Disorderly Elements (3 page)

“The arrangement is not wholly without precedent,” he said. “There was a Dr Austin who was employed by Military Intelligence. It was understood that the Foreign Office would provide us with some financial compensation, which would cover his subsequent return to the College.

“Unfortunately, Austin died in rather mysterious circumstances, so the arrangement was never concluded. Does not something of the sort apply to Dr Wyman?”

“I know of no records showing compensation for Wyman's departure,” said the Bursar.

“There were no such records for Austin,” Hume said. “It was a gentleman's agreement between us and the Government.”

“That proves nothing,” snapped the Bursar.

“The Bursar has a point here,” said the Master. “And it does not seem to me that the Government has behaved towards us in a gentlemanly fashion lately.”

“Exactly,” said the Bursar. “We are continually reminded by the Government that circumstances are not what they were thirty years ago. The same argument should therefore apply in Wyman's case.”

Hume frowned and tapped his pipe against an ashtray.

“I think you will find,” he said, “that Wyman is not eligible for a pension from his present employers. He is expecting to receive one from this College. If we deny him it, we will be acting dishonourably, irrespective of whether or not we are under a contractual obligation.”

There was another murmur of disquiet among the dons.

“Those are strong words,” said the Master. “I do not feel there are grounds for calling the Bursar's proposals dishonourable.”

“I can think of no other word to describe such proposals,” said Dr Hume, “if they mean leaving a Fellow of this College without a pension or any recognition of his work.”

“Since the bulk of Wyman's work has been for the Government,” said the Bursar, “it is they who should recognize his efforts and achievements, such as they are.”

“If Wyman had retained his full Fellowship, we would not be arguing about him now,” Dr Hume said. “An ordinary Fellow has life tenure, and his position is assured. Wyman only exchanged his Fellowship for an Honorary Fellowship because it was an administrative convenience from our point of view. Had he known that everything could be sacrificed by making this move, he would never have agreed to make it. He will have every right to feel cheated and, I repeat, we will have acted dishonourably.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Master, “I am inclined to agree with the Bursar. Whatever arrangements were made concerning Wyman would have been an act of goodwill between us and the Foreign Office. Since all goodwill towards us seems to have vanished in the Government, I feel we are entitled—and in this case, obliged—to adopt a similar attitude ourselves. Does anyone have any other views to offer?”

There was a hint of defiance in his question, and the dons knew better than to challenge it. It would have been like trying to play on after checkmate had been called.

“In that case,” said the Master, “I presume the Bursar would like a vote on his proposal.”

F
EIGL'S CELLAR BAR lay on the outskirts of the East German city of Erfurt. It was not the sort of place frequented by nice ordinary people who wanted a quiet drink in comfortable surroundings. On the rare occasions when nice people turned up at Feigl's they usually left after their first drink.

There were unpleasant rumours about the sort of people who frequented Feigl's. Most of them were true. Like every town, Erfurt has its pimps and racketeers, and Herr Feigl seemed to know what kind of beer they liked. After a hard day's criminal work, Erfurt's villains liked nothing better than a
mass
of lager and a game of cards in the cellar bar. The evening of May 5 was no exception.

By half past nine most of the tables in the bar were taken, and the air stank of tobacco fumes and alcohol. Five separate card games were in progress: each of them provided a forum for various transactions and complex negotiations. The card-players growled, cackled and cursed as bottles tinkled, coins clattered and plans were laid.

At 10
P.M.
Josef Grünbaum walked in. He was a large, burly man in his middle fifties. If every face tells a story, Grünbaum's ran to twenty volumes. It was scarred and leathery, chiselled into shape by a lifetime of cynicism and violence. Somewhere beneath his Neanderthal eyebrows, two little red eyes stared at the barman.

“A beer, Herr Grünbaum?”

“Yes.”

One of the card players noticed Grünbaum's arrival and there was a chorus of greetings.

“Evening, gentlemen,” said Grünbaum. His voice was slightly slurred, indicating a few beers elsewhere.

“What have you got for us, Josef?” asked a man at the back.

