50
"What the devil do you want now?" Hell growled, taking off his reading glasses and looking up from the enormous pile of papers and books which, as usual, had slipped over from his table onto every other horizontal surface in his office. I gnashed my teeth. The old devil knew perfectly well what I wanted. I wanted to ask him lots of questions and to get some real answers. But I didn't have the nerve, so I temporized.
"Two things, Otto. What happens to the European Studies department now that Hohenstaufen has… retired?"
"Hire a replacement, obviously."
"Why do we need a European Studies department anyway?"
Hell frowned. "Asking questions again," he reproved.
"It was a rhetorical question," I protested.
Hell sniffed, implicitly conceding the point. "Xox wants to defuse the anger against him by giving away some money. I told him that you can't buy love. He replied that it's not about love. Eurocrats are all whores anyway. Man's got a point."
"Whom do we want to bribe?" I asked bluntly.
"The Germans lost the most money."
"But Xox didn't even speculate against the deutschmark!"
"The Germans had to lend the European central banks the most money. They lost more than four hundred billion dollars."
I whistled. "Xox made that much?"
"Not just him. Lots of other speculators as well. But he made the most. At least two hundred billion." Hell shrugged. "Call Troll."
"Who?"
"Gunther Otto Troll. Former head of the German central bank. Ask him to take over the European Studies department."
I stared at Hell through narrowed eyes. "And he will? Just like that? You set this up, didn't you?"
"None of your business." Hell flashed me his old alligator grin. "What was the second thing you wanted to ask me?"
"Nero Insanetti managed to seriously offend a journalist from The Sociologist. They're influential. It might damage our reputation if they published something negative."
Hell shrugged. "Used to work for them, didn't you? Who's the editor? Dogsbody, isn't it?"
"He retired twenty years ago," I said kindly. "The new man is Jenkins."
"Call him up. What do you need to bother me for?"
As I sat down in Delilah's office, poised to call Jenkins, I suddenly wondered how Hell knew that I had once worked for The Sociologist. I had never told him and he had never evinced any interest at all in my past. Had he been doