed was two pairs of eyes so he could watch both the intersection in front of him and the Lincoln behind him. He kept asking himself whether the Russians were playing along, or whether they thought all this was just a prank-or a trap. “Wait and keep cool,” he said to himself. “What kind of a prank could this be, or what kind of trap? The Americans could hardly corner a Soviet agent waiting by the bay for an unknown man.”

To his relief, Georg saw the Lincoln backing up onto Twenty-fourth Street and then turn at the intersection and drive away along Third. It was quarter to eleven.

At ten to eleven a cab stopped at the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth. A man got out, paid through the open window, and looked around. Having gotten his bearings, he walked toward the intersection. With every step Georg could see him more clearly. He wasn’t one of those Soviet musclemen with white blond hair and Slavic cheekbones, but a thin, balding, older man in a dark blue suit with a blue-and-white striped shirt and a patterned tie. He walked carefully, as if he had recently sprained his ankle.

There were no backup men following him, stealthily hiding behind parked cars. Georg could hear the man’s footsteps as he walked past the terrace, one foot with a strong tread, the other with a light shuffle. He saw him go to the end of Twenty-fourth Street and disappear behind the berm. Again Georg’s eyes scanned the streets, the parked cars, the wrecks, but he didn’t see anything suspicious. It was five to eleven.

He climbed down from the roof onto the terrace, grabbed his jacket, in which the pistol lay heavily in a side pocket, and hurried down the stairs. He opened the front door a crack and peered out at the intersection one more time. There was no sign of the distinguished-looking gentleman.

Georg walked down Twenty-fourth Street and up the berm. The man was standing on the shore looking out on to the bay. Georg put his foot up on the berm, rested his elbow on his knee, and waited. After a while the man turned and looked back, saw Georg, and came up to him. As they stood facing each other Georg noticed that his tie was covered with a host of tiny white garden gnomes-standing, sitting, lying-all wearing pointed red hats.

“Shall we stay here?” the Russian said, eyeing Georg over the rimless spectacles perched on his nose. He looks like a professor, Georg thought.

“Yes, here’s fine,” Georg replied. He took his hand with the pistol out of his pocket. “May I?” He frisked the “professor,” who stood there shaking his head. Georg found no weapon.

“Doesn’t one do this sort of thing?” Georg asked with a smile. “I’m not up on the etiquette of this kind of meeting.” They sat down. “I’ve brought along the merchandise,” Georg continued, taking out the can with the negatives and giving them to the professor. “There are, altogether, fourteen rolls of film.”

The professor took the negatives out of the can and held them up to the sky. He slowly eyed one frame after another. Georg looked at the sailboats. When the professor was finished with the first roll, he handed it back without comment and Georg gave him the next. Two boats, one with red sails and one with blue, were racing past. A ship with an array of brightly colored containers on its deck came by, then a fast, gray warship. Georg kept handing him can after can. The sun glittered on the shivering waves.

“What price are you asking?” the professor inquired in a thin, high voice, pronouncing the words with a clipped British intonation.

“My party prices them at thirty million, and anything over twenty is mine. If it’s under twenty, I’ll have to check back with my party.”

The professor carefully rolled the last roll of film tighter and tighter, until it would have fit into the can five times. He slid it into the can and held it there with his finger. “Tell your party that we have been offered the same negatives for twelve million, and that we find even that price too high.” He let go of the roll, and it expanded to the confines of the can with a hiss.

Georg was struck dumb. What the professor had just said was unthinkable. What did it mean? What if it was true? What if it wasn’t? “I will inform my party. But I don’t see them believing that there is another offer-they will see that as a ploy on your part to lower the price.”

The professor smiled. “The matter is more complicated than you seem to realize. Were you to view the matter from our perspective, with the premise that the first seller does in fact exist, you will see that just as you have doubts about the existence of the first offer, we have reason to doubt the existence of a bona fide second offer that you are presenting. Not to put too fine a point on it, the crux of the matter not only hinges on the contingence you have surmised-that a potential buyer who has two offers might pitch them against each other-but a seller for his part can also influence the negotiations to his advantage by stepping up to the negotiating table, so to speak, and donning the garb of yet another seller.”

How could anyone formulate such sentences! The logic behind what the professor was saying was as immaculate as his grammar.

“Why don’t you simply decide what the designs are worth to you and name a price?” Georg said.