“Four thousand ballpoint pens, for starters. Any takers?” There was a murmur of interest.

“How much?”

“Two thousand marks the lot.”

There was a pause as the drinkers considered the offer. “What else have you got?”

“I know where to pick up some fruit. Bananas, oranges. Maybe a few lemons.”

“Where?”

Grünbaum grinned smugly.

“That would be telling, wouldn't it?” he said. “If anyone's interested, I'll work out a price. Think about it, gentlemen.”

East German black-marketeers thrive on the sort of goods that Grünbaum had for sale. Even such mundane items as Biros are a scarce commodity in the DDR. Grünbaum had the knack of obtaining anything from carcasses of meat to boxes of sewing needles. He boasted that he could get anything, provided the money was right, and his clients were seldom disappointed.

Grünbaum succeeded because, unlike most of his competitors, he knew how to handle officialdom. His skill in the use of bribery meant that most of his activities were unimpeded by the police, and even though he was one of the most notorious operators in Erfurt, he had never been arrested.

This is not to say that Grünbaum was without enemies; there were a number of other racketeers who would have been quite happy to send Grünbaum to the bottom of the river Gera with a pair of concrete leg-warmers. Also, there was the ubiquitous Captain Mach of the
Volkspolizei
, the “People's Police”, who had formed a deep-seated hatred for Grünbaum. This hatred was fuelled by Mach's awareness that most of his superiors were in Grünbaum's pocket, and that any charges laid against the black-marketeer would almost certainly be dropped.

Grünbaum liked his role as a disreputable Mr Fixit, and he played on it to the full. He boasted that his “friends in the Party” could supply him with anything from false visas to secret information. He even hinted at dealings with “friends abroad”, though most of Grünbaum's associates regarded this as the rhetoric of an inflamed ego. Others were not so sure.

A voice piped up at one of the tables.

“I'll take the ballpoints off you, Grünbaum.”

Grünbaum shook his head.

“No you won't. Not until you've paid me for those shoes. Six hundred marks, Frege, remember?”

“You'll get your money,” said Frege.

“I certainly will,” Grünbaum said. “You've got until the end of the week.”

“You never said anything about a time limit,” Frege said angrily.

“If you can afford to buy the pens, you can afford to clear your debts.”

“That's a dirty trick, Grünbaum,” Frege shouted. “You said I could take my time—”

“You've taken it. Now I'd like my money.”

“You're a fucking Jew, Grünbaum!” Frege yelled. “A miserable, fucking Yid.”

The other drinkers fell silent. Grünbaum's eyebrows knotted together in a frown.

“You'd better watch your tongue, Frege,” he said. “I won't hear that sort of talk from anyone. Even from a young idiot who can't hold his beer.”

Frege got up from his table. He was a large man, even bigger than Grünbaum. Despite his size and an advantage of twenty years' youth, most of those present did not highly rate his chances against Grünbaum. The older man was immensely strong, and although much of him had turned to flab, he could still put his fist through a door if he felt so inclined.

“Fucking Yid,” repeated Frege. “All that bullshit about your connections and what a big man you are, but you still have to scrape the pfennigs out of the gutter to pay for your beer. You're just a fucking Jew, that's what— ”

He was interrupted by the arrival of Grünbaum's fist on his jaw. The blow sent him spinning back, and he hit the floorboards with a crash.

“Now shut up and go home,” Grünbaum said.

The drinkers laughed and watched Frege get to his feet. The expression on Frege's face indicated that Frege did not feel like going home.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Frege demanded. “You think you own this place, don't you?”

He picked up a chair and hurled it at Grünbaum. Grünbaum swept it aside with his right arm as Frege's left fist ploughed into his nostrils. Grünbaum replied with an upper cut that glanced past Frege's ear, and he felt a sharp pain in his solar plexus as Frege's right found another target. He lurched forward and smacked his head into Frege's face.

The customers at Feigl's bar found the brawl highly entertaining. Herr Feigl himself came out to watch the fun, but he made no attempt to stop it. He knew that Grünbaum would be more than willing to pay for the damage.

