Self's Punishment Part 5

We arranged to meet at twelve-thirty.

I strolled up the main street, impressive evidence of the city council's will towards destruction in the seventies. It wasn't drizzling at the moment. Yet the weather couldn't make up its mind what to offer for the weekend. I decided to ask Mischkey about the meteorograph. In the Darmstadt shopping centre I came across a record shop. Sometimes I like to sample the zeitgeist, buy the representative record or the representative book, go to see Rambo II Rambo II or watch an election debate between the chancellor and his challenger. There was a special offer on for Madonna. The girl at the till took a look at me and asked if she should gift-wrap it. 'No. Is that the impression I give?' or watch an election debate between the chancellor and his challenger. There was a special offer on for Madonna. The girl at the till took a look at me and asked if she should gift-wrap it. 'No. Is that the impression I give?'

I walked out of the Darmstadt shopping centre and saw Bismarck-Platz ahead of me. I'd have liked to visit the old man on his pedestal. But the traffic didn't allow it. On the corner I bought a packet of Sweet Afton, and then time was up.

16

Like an arms race

It was rush hour at McDonald's. Mischkey pushed us skilfully to the front. Following his recommendation, I chose a Fish Mac with mayonnaise, a small portion of fries with ketchup, and a coffee.

Mischkey, tall and lanky, ordered a quarter-pounder with cheese, a large portion of fries, three portions of ketchup, another small hamburger to 'fill the little gap afterwards', an apple pie, two milkshakes, and a coffee.

The full tray cost me almost 25 marks.

'Not expensive, is it? For lunch for two. Thanks for inviting me.'

First of all we couldn't find two seats together. I wanted to move a chair to a free s.p.a.ce, but the chair was attached to the floor. I was bemused; neither as an attorney, nor as a private detective, had I ever come across the offence of theft of restaurant chairs. Eventually we installed ourselves at a table with two high school students who eyed Mischkey's a.s.sortment enviously.

'Herr Mischkey, the direct emission model file led to the first lawsuit dealing with computers since the national census, the first, also, to reach the Federal Const.i.tutional Court. The computer journal wants a legal report from me since legal journalism is my field. But I've realized I need to figure out more of the technical side, and that's where I'd appreciate some information.'

'Mmm.' He chomped contentedly on his quarter-pounder.

'What sort of data-sharing is there between yourselves and the industrial firms you supervise the emissions for?'

Mischkey swallowed. 'I can tell you a thousand things about that, the transmission technology, the hardware, the software, you name it. What do you want to know?'

'Perhaps as a lawyer I can't formulate the questions precisely enough. I'd like to know, for example, how a smog alarm is triggered.'

Mischkey was in the process of unwrapping the hamburger for that little gap afterwards and drenching it in ketchup. 'That's actually quite ba.n.a.l. Sensors are attached at the points where the harmful substances escape from the plant, and we receive round-the-clock reports on the fallout. We record the levels and simultaneously they go into our meteorograph. The meteorograph is the result of the weather data we get from the German weather service. If emissions are too high or the weather can't cope with them, an alarm sounds in the RCC and the smog alarm machinery chugs into motion as it did most excellently last week.'

'I've been told the factories receive the same emissions data as you. How does that work technically? Are they also linked to the sensors, like two lamps on a two-way adaptor?'

Mischkey laughed. 'Something like that. Technically it's a bit different. Since there's not one, but lots of sensors in the factories, the individual lines are already brought together within any one factory. From that collection point, if you like, the data come to us via fixed cable. And the factory in question draws its data from the collection point like we do.'

'How secure is that? I was thinking the industry might have an interest in falsifying the data.'

That got Mischkey's attention and he let his apple pie sink down without taking a bite. 'For a non-technician you ask some pretty good questions. And I have things I'd like to say about that. But I think that is for after this apple pie.' He gazed tenderly at the sickly pastry, which was giving off a synthetic cinnamon smell. 'We shouldn't stay here, we should finish our lunch in the cafe in Akademiestra.s.se instead.' I groped for a cigarette and couldn't find my lighter. Mischkey, being a non-smoker, couldn't help me.

The way to the cafe took us through the Horten department store; Mischkey bought the new Penthouse Penthouse. We lost each other briefly in the crowds but found each other again at the exit.

