A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [11]
Nik is looking at me.
‘And Mr Mills, who is the publisher of this magazine? Is it yourself?’
‘No, sir. I am one of our advertising executives.’
‘I see.’
I envisage him as large and rotund, a benign Robert Maxwell. I envisage them all as benign Robert Maxwells.
‘And you want me to advertise, is that what you are asking?’
‘I think it would be in your interest, particularly if you are looking to expand into western Europe.’
‘Yes, particularly France.’
‘Yes. France.’
‘And you have still not told me who is publishing this magazine in London. The name of person who is editor.’
Nik has started reading the sports pages of Henry’s Independent.
‘It’s a Mr Jarolmek.’
He folds one side of the newspaper down with a sudden crisp rattle, alarmed.
Silence in Brno.
‘Can you say this name again, please?’
‘Jarolmek.’
I look directly at Nik, eyebrows raised, and spell out ‘J-A-R-O-L-M-E-K’ with great slowness and clarity down the phone. Klemke may yet bite.
‘I know this man.’
‘Oh, you do?’
Trouble.
‘Yes. My brother, of my wife, he is a businessman also. In the past he has published with this Mr Jarolmek.’
‘In the Central European Business Review?’
‘If this is what you are calling this now.’
‘No, it’s always been called that.’
Nik puts the paper down, pushes his chair out behind him and stands up. He walks over to my desk and perches on it. Watching me. And there, on the other side of the mews, is Saul, leaning coolly against the wall smoking a cigarette like a private investigator. I have no idea how long he has been standing there. Something heavy falls over in Klemke’s office.
‘Well, it’s a small world,’ I say, gesturing to Saul to come in. Anna is grinning as she dials a number on her telephone. Long brown slender arms.
‘It is my belief that Jarolmek is a robber and a conman.’
‘I’m sorry, uh, I’m sorry, why… why do you feel that?’
A quizzical look from Nik, perched there. Saul now coming in through the door.
‘My brother paid a large sum of money to your organization two separate times…’
Don’t let him finish.
‘… and he didn’t receive a copy of the magazine? Or experience any feedback from his advertisement?’
‘Mr Mills, do not interrupt me. I have something I want to say to you and I do not wish to be interrupted.’
‘I’m sorry. Do go on.’
‘Yes, I will go on. I will go on. My brother then met with a British diplomat in Prague at a function dinner who had not heard of your publication.’
‘Really?’
‘And when he goes to look it up, it is not listed in any of our documentation here in Czech Republic. How do you explain this?’
‘There must be some misunderstanding.’
Nik stands up and spits, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ in an audible whisper. He presses the loudspeaker button on my telephone and Klemke’s riled gravelly voice echoes out into the room.
‘Misunderstanding? No I don’t believe it is. You are a fraud. My brother of my wife has made enquiries into your circulation and it appears that you do not sell as widely as you say. You are lying to people in Europe and making promises. My brother was going to report you. And now I will do the same.’
Nik stabs the button again and pulls the receiver out of my hand.
‘Hello. Yes. This is Nikolas Jarolmek. Can I help you with something?’
Saul looks at me quizzically, nodding his head at Nik, fishing lazily about in the debris on my desk. He has had his hair cut very short, almost shaved to the skull.
Suddenly Nik is shouting, a clatter of a language I barely understand. Cursing, sweating, chopping the air with his small stubby hands. He spits insults into the phone, parries Klemke’s threats with raging animosities, hangs up with a bang.
‘YOU STUPID FUCKING ARSEHOLE!’
He turns on me, shouting, his arms spread like press-ups on the desk.
‘WHAT WERE YOU DOING KEEPING THAT FUCKER ON THE PHONE? YOU COULD GET ME IN JAIL. YOU STUPID FUCKING… CUNT!’
‘Cunt’ sounds like a word he has just learned in the playground.
‘What, for fuck’s sake? What the fuck was I supposed to do?’
‘What were