Now the professor laughed. “You must admit there is something ironic in the idea that someone like me should be called upon to explain the capitalist law of supply and demand and the connection between demand, price, and value. But let us shed light on another aspect of this matter. Let us suppose that you are requesting for your private use any moneys that exceed a sum that, as you inform us, your party sets at twenty million, but which, circumstances being what they are, should realistically be set at fifteen. And if we also take as a premise that you will not be able to count on our closing a deal with a sum beyond twenty-one million, as you yourself have, in a sense, intimated, then I put it to you that you are facing a personal profit in the range of one to six million dollars-a sum, I might add, that doubtless is far more manageable. Do you follow me?”

“It was hard to follow, but I find it’s worth the effort. I see you like balancing ‘ifs’ with ‘thens.’ Is that just in speaking, or in action as well?”

“Do you know the story of Alexander the Great and the Gordian knot?” the professor said.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, in the Gordian fortress one day, Alexander the Great happened upon a great knot that no one had ever managed to unravel. The upshot was that Alexander simply took his sword and cut through the knot. Logic, you see, is a matter of unraveling chains of thought and meaning that in our everyday communication become tangled, and as the links in these chains are the ‘ifs’ and ‘thens,’ then this very game of ‘ifs’ and ‘thens’-as you have it-serves to unravel as opposed to cutting through such tangles. By extension, it also has as its focal point talking and thinking as opposed to acting. If you will allow me to point the moral of that story and regard it through the prism of you, me, our interested parties, and the merchandise in question, then our aforementioned deliberations place you in the role of Alexander the Great who is faced with the knot and the alternative of attempting, like so many prior visitors to the Gordian palace, to unravel it or simply cut through it with the swipe of his sword.”

“Those are your aforementioned deliberations, not mine.”

The professor had lifted the can, holding it between his index and middle fingers, and with his last words had dropped it into Georg’s open palm. The professor shrugged his shoulders. “My deliberations, our deliberations-by now, I would say, these deliberations have taken root in your mind too, and are consequently as much your deliberations as ours.”

“Do you know the other seller?” Georg asked.

“Do I know him?”

“Have you seen him, or spoken to him? Do you know who he is?”

The professor shook his head. “He didn’t leave a calling card, nor did he show us his passport.”

“Any hunches who he might be?”

“Ah, the breaking through the borders of knowledge by hunches-indeed, one could describe our trade in those very terms. We most definitely have hunches, and our hunches, like all hunches, would be worthless if we had nothing to base them on. If the issue at hand is that you are uncertain about the loyalty within your faction, then I would like to assure you that I understand your position. But as I am not responsible for garnering the hunches particular to this case, I can only say that I will make inquiries and inform myself of the current state of hunches.”

“I didn’t say that I have any issues of loyalty with my party.”

“Indeed you didn’t,” the professor replied.

“I might have asked you this question purely in order to clarify my party’s interests.”

“Indeed.”

“So, under no circumstances would you pay twelve million, but would definitely pay six. Am I right?” Georg asked.

The professor took his time answering. “Your party, to whom you must decide how much or how little of this conversation you will report, is urging us to close by Friday. That’s the day after tomorrow. The other seller is not as impatient. I don’t wish to intimate that a quick closure is out of the question-in fact, it might very well be the most apt solution. But as we have already touched on the issue of competition, we should also touch on the time factor. Let me put this in refreshingly direct American terms: the sooner you want to see cash, the less cash you’ll see.”

“Will you be in town until Friday?” Georg asked.

“I most certainly will.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Call the Westin St. Francis, and ask for room 612.”

“You’ll hear from me,” Georg said.

The professor nodded and left. Georg watched him until he disappeared around the corner of Third Street. Then Georg made his way through the underbrush, reached the cover of the parked cars, and got to Fern and Jonathan’s front door. It was a quarter to twelve.

The other offer that the professor had mentioned kept going through Georg’s mind; was Georg trying to get Joe entangled in an affair in which he had long been involved? If the other offer was real, then all the facts pointed to Joe. Furthermore, the professor’s proposal that Georg close the deal with a few million and bail out was working irresistibly on his mind. Should I quit trying to expose Joe? The money issue had always been at the back of Georg’s mind. His dream had been that at the end of all this Joe would be finished and he would be rich: all’s well that ends well. How he could get his hands on the money was unclear, though how he could finish Joe off was very clear indeed, and Georg had set his priorities accordingly. But now suddenly both goals seemed within reach. Or is it, he said to himself, that I want it all, as Fran pointed out the other day, and hence want too much?