In the cafe Mischkey ordered a piece of Black Forest gateau, a mixed-fruit tart, and a pastry to accompany his pot of coffee. With cream. Obviously he was a good burner of food. Thin people who can shovel so much down make me envious.

'And what about a good response to my good question?' I asked, picking up the thread.

'Theoretically there are two exposed flanks. First of all you could play around with the sensors, but they're so well sealed that it wouldn't go unnoticed. The other possible breach is the connection between the collection point and the factory's cable. There the politicians agreed to a compromise I consider rotten through and through. For at the end of the day you can't discount the possibility that, from this connection, emissions data may be falsified or, even worse, the programme of the smog alarm systems tampered with. Naturally we've built in security measures that we're constantly fine-tuning, but you can view this as being like an arms race. Every defence system can be out-tricked by a new attack system and vice versa. A never-ending, and never-endingly expensive, spiral.'

I had a cigarette in my mouth and was going through all my pockets looking for the lighter. In vain again, naturally. Then Mischkey, from the right breast pocket of his fine nappa leather jacket, took out two disposable lighters packed in plastic and cardboard, one pink, the other black. He tore open the packet.

'Is pink all right, Herr Selk? Compliments of the department store.' He winked at me, pushed the pink one over the table, and offered me a light from the black one.

'Former public prosecutor deals in stolen lighters.' I could just picture the headlines, and fiddled a bit with the lighter before pocketing it and thanking Mischkey.

'But what about the opposite direction? Would it be possible for someone to penetrate the factory's computer from the RCC?'

'If the factory's cable leads to the computer and not to an isolated data station . . . But actually you should be able to work that out yourself after all I've said.'

'So you really face off like the two superpowers, with offensive and defensive weapons.'

Mischkey tugged at his earlobe. 'Be careful with your comparisons, Herr Selk. If we follow your a.n.a.logy, capitalist industry can only be the Americans. That leaves us employees of the state in the role of the Russians. As a public servant,' he straightened up, pulled back his shoulders, and made a suitably stately face, 'I must renounce this impertinent insinuation most strongly.' He laughed, slouched down, and gobbled his pastry.

'Something else,' he said. 'Sometimes I'm amused by the thought that the industry that fought for this damaging compromise has damaged itself. One compet.i.tor could naturally take advantage of our network to tamper with the system of another. Isn't that sweet, the RCC as the turntable of industrial spying?' He spun his pastry fork on his plate. When it stopped, the p.r.o.ngs were pointing at me.

I suppressed a sigh. Mischkey's amusing, playful reflections suggested an explosion in the circle of suspects. 'An interesting variant. Herr Mischkey, you've been a great help. In case I think of anything else may I give you a call? Here's my card.' I felt around in my wallet for the business card with my private address and telephone number on which I pose as freelance journalist Gerhard Selk.

We shared the route back to Ebert-Platz.

'What does your meteorograph say about the coming weekend?'

'It'll be fine, no smog, not even rain. It looks like a weekend at the pool.'

We said goodbye. I took the Romer roundabout to Bergheimer Stra.s.se to get petrol. Listening to it running through the hose I couldn't help thinking of the cables between the RCW and the RCC and now G.o.d knows which factories. If my case was one of industrial espionage, I thought on the motorway, then there was something missing. The incidents in the RCW system, so far as I could recall, didn't add up to a case of espionage. Unless the spy had used them to cover his tracks. In which case, wouldn't his only reason have been that he feared someone was on his trail? And why should he fear that? Did one of the first incidents perhaps risk undoing him? I needed to take another look at the reports. And I needed to call Firner and get hold of a list of the firms connected to the smog alarm system.

I reached Mannheim. It was three o'clock, the blinds of Mannheim Insurance had already closed for the evening. Only the windows that showed an illuminated M at night were still on duty. M as in Mischkey, I thought.

I liked the man. I also liked him as a suspect. Here was the joker, the puzzle-lover, the gambler I'd been looking for from the beginning. He possessed the necessary imagination, the requisite talent, and was sitting in the right place. But it was no more than a hunch. And if I wanted to nail him with that he'd serenely send me packing.

