Chapter 11

Rather than opening up his dark secrets, booze just turned Ari Ramcke sullen and introspective. His eyes were downcast most of the time, filling in the long, quiet moments turning his glass around and around. Ella was growing frustrated and searched for a suitable excuse to send him home to his wife.

"I hear you're on leave?" she said.

"Yes," he replied, after a pause. "They are investigating... vultures, the lot of them. Truth, y'know, no-longer is important. Politics, huh! Since the war, America bought Germany fair and square. Washington tells us what to do, not Berlin."

"You really believe that?

"Yes."

"It seems to me," Ella said, "that Berlin does a pretty good job lecturing America on how to behave."

"Smokescreen... for the masses, no more. And the French, Germany has to ask Paris permission to do anything, anything at all."

"You a German Nationalist, Ari?" she asked.

"A patriot!" he declared, a little too loudly. He then lapsed into another long silence.

"You believe in the whole package?" Ella asked, eventually, "y'know, that the Jews were lying about the holocaust and Hitler was misunderstood?"

"No, of course not!" he said with a vehemence that took Ella by surprise, "you think I'm a Neo-Nazi?"

"Well, you sounded a bit nostalgic."

"No, not at all! Hitler was evil, you insult me!"

"I'm sorry, I thought... well, I was just interested in your politics. Where you stand, say, on unification, the European Union, the war on terrorism, that sort of thing?"

"My position?" she nodded, "I have no position on such things. They are happening. What does it matter what I think, y'think that'll change anything?"

"Maybe not, but you must have an opinion?"

"My opinion is, that I see no point in opinions. It does not solve anything."

"But you have an opinion that the US controls Germany?" she probed.

"Not opinion, fact. Germany's economic survival depends on American corporations and their consumers, fact! He who controls capital, controls the country."

"You sound like a Socialist?"

"What has cradle-to-grave welfare done for Germany? Or France, Britain, for that matter? I am not a Socialist, Communist, Fascist or anything."

"So your an apolitical patriot, then?"

"You want labels? Why?" he asked, "what difference does it make what I am?"

"None, I guess, but I'm interested in what people think, that's my job."

"Ah, your job? Of course, it's your job to find labels."

"Listen!" Ella took a deep breath. This wasn't going the way she thought. The man was defensive and mildly aggressive. "If you believe in democracy, then opinions are important..."

"Who says I believe in democracy? Not I. Mass media controls what people think. That's not democracy, that's mind control on a vast scale. It happens in your country, in Germany, everywhere. That is a fact!"

"Actually, that's not entirely true," Ella replied, "it's the other way around. The market dictates to the media what they want to hear or see. The agencies live in a competitive environment, they compete with each other for market share. It's not an ideal situation, sure, and leans towards sensational stories and celebrity gossip. To be honest, though, if you screened a political debate about global warming on one channel against Tom Cruise on the other, who would get the most ratings? You can't force people to watch substance. But we journalists do our best to present reports that are important. We can't control how far down the news the editors choose to put the item. They all bury stories we journalists think should be given priority, but Mel Gibson can drive everything important off the headlines."

"The power of mass-marketing of Hollywood personalities?"

"Yes, but stars are safe and risk-free. They don't require people to formulate opinions that change the World. They're like chocolate when you're feeling down."

"Chocolate, yes?" he agreed.

That was pretty much the high point of the evening. Once Ari had dispensed with his hobby horse, he went back to his drink in silence, sometimes looking around as if in a dream.

Ella yawned pointedly and told him she was tired. He took the hint and told her he'd better be going. He left hurriedly, head bowed, as if running away from the playground bully. Ella shook her head and wandered towards the elevators.

The elevator opened and she was about to step inside when an arm shot out and held up the door.

"Ella?" Ari said, "where is your husband?"

"What?" she replied, startled, "I told you, Ari, he's in Berlin and..."

He looked drunk, swayed slightly, and there was a wild look in his eye. Ella looked around and saw the hotel guard watching them suspiciously. She decided she was safe for the moment providing he didn't trap her in the lift.

"Y'know?" he interrupted, "I don't think he exists... I think he's, he's a figment, to, to..."

"For why, Ari? Why do you think I'd make him up? Go home to your wife..."

"Y'know?" he continued, "I picked up a girl tonight. What do you think about that?"

