The Constant Gardener

He had written what he wanted to write and she had apparently said what she wanted to say, because she was standing up and peering into a stack of pamphlets on a bookshelf, looking for some background reading she could give him as a prelude to getting him out of her office in time for her ten o'clock conference. While she hunted she talked distractedly about the German Federal Drug Agency and declared it to be a paper tiger. And the World Health Organization gets its money from America, she added with disdain — which means it favors big corporations, reveres profit and doesn't like radical decisions.

"Go to any WHO assembly — what do you see?" she asked rhetorically, handing him a bunch of pamphlets. "Lobbyists. PR people from the big pharmas. Dozens of them. From one big pharma, maybe three or four. "Come to lunch. Come to our weekend get-together. Have you read this wonderful paper by Professor So-and So?"' And the Third World is not sophisticated. They have no money, they are not experienced. With diplomatic language and maneuvering, the lobbyists can get behind them easy."

She had stopped speaking and was frowning at him. Justin was holding up his open notebook for her to read. He was holding it close to his face so that she could see his expression while she read his message; and his expression, he hoped, was quelling and reassuring at the same time. In support of it he had extended the forefinger of his free left hand by way of warning.

I AM TESSA QUAYLE'S HUSBAND AND I DO NOT TRUST THESE WALLS. CAN YOU MEET ME THIS EVENING AT FIVE-THIRTY IN FRONT OF THE OLD FORT?

She read the message, she looked past his raised finger at his eyes and kept looking at them while he filled the silence with the first thing that came into his head.

"So are you saying that what we need is some kind of independent world body that has the power to override these companies?" he demanded, with unintentional aggression. "Cut down their influence?"

"Yes," she replied, perfectly calmly. "I think that would be an excellent idea."

He walked past the woman in the rollneck and gave her the kind of cheery wave he thought appropriate to a journalist. "All done," he assured her. "Just off. Thank you for your cooperation" — so there's no need to telephone the police and tell them you have an impostor on the premises.

He tiptoed through the classroom and tried once more to woo a smile from the harassed teacher. "For the last time," he promised her. But the only people who smiled were the kids.

In the street the two old men in raincoats and black hats were still waiting for the funeral. At the curbside two stern young women sat in an Audi saloon, studying a map.

He returned to his hotel and on a whim inquired at the desk whether he had mail. No mail. Reaching his room, he tore the offending page from his notebook, then the page beneath it because the imprint had come through. He burned them in the hand basin and put on the extractor to get rid of the smoke. He lay on his bed wondering what spies did to kill time. He dozed and was woken by his phone. He lifted the receiver and remembered to say, "Atkinson." It was the housekeeper, "checking," she said. Excuse her, please. Checking what, for God's sake? But spies don't ask those questions aloud. They don't make themselves conspicuous. Spies lie on white beds in gray towns and wait.

* * *

Bielefeld's old fort stood on a high green mound overlooking cloud-laden hills. Car parks, picnic benches and municipal gardens were laid out among the ivy-covered ramparts. In warmer months it was a favored spot for the townspeople to perambulate down tree-lined avenues, admire the regiments of flowers and eat beery lunches in the Huntsman's Restaurant. But in the gray months the place had the air of a deserted playground in the clouds, which was how it looked to Justin this evening as he paid off his taxi and, early by twenty minutes, made what he hoped was a casual reconnaissance of his chosen rendezvous. The empty car parks, sculpted into the battlements, were pitted with rainwater. From sodden lawns, rusted signs warned him to control his dog. On a bench beneath the battlements, two veterans in scarves and overcoats sat bolt upright, observing him. Were they the same two old men who had worn black homburg hats this morning while they waited for the funeral? Why do they stare at me like this? Am I Jewish? Am I a Pole? How long before your Germany becomes just another boring European country?