I'd tail him over the weekend. Right now I had nothing but a feeling and I didn't see how else I could follow the lead. Maybe he'd make a move that would bring me new ideas. Had it been winter I'd have stocked up at the bookshop for the weekend on computer crime. Shadowing someone is a cold and hard business in winter. But in summer it's fine. Mischkey was going to the pool.

17

Shame on you!

Mischkey currently lived in Heidelberg at number 9, Burgweg, drove a Citroen DS cabriolet with the licence plate HD-CZ 985, was unmarried and childless, earned 55,000 marks as a senior civil servant, and had a personal loan from the Cooperative Savings Bank for 30,000 marks, which he was paying back in an orderly fas.h.i.+on: all this I'd been told on Friday by my colleague Hemmelskopf at the credit bureau. On Sat.u.r.day at 7 a.m. I was at Burgweg.

It is a small stretch of street, closed to traffic, and the upper part of it becomes a footpath leading to the castle. The residents of the five or so houses in the lower part are allowed to park their cars there and have a key for the gate that divides Burgweg from Unteren Faulen Pelz. I was glad to see Mischkey's car. It was a beauty, bottle-green with gleaming chrome and a cream-coloured hood. That's where the loan money had gone. My own car I parked in the hairpin bend of Neue Schlossstra.s.se from which steep, straight stairs lead to Burgweg. Mischkey's car was facing uphill; if he were to drive off I ought to have time enough to be in Unteren Faulen Pelz when he arrived. I positioned myself in such a way that I could watch the entrance without being visible from the house.

At half past eight a window opened at eye-level in the house I had taken to be the neighbour's and a naked Mischkey stretched out into the already mild morning air. I just had time to slip behind the advertising column. I peered out. He was yawning, doing some forward bends, and hadn't seen me.

At nine o'clock he left the house, walked to the market by Heiliggeist Kirche, ate two salmon rolls there, drank a coffee in the drugstore in the Kettenga.s.se, flirted with the exotic beauty behind the bar, made a phone call, read the Frankfurter Frankfurter Rundschau Rundschau, had a quick game of power chess, bought some more stuff, went home to drop off the shopping, and came out again with a big bag and got into his car. Now it was time to go swimming, he was wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt with 'Grateful Dead' printed on it, cut-off jeans, Jesus sandals, and had thin, pale legs.

Mischkey had to turn his car but the gate below was open so I had real trouble getting my Opel behind him in time, one car between us. I could hear the music blasting from his stereo at full volume. 'He's a pretender,' sang Madonna.

He took the motorway to Mannheim. There he drove at eighty past the ADAC pavilion and the Administrative Court, along Oberen Luisenpark. Suddenly he braked sharply and took a left. When the oncoming traffic allowed me to turn I could no longer see Mischkey's car. I drove on slowly, and kept an eye out for the green cabriolet. On the corner of Rathenaustra.s.se I heard loud music die out all of a sudden. I nudged forward. Mischkey was getting out of his car and going into the corner house.

I don't know what struck me, or what I noticed first, the address or Frau Buchendorff's silver car gleaming in front of Christuskirche. I rolled down the right-hand window and leaned over to take a look at the building. Through a cast-iron fence and an overgrown garden I looked up at the first-floor balcony. Frau Buchendorff and Mischkey were kissing.

Of all people, the two of them had to be involved! I didn't like it at all. Tailing someone you know is bad enough, but if you're discovered you can always pretend it's a coincidental meeting and extract yourself reasonably well. Theoretically that could also be the case for two people, but not here. Would Frau Buchendorff introduce me as private detective Self, or Mischkey as freelance journalist Selk? If things progressed to swimming I'd be staying outside. Too bad, I'd been looking forward to it and had packed my Bermudas especially. They were kissing fervently. Was that something else I didn't like?

I a.s.sumed they would set off in Mischkey's car. It was waiting with the top down. I drove a little further into Rathenaustra.s.se and parked so that the garden gate and Citroen were reflected in my back mirror. Half an hour later they drove past me, and I hid behind my newspaper. Then I followed them through what we call the Suez Ca.n.a.l to Stollenworth-Weiher, a little lake in the south that boasts two beaches.