"What am I supposed to think?" she retorted. Ella looked around again and saw several people looking. She put her hand on his arm and guided him towards the waiting area of the lobby where they had vast, white sofas. She used the pause to control her breathing, to calm herself down. "Sit!" she commanded, and he sat down quickly. Ella sat beside him and placed a comforting arm on his shoulder. She lowered her voice to a calm and waited for him to slow down his breathing to match her's. "Now, what's this all about?"

'The Rittmeister, ' was decorated with World War One, flying memorabilia. In glass cases on the wall were collections of iron crosses, yellowed, tattered flags, instruments and other stuff from old aeroplanes, etc. The low ceiling was made to represent that of a Munich Beerhall and was dominated by a massive, slow moving fan. The place was cool, though, thanks to the air conditioning. The fan was for show.

Mexican waitresses pranced about in short dresses and white aprons, vaguely echoing the décor. Ben had to laugh at the incongruity of locals pretending to be Bavarians. It was no worse, though, than the bullshit marketing ideas of chains of bars, restaurants, and burger joints the World over.

The clientele sat in groups around high, round tables cluttered with fake ceramic steins. Many were elderly American tourists, but there was also a sprinkle of younger people, maybe in their late thirties to early fifties. It wasn't exactly a raging booze barn with gangs of drunk youngsters trying to pick up each other.

Emilie guided Ben to the bar and ordered them a beer each. She knew the barman and chatted to him while Ben checked out the place.

Within minutes, a woman sauntered over. She wore a wrap round skirt featuring Hawaiian motifs and black bikini top. She was dark haired, maybe early forties, statuesque and beautiful.

"Hi there." She spoke in a Germanic or Nordic accent. "You new? Where are you from?"

Ben learned the woman was Margaret and she was from Den Haag in the Netherlands. She told him she was here on holiday from her job as an insurance broker. She conveyed so much personal information quickly, Ben struggled to remember it all.

Emilie looked on, seemingly disinterested, as the two got acquainted. Trained to be suspicious, she wondered why Ben had been hit on so quickly. Sure, Ben wasn't bad looking, but he was hardly the sort of guy that gathered the room's available female population to together with a flick of the fingers. He just wasn't that damned magnetic, just an ordinary guy in his late forties. It wasn't as if he had 'single and rich' stamped on his forehead.

But then, she thought, people gravitate to each other for a variety of reasons and maybe 'Mr Average' was just who this woman was after. On the other hand, why travel all this way to find a type a guy she probably had in abundance at home? She thought Ben would have a far harder time picking up a woman.

"Hey, Emiliano!" she said to the barman, "who's the chick?" indicating with a nod of the head.

"Just come in," he explained, "by herself, not more than ten minutes ago. That you making all that noise on the beach?"

"Yeah, just some rowdies needing a lesson on how to behave."

"Your Dad won't like it," he cautioned, "y'know how he feels about letting guns off outside, bad for business."

"Just in the air?" she pleaded, mockingly, "I didn't shoot anybody! Y'seen her before?"

"Came in yesterday about the same time. Stayed for a bit, had a cocktail or two, then left... by herself. Didn't know anybody that I could see."

"Y'don't say? Was there any talent for her?"

"Maybe," he shrugged, "depends how old. I would've thought she'd have more success at Fidel's. This isn't exactly a pick up joint. Leastways, not for the under sixties."

"Yeah. So what d'ya figure?"

"Dunno. She's too hot to be in here. I can't figure it out."

As they looked on, Ben ordered two more drinks from a waitress, then retreated to a far table with the Dutch woman. As they continued talking, the woman leaned over giving Ben a splendid view of her cleavage.

"Shit," Emilie grinned, "she's practically pushing them into his face. Is she trying to smother him or what?"

"Not exactly subtle, is she?"

"Hell, no!" Alarm bells were ringing in Emilie's head. She couldn't understand it, Ben wasn't that good looking!

Meanwhile, Ben had trouble keeping his eyes level with Margaret's. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and cup those beauties. He, too, was astounded how easy it'd been to pick up a woman. In the space of five minutes they'd shared an incredible amount of information about each other.

Like he, she was divorced. She ran her own business in partnership with another woman. They were successful and handled insurance particularly in the aviation industry. What a coincidence, she told him, that he should be in the air crash investigation field. She wondered, laughingly, whether there'd be a conflict of interest?

It meant, though, that they had plenty in common and the conversation revolved around their jobs. Ben couldn't believe his luck and wondered whether there was, in fact, something in serendipity. Before long, he'd invited her out to dinner and she agreed to meet outside her hotel at seven that evening.

Afterwards, as he and Emilie went in search of a taxi, the girl wasn't impressed by Ben's luck in meeting the Dutch woman. To her mind, there was no such thing as coincidence. No-one meets someone that perfect in such a short time and she was sure Margaret was full of bullshit and on the make.

"She seemed sincere," Ben told her, "and if not, so what? She can't be after my money because I ain't got any."

"You told her you were broke?"

"Sure. Didn't bat an eyelid... didn't care. We just had this... connection, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know," Emilie smiled, "your eyeballs and her tits."

"Don't be like that!" he smiled back, embarrassed.

"Just be careful, ok?

"I will."

In New Mexico, Arnim and Ariana also regarded the news that Ben had picked up a woman, that seemed ideal for him, with some scepticism. He knew that this was the time when things were going to start happening, a time when the trees were going to shake and interesting things will fall from them.

All they had to go on, however, was a name, a company, and a brief history that could be made up. An initial search seemed to support the woman's story, but that meant little. At any time in the past or future she might have been recruited. There was no certain way of checking.

Margaret van der Hoy was indeed born in Den Haag and had married young, at 18. Her husband was a senior administrator with the Dutch airline KLM before being made redundant last year. He was now aged 60 and had retired. Margaret was 48, although she'd always looked young for her age. There'd been talk of an affair a couple of years ago and it had been speculated that that had been the reason for her divorce. Under Dutch Law, 'co-respondents' and such are not used for dissolutions and there was no record of anyone else being involved in the breakup.

"So far, so good," Arnim told his wife.

She'd started an aviation insurance brokerage with an old family friend in 1990 and the business had thrived. In 2000 she'd been awarded 'Businesswomen of the year, ' in her home town. Her speciality was marketing and she'd a degree from Potsdam University.

"Potsdam?" remarked Arnim, "why Potsdam?"

"Maybe they offer the best courses?" suggested Ariana, "perhaps she gained a scholarship there?"

"Best courses? Not that I'm aware of. Remember, Potsdam was part of East Germany. I hardly think an East German university had better courses in marketing compared to Dutch universities."

"How would she get into an Eastern bloc College?"

"It happened quite a bit. Sons and daughters of Western Communist party officials, Leftist activists, that sort of thing. I don't see any solid, left-wing credentials, here, though."

"Well there could be any number of explanations. Maybe she just wanted a bit of foreign experience?"

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Her partner is one... ah... Fricke Sesepe, a Dutch national of Moluccan descent..."

"It's an alias," declared Ariana, "Serepe is an island in the Ceram Sea, Indonesia. No Moluccan names themselves after that island."

"Y'sure?"

"Yep. 'Serepe' is a Behasa Malay name. Moluccans are generally of Melanesian origin. Would you use the Polish form of your name?"

"I don't know the Polish form."

"Exactly, then why would a Moluccan use a Malay name and still describe themselves as 'Moluccan?' I bet it's a name picked out of an Atlas."

"I don't know, Ariana. You're making assumptions. She could have Malay ancestors, you don't know?"

"I suppose."

"I'm more interested in the Potsdam connection. Shall we find out who else went there?"

"Time frame?"

"Let's say, ten years."

"Ten years? You're kidding! There'd be hundreds of thousands on that list."

"So, lets run the program?"

Ari Ramcke sunk into a kind of despair and sat in silence gazing out through the windows onto the street. He'd apologised to Ella at least five times that she remembered, begging her to disregard 'his presumption.'

His behaviour had flicked from 'being certain of Ella's subconcious feelings for him, ' to being sorry for the state he was in. Ella recognised passive/aggressive responses and a messed up psyche. Later, she would describe him to Fuller as being 'fucked up.'

He told her that picking up prostitutes was out of character, but she thought otherwise.

The legitimate red light district in Hamburg is clearly defined behind gates that only admit foot traffic. Signs tell the casual visitor what they're likely to encounter, to make sure a tourist is not there by accident. But outside of the official precinct is the informal trade where sex workers, for whatever reason, work illicitly. These areas are not that easy to find as they're not on the main thoroughfares. There, migrants, for instance, ply their trade without documents, playing hide and seek with the Police. They could be underage, hooked on hard drugs, or controlled by pimps, (which is illegal in Germany.) Ari obviously knew where they hang out.