He drove to Golden Gate Park and looked for Jill and Fern. He couldn’t find them. He drove to the shore and went for a run along the beach. He ran with wonderful lightness, until his legs practically gave way and he fell onto the sand. He lay there until he felt a chill. By evening he knew that he wouldn’t risk the money just to settle accounts with Joe.

45

GEORG WOKE UP AT FIVE in the morning. The house was rumbling and shaking. He went to the window. A long freight train was rolling by. The engine’s eyes threw white light onto the tracks, which Georg had seen from the street but not paid attention to. A pulsating red signal lit up the abandoned cars and trucks along the roadside. The train rattled past beneath his window, black and heavy. A worker stood on the platform of the last car, swinging a lamp. Georg leaned out and saw the lights of the train grow smaller and fainter, and heard the deep, dull warning signal the locomotive emitted at every crossing grow softer.

Jill was asleep. He lay down next to her and watched the brightening dawn. The phone in the kitchen began ringing and wouldn’t stop. As Jill grew restless, he got up and answered.

“Hello?”

“Is that you, Georg?”

“Fran! How the hell did you…”

“Your friend in Germany told me where you were. You had jotted down his number on a pad and I called him. He told me where you are. Listen, Georg, you’ve got to get out of there. Joe wants to… Joe realized that the negatives were missing. He looked in the safe and they weren’t there, so he knew that I had… What could I do but tell him what I did? I had to tell him everything. He says he’s going to get Jill and bring her back. Are you there, Georg? He’s on his way to the airport. He swore he wouldn’t do anything to you, but he was so mad and looked so crazy. Georg, you’ve got to get out of there! Leave Jill where she is, please don’t take her with you. But you have to get out! All night I’ve been wondering if I should call you, or if you’d use my call against me. You must leave Jill and me alone. I can’t handle this anymore. I don’t want anything to happen to you, but I want Jill back. I’m really scared.”

“Don’t worry, Fran, I won’t take her with me. Don’t be scared. She’s doing fine here, there’s a dog and a cat she likes, and everyone’s being really sweet to her. How does Benton intend to get her?”

“He says there’s no way you can have her with you all the time, so you can’t really use her as a hostage. He’ll get at her when you’re out somewhere without her. He’s taking one of his men along.”

“Do you know when he’s arriving?”

“He’s leaving now, on the Pan Am flight from JFK. He’ll be in San Francisco by noon. Will you promise you’ll be gone by the time he gets there, and that there’ll be no trouble when he comes to take Jill away?”

“Don’t be afraid, Brown Eyes. There’s no need to be afraid. Jill won’t be in any danger, and I won’t cause problems. You’ll have her back, and when she’s grown up you can tell her the story of the crazy guy who ran off with her, and she can tell all her friends that when she was a baby she had been abducted by someone who had run off with her to San Francisco. Hey, Brown Eyes, don’t cry.”

She hung up. Georg turned on the coffeemaker and took a look at Jonathan’s new painting. The day before there had only been the tree trunks of a dark forest with the rough outline of a man, crouching or kneeling, his arm gently hugging the shoulder of a girl. Jonathan must have worked late into the night. The man’s head was finished. His mouth was whispering something into the girl’s ear, his brown eyes exuding warmth and humor, as if they wanted to share with the viewer the anticipation at how happy the little girl would be at his whispered words. Her face was beaming, her shoulders raised shyly. The girl was still an outline, but the man’s head brought her alive.

This one’s a winner, Jonathan! The air in your painting is no longer thin, the people no longer wooden. Perhaps happy paintings don’t sell as well as paintings of horror, because everyone who is happy is the same, or, as Tolstoy puts it: only in suffering is one an individual and interesting, or perhaps one merely feels that way, or, whatever, I can’t remember his exact words. Either way, I’m standing in front of your new painting and know that I’m not sentenced to loneliness and being shut out from communicating with other people.

The coffeemaker had stopped hissing, and Georg went to the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the end of the long table. Seven people could sit on each side, he counted; one could throw a dinner for sixteen. He looked out the window. The sky was blue. On the street the truck engines from next door were rumbling. Why did they all sound so different? Why doesn’t one truck engine rumble like another? At night, when all the trucks are lined up, they look the same.