Frau Buchendorff and Mischkey went to the Post Office beach. I stopped my car outside the entrance. How long do young people in love go swimming these days? In my day at Muggel Lake it could go on for hours, probably that hadn't changed much. I had dismissed the idea of swimming but the prospect of sitting in the car, or leaning propped against it for three hours made me cast about for a different solution. Was this beach within sight of the other one? It was worth a shot.

I drove round to the beach opposite and packed my Zeiss binoculars in my swimming bag. I'd inherited them from my father, a regular officer who lost the First World War with them. I bought an entrance ticket, pulled the Bermudas on and my stomach in, and stepped into the suns.h.i.+ne.

I found a s.p.a.ce from which I could view the other pool. The lawn was full of families, groups, couples, and singles, and some of the moms too had dared to bare their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

When I extracted my binoculars from my bag I encountered the first, reproachful eyes. I pointed them at the trees, at the few seagulls there were, and at a plastic duck on the lake. If only I'd taken my ornithology guide, I thought, I could use it to inspire their confidence. Briefly I got the other pool in my sights; so far as distance was concerned I could have easily tailed the two of them. But I wasn't allowed to.

'Shame on you!' said a family father whose paunch hung over his bathing trunks, and his b.r.e.a.s.t.s over his paunch. He and his wife were the last thing I'd want to look at, with or without binoculars. 'Stop it right now, you peeping Tom, you, or I'll smash them.'

It was absurd. The men around me didn't know which way to look, whether to see everything or nothing, and I don't think it's too old-fas.h.i.+oned to believe the women knew exactly what they were doing. And there I was, not interested in the whole business at all not that it couldn't have interested me, but at the moment it really didn't, now I only had my job on my mind. And now of all times I was suspected of lecherousness, accused, convicted, and p.r.o.nounced guilty.

Such people can only be dealt with using their own weapons. 'Shame on you,' I said. 'With your figure you really ought to wear a top,' and tucked my binoculars into the bag. I also stood up and topped him by a full head. He contented himself by twitching his mouth disapprovingly.

I jumped into the water and swam over to the other pool. I didn't even have to get out; Frau Buchendorff and Mischkey had lain down near the water in the baking sun. Mischkey was just cracking open a bottle of red wine so I figured I had at least an hour. I swam back. My adversary had pulled on a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt, was solving crosswords with his wife, and left me in peace. I fetched a bockwurst with fries and lots of mustard and read my newspaper.

An hour later I was waiting back at the car in front of the other pool. But it wasn't until six p.m. that the pair of them came through the turn-stile. Mischkey's thin legs were red, Frau Buchdorff had her shoulder-length hair loose and her tan was emphasized by her blue silk dress. Then they drove back to her place in Rathenaustra.s.se. When they came out again, she had on a boldly checked pair of Capri pants and a knitted leather sweater, and he was in a pale linen suit. They walked the few steps to the Steigenberger Hotel in the Augusta-Anlage. I skulked around in the hotel lobby until I saw them leave the bar with their gla.s.ses and make their way to the restaurant. Now I headed for the bar and ordered an Aviateur. The barman looked puzzled, I explained the mixture to him, and he nodded approvingly. We got talking.

'We're pretty d.a.m.n lucky,' he said. 'There was a couple in here just now, wanted to eat in the restaurant. A card slipped out of the man's wallet and landed on the bar. He tucked it away again immediately but I'd seen what was on it: Inspecteur Inspecteur de bonne table de bonne table with that little Michelin man. He was one of those people, you know, who do those guides. Our restaurant is good, but still, I alerted the maitre d' right away, and now the two of them will get service and a meal they'll never forget.' with that little Michelin man. He was one of those people, you know, who do those guides. Our restaurant is good, but still, I alerted the maitre d' right away, and now the two of them will get service and a meal they'll never forget.'

'And you'll get your star at last, or at least three sets of crossed knives and forks.'

'Let's hope so.'

Inspecteur de bonne table well, d.a.m.n. I don't think there are ident.i.ty cards of that sort. I was simultaneously fascinated by Mischkey's imagination, and uncomfortable with this little con game. Also the state of German gastronomy gave me reason for concern. Did you have to resort to such means to get decent service? well, d.a.m.n. I don't think there are ident.i.ty cards of that sort. I was simultaneously fascinated by Mischkey's imagination, and uncomfortable with this little con game. Also the state of German gastronomy gave me reason for concern. Did you have to resort to such means to get decent service?