For about four minutes the two fighters seemed to be evenly matched. Most of the punches were landing, and the floor was awash with blood. Finally, Grünbaum managed to catch Frege off balance, and he sent him to the floor with a decisive right hook. The other drinkers gave Grünbaum a congratulatory cheer, and he replied with a twisted, swollen grin.

Just as Grünbaum was wiping the blood off his face, the door burst open and Captain Mach walked in with three armed vopos. Mach looked down at the concussed Frege, and then smiled triumphantly at Grünbaum.

“I might have known,” said Mach. “Drunken and brawling. I'm ashamed of you, Grünbaum.”

“Piss off, Mach,” said Grünbaum elegantly. “You aren't needed here.”

“Oh yes I am. You've just beaten up our friend Frege.”

“Crap,” said Grünbaum. “We both slipped on the floor. Didn't we, Frege?”

Frege moaned. The drinkers burst out laughing.

“They could hear you both slipping at the other end of the street, Grünbaum. It's not good enough, I'm afraid. You're under arrest.”

“What?” Grünbaum stared at Mach incredulously. “You can't just—”

“Oh yes I can,” smiled Mach.

“This is harassment,” said Grünbaum. “You can't make any charge stick, and you know it.”

“I'll decide that. Sergeant, put the cuffs on Herr Grünbaum.”

“The first man who comes near me will get his balls torn off,” Grünbaum said.

“Don't be an even bigger imbecile than you already are,” urged Mach.

“I mean it, Mach. You've no right to arrest me.”

“Haven't I just?” Mach said. “Brawling isn't the only thing we've got on you, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think about it, Grünbaum.”

Grünbaum paused and looked straight at Captain Mach's smiling face.

“You're bullshitting,” he said.

“Come to the station and find out.”

“Come and get me.”

Mach sighed.

“If you insist,” he said. “Sergeant…”

The sergeant ran forward and then ducked to avoid Grünbaum's flying beer glass. Mach moved forward with another policeman, and Grünbaum picked up another glass. A shot rang out and the glass smashed on the floor. Grünbaum gave a little gasp and collapsed.

Mach turned and saw one of the sergeants holding a smoking pistol. The sergeant paled and lowered the gun.

“He was going to…”

“It's all right, sergeant,” Mach said. “Just call an ambulance.”

T
HE SETTING SUN TINTED the sandstone College buildings a deep sienna. Doctors Wyman and Hume ambled gently past the iron gates of a fifteenth-century courtyard and into the Fellows' Garden. Spring had touched the Garden, casting it into a riot of flower and blossom.

“So there's to be no reprieve,” Wyman said.

“No, I'm afraid not,” Hume said.

“Were you the only one who spoke on my behalf?”

Hume nodded sadly.

“It had all been decided in advance, I'm sure of it. The Senior Tutor gave a grumble of dissatisfaction at first, but he joined the Bursar when he saw which way the wind was blowing.”

“And what of Locke? Didn't he say anything?”

“He was all for it, I'm afraid.”

“But…” Wyman faltered. “Locke, of all people. For God's sake, Arthur, Locke knows better than anybody that I can do my job. Why…?”

“It's not just you, Michael,” said Hume. “All the Honorary Fellowships are being rescinded.”

“They could give me an ordinary Fellowship if they wanted to. Surely that would solve the problem.”

Hume shook his head.

“No, Michael. Locke talked about your Ph.D. and Quine, and all the rest of it. They decided that you're a has-been.”

“That was thirty years ago. Thirty years! I was a child, Arthur, an infant!”

They sat on a bench and watched the sun fade behind the College chapel.

“Perhaps if I spoke to the Master…” began Wyman.

“If you saw him now,” said Hume, “the results would be wholly predictable. He'd sit you down with a glass of sherry, talk over old times, and show you to the door. You'd achieve nothing.”

“I see.” Wyman sighed and lit a cigarette. “I was looking forward to coming back. It wasn't the salary, or the pension, or anything like that. I just thought I would be coming home.”

Hume smiled sadly at his friend.