Don’t try dodging the issues, weigh the situation! Why is Benton coming here? What does he think I’m doing with the negatives in San Francisco? Does he suspect that I got in touch with Gorgefield Aircraft? He’s not coming here to talk. He could do that on the phone, or at least try. I doubt he’s coming to talk to Gorgefield, either. He could do that on the phone too. Perhaps he did talk to him and didn’t like what he heard. Is he coming here because of Jill? That’s a stupid question. Even if Jill or Fran were important to him, he knows I wouldn’t do anything to the baby. I doubt that even Fran sees me as a tiger, but Benton sized me up as a paper tiger right from the start.

No, that’s not true. Though Benton knows I don’t have it in me to be violent, I did corner him, identify him as a Polish or Russian secret agent, and, when that turned out not to be the case, I changed course and am now about to corner him again. He knows that-even if he doesn’t know exactly what I’m doing and planning. He’s scared. Particularly if he is planning to do business with the Russians.

What would I do in his position?

Georg got up slowly, went back into the big room that he thought of as Jonathan’s studio, and looked for the cigarettes. He lit one and sucked in the smoke. He waited for it to rasp down his throat and chest, and it did. He sucked in another mouthful of smoke. He stood unseeing before Jonathan’s paintings.

Benton wants to kill me.

He has nothing to lose and everything to gain. He might not have been pleased with the article in the Times, but if you think about it, both the article and the statements of those two officers, and the fact that I’ve abducted Jill, will help him create a scenario in which killing me could appear as a heroic act-or at least as necessary. And whatever damage I’ve done to Benton with Gorgefield Aircraft, any damage control on his part would be easier if I were dead. He doesn’t want me alive and talking.

What am I going to do about this?

Run? Will I manage to get out of the United States? And wouldn’t Benton track me down, even in Cucuron or Karlsruhe?

Georg studied the cigarette, which he was holding between the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand. The smoke slid down the cigarette and rose in quick arabesques. Pall Mall. In hoc signo vinces. Two lions bearing a coat of arms. Georg laughed.

What about Fran? Fran, whom I love-don’t ask me why. Fran, whom I want to be with even if it’ll mean loneliness. Fran, whom I’ve begun to love even more through Jill, as if I weren’t enough in love already. What will become of Fran and me if I run away?

Georg went to Jonathan’s desk, took out the pistol, and weighed it in his hand. Cut through the Gordian knot? I don’t even know how to load this thing or shoot it. You pull the trigger. Do I hold my shooting hand with the other one? Do I aim with the sights or rely on instinct? And isn’t there such a thing as a safety catch?

Jonathan’s bedroom door opened.

“Hi, Georg,” Fern said, walking sleepily to the bathroom. Luckily she hadn’t seen the pistol.

The day was beginning. The toilet flushed, and Fern came out of the bathroom. She got some coffee for herself and Jonathan. Jonathan showered. Georg showered. Jill screamed. Fern mixed some powdered milk, warmed it up, and gave it to Jill. Jonathan fried eggs and bacon, and they had breakfast. Georg felt as if he were experiencing these everyday joys for the last time: The bitter coffee, the hot stream of water on his body in the shower, the taste of the eggs and bacon, the coziness with which one talked about little everyday necessities. After breakfast, Georg for the first time put on the baby sling that Fran had packed for him, put Jill in it, and went for a walk.

Benton wants to kill me, he thought again.

Georg walked up the hill and showed Jill the buildings of the city, the highways, the bridges, and the bay. She fell asleep.

How can I tell Fern and Jonathan that this afternoon two men will come by to collect Jill? “By the way, Fern, there’ll be these two guys knocking on your door, they’ll be looking for Jill. They might even kick your door in, or threaten you and Jonathan, or pretend they are policemen: but just give them Jill, and don’t worry about it. And thanks for looking after us, here’s some money, bye.”

Georg made his way back. What he did next he could not explain then or later, nor could he point to the thought or feeling that made him take that course of action. There was no sudden click in his mind. As he walked, he had been weighing how best to prepare Jonathan and Fern for Joe’s visit, what he should leave behind for Jill and Joe, where he should drop his rental car, how he would get to the Greyhound bus station. He had even begun to fantasize about his journey to nowhere. But back at the house, he did none of those things. His hands and legs didn’t do it, nor did his head-not that they refused to go along; refusal presupposes some form of resistance, and here there was no resistance. Georg simply went another way, things simply went another way.