I knew I could call it a day so far as tailing them was concerned. The two of them, after a last calvados, would return either to Frau Buchendorff's or to Mischkey's in Heidelberg. I would take a Sunday morning walk to Christuskirche and quickly ascertain whether both cars, no cars, or only Frau Buchendorff 's were in front of the house in Rathenaustra.s.se.

I went home, gave the cat a can of cat food, and myself a can of ravioli, and went to bed. I read a bit more of Green Henry Green Henry and wistfully pictured myself at Lake Zurich before falling asleep. and wistfully pictured myself at Lake Zurich before falling asleep.

18

The impurity of the world

On Sunday morning I took tea and b.u.t.ter cookies back to bed and mulled things over. I was certain: I had my man. Mischkey corresponded in every way to the image I'd formed of the culprit. As an employee of the RCC he had the opportunity to penetrate the systems of the interconnected firms, and as Frau Buchendorff 's boyfriend he had the motive to select RCW. The raising of the executive a.s.sistant salaries was an anonymous friendly gesture to his girlfriend. This circ.u.mstantial evidence alone wouldn't stand up in court if everything there was handled by the book. Yet it was convincing enough for me to think less about whether he was the one than about how to convict him.

To confront him in front of witnesses so that he'd fold under the weight of his guilt ridiculous. To set him a trap, along with Oelmuller and Thomas, this time targeted and better prepared on the one hand I wasn't sure of success, and on the other I wanted to have this duel with Mischkey myself with my own weapons. No doubt about it, this was one of those cases that packed a personal punch. Perhaps it even offered too personal a challenge. I felt an unhealthy mixture of professional ambition, respect for my opponent, burgeoning jealousy, the cla.s.sical rivalry of the hunter and the hunted, and even envy for Mischkey's youth. I know much of this is simply the impurity of the world: only fanatics believe they can escape it and only saints do. Yet, it bothers me sometimes. Because so few people admit to it I tend to think I'm the only one who suffers from it. When I was a student at university in Berlin my professor, Carl Schmitt, presented us with a theory that neatly differentiated the political from the personal enemy, and everyone felt justified in their anti-Semitism. Even then I was preoccupied by the question of whether the others couldn't stand their own impurity and had to cover it up, or whether my ability to erect a barrier between the personal and the objective was underdeveloped.

I made some more tea. Could I get a conviction via Frau Buchendorff? Could I get Mischkey, through her, to tamper once more, this time identifiably, with the RCW system? Or could I make use of Grimm and his obvious desire to put one over on Mischkey? Nothing convincing came to mind. I'd have to rely on my talent for improvisation.

I could spare myself any further tailing, but on my way to the Kleiner Rosengarten, where I sometimes meet friends for lunch on a Sunday, I didn't take my usual route past the Wa.s.serturm and the Ring, but instead walked past the Christuskirche. Mischkey's Citroen was gone and Frau Buchendorff was working in the garden. I crossed to the other side of the street so I wouldn't have to say h.e.l.lo to her.

19

Anyone for tennis?

'Good morning, Frau Buchendorff. How was your weekend?' At half past eight she was still sitting over her newspaper, opened to the sports page, and was reading the latest on our newest tennis marvel. She had the list of roughly sixty businesses linked to the smog alarm system laid out for me in a green plastic folder. I asked her to cancel my appointment with Oelmuller and Thomas. I only wanted to see them after the case was solved, and even then preferably not.

'So you're crazy about our tennis wunderkind, too, Frau Buchendorff?'

'What do you mean, "too"? Like yourself, or like millions of other German women?'

'I do find him fascinating.'

'Do you play?'

'You'll laugh, but I have difficulty finding opponents with whom I don't wipe the floor. In singles, younger players can sometimes beat me just because they're fitter, but in doubles I'm almost invincible with a reasonable partner. Do you play?'

'To brag like you, Herr Self, I play so well that it gives men complexes.' She stood up. 'Allow me to introduce myself. South-west German Junior Champion nineteen sixty-eight.'

'A bottle of champagne against an inferiority complex,' I offered.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means that I'll beat you, but, as a consolation, I'll bring a bottle of champagne. However, as mentioned, preferably in mixed doubles. Do you have a partner?'