As all smokers know, you can have stopped smoking for two years, left all symptoms of withdrawal behind, only rarely think of a cigarette, enjoy your existence and identity as a nonsmoker; but one day the nonsmoker smoker is sitting at his desk or on a park bench or in an airport lounge, and with no obvious reason, without being particularly stressed or particularly relaxed, gets up, walks over to a cigarette machine, buys a pack, and begins smoking again. Just like that. Relationships can begin or end this way too. It is the same principle with which one carefully studies a menu and decides on a filet of sole but orders tournedos.

Georg called Pan Am and asked when the first plane from New York was due to land. At ten o’clock. That gave him just two hours. He called the Gorgefield office and asked for Buchanan.

“Mr. Buchanan? My cousin came to see you the day before yesterday. I take it you know what this is in reference to?” Georg said, trying hard to imitate an East German accent, which, though it didn’t sound authentic, was strange enough to pass.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

“I have a meeting set up at the San Francisco airport this morning,” Georg said. “The seller is arriving at ten o’clock on the Pan Am flight from New York. Bring the police with you, as I’m being followed and will need protection.” Georg hung up, and then called the Westin St. Francis Hotel and asked for room 612. The phone rang a long time, and while he waited he divided 612 into 2 times 2 times 3 times 3 times 17.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” Georg said. “Did I wake you?”

“If I were still asleep at such an hour, it would be fitting for me to be woken up.”

“Did you manage to find out more about the other seller?”

“I still haven’t managed…”

“But I have. And you can have the negatives for two million. I don’t know how much money you brought with you and in what denominations, but I would like you to place two million in small bills in a briefcase and to be at the airport at ten o’clock, at the Central Terminal, Departures. I’ll give you the films and leave.”

46

THE CENTRAL TERMINAL LIES above a two-story oval of roads into which the highways feed at the other end. The lower level is for arrivals, the upper for departures. On the lower level, only the front lobby is open to the public at large; beyond automatic sliding doors is a restricted customs area for arrivals. On the upper level, one can go all the way to where the wide terminal corridor begins, where the airplane gates are located. One can look through a glass wall down into the customs area.

Georg had set out immediately after making the phone calls. He found a parking spot near the entrance, and walked up and down the Central Terminal until he knew it well. From upstairs, I can see Joe first. But because he’s coming from New York, he won’t have to go through customs, and will pass through the hall quite quickly. He’ll come through the arrivals door, won’t stop at the cordoned-off area where people are waiting for passengers, but will turn either to the right, where the conveyor belts bring out the luggage, or head for the taxi stand or one of the car-rental desks. If the flight is on time, he’ll be out by five past ten at the earliest, or a quarter past at the latest. So from the upper level I’ll be able to see him first. The professor will be upstairs too, since I told him I was leaving. Buchanan will be waiting downstairs by the arrivals. I won’t need more than a minute to go up and down between the two levels. From the upper level, where there’s a view of the arrivals hall, there’s no view of the area outside the sliding door, nor can anyone see the upper level from there.

Georg stood by the red ropes outside the arrivals area and looked up. Through a small atrium he could see the bays of a glass dome. The upper level rests on thick columns. A dome, columns-Georg smiled and thought, I see I can’t get away from cathedrals. His smile was one of resignation. The professor would enjoy the “ifs” and “thens” of what I’ve set up here. If Joe wants to kill me, it’s because I could be dangerous for him with Gorgefield Aircraft and perhaps even with the Russians. But if he sees that the cat is out of the bag, he’ll have his hands full trying to deal with both the cat and the bag, and won’t have time to focus on me. Then I’ll come out of all this unscathed. Joe will be angry, but he won’t kill me because he’s angry.

That was Georg’s plan: he would show himself with the professor upstairs so that Joe would see both of them when he came through the arrivals hall. Then Georg and the professor would proceed to the escalator leading to the lower level. And when Joe came out of the arrivals hall and saw Buchanan, Georg would throw from the escalator the fourteen film cans at their feet. He would let the professor continue down the stairs, while he would sprint back up the escalator and disappear. Joe, the professor, Buchanan, and the police could then deal with one another as they pleased.

Buchanan arrived at ten to ten. He arrived with two men who had the powerful build and expressionless faces typical of policemen and gangsters. Georg saw them from the top of the escalator. Buchanan said something to the two men and they disappeared behind the columns, while he went to stand by the red rope with all the people waiting for arriving passengers. From time to time he looked about discreetly.

The professor arrived at five to ten. He had the same careful tread, the same blue suit and striped shirt, but no tie. He was holding a briefcase in his hand.

“Are you taking the ten-twenty Pan Am flight to London?” he asked.

Georg shrugged his shoulders. “Come with me, I want to show you something,” he said, nodding his head toward the glass wall above the customs area.

“Where are the goods?”

As he walked, Georg put his hands in his jacket pockets and pulled out some of the cans. He was walking fast. The monitor showed that the Pan Am flight had arrived.

Joe had the redhead with him. That’s not surprising, Georg thought; after all, he knows me quite well. The redhead was carrying two bags. Joe was talking and gesticulating-a corpulent mass of affability.

“Do you know him?” Georg asked, nudging the professor and pointing at Joe. He didn’t wait for an answer. He beat his fists against the glass wall. That action in itself might not have caught Joe’s attention and made him look up, but the glass was secured, and a grating alarm went off. All heads in the area below looked up. Georg saw the surprise in Joe’s face.

“What are you doing?” the professor asked, grabbing Georg’s arm.

“Come on!” Georg shouted and, seizing the professor by the hand, began running, pushing, dodging people, and jumping over luggage, dragging the professor behind him. They reached the escalator and began to descend. He let go of the professor, who was gasping and cursing, and reached for the cans of film in his pockets. Buchanan came into sight, as did the door to the hall.

Georg’s actions had not aroused any suspicions. A man bangs his hand against the glass wall, setting off a false alarm, and then runs with another man to the escalator. The two men running could be father and son, late and frantically making their way through the crowd. Nothing unusual in that.

It all happened in a flash. The glass door slid open, Joe came out of the arrivals area, Georg threw the cans. His aim was good: a few of them hit Joe, the others landed close by him. Joe looked at the cans, and then in the direction from which they had been flung.

The bullet hit Joe in the forehead. Georg saw him fall, saw Buchanan turn and aim again. So it’s with both hands, Georg thought, you shoot with both hands. He saw Buchanan’s face, his eyes, his tight lips, the gun’s muzzle. He wanted to duck, but the shot rang out.

People screamed and ran for cover. Buchanan shouted something, Georg couldn’t hear what. The professor, who had been standing above him on the escalator, fell onto him and slid down, collapsing onto a woman who was cowering next to Georg. Georg heard the rasping horror of her shrieks close to his ear.

Then he saw the briefcase, which had slipped out of the professor’s hand. The escalator came to a halt. Georg automatically reached for the briefcase and scurried doggedly, hunched forward, up the escalator. He stepped on hands, pushed people out of the way, and at the top of the escalator elbowed his way through the crowd that had gathered to see what was going on downstairs. All these people had been near the atrium and heard the shots and screams. Those who were farther back hadn’t noticed anything, and Georg casually walked past them and out of the building.

He drove back to San Francisco. He parked at the end of Twenty-fourth Street, took the briefcase out of the car, and slowly walked to a bench near the waterfront. He sat down and put the briefcase at his feet. It was low tide, and rocks, car tires, and a refrigerator were looming out of the water.

He sat there for a long time, watching the sun’s rays dancing on the waves. His mind was empty. Of course, he finally looked into the briefcase. And later, as Jill was asleep next to him, he turned on a table lamp and opened the briefcase again. It didn’t contain two million. It didn’t even contain one. He counted $382,460. There was a disarray of hundred-dollar bills mixed in with fifties and twenties, and between them the tie with the garden gnomes, tied and ready to be slipped on.

The following day all the newspapers featured the shooting at the airport. Georg read that Townsend Enterprises had been involved in industrial espionage for the Russians at Gorgefield Aircraft, and that Benton and a Russian agent had fallen into a trap set by Gorgefield Aircraft. Benton had attempted to shoot his way out, and had been shot dead by Buchanan. The Russian agent had been hospitalized, critically wounded. There was a picture of Richard D. Buchanan Jr., security adviser at Gorgefield, looking grim.

Georg read the newspaper the following morning at the airport. He was wearing sunglasses, and Jill was in the carrier sling. Nobody was paying particular attention. It was shortly before ten. The Pan Am flight from New York was scheduled to land soon. Fran had said that she would pick up Jill and take the one-thirty flight back to New York.

“Come and stay forever,” Georg had told her.

She had laughed, but then had asked him what the weather was like. “Does it get cool there in the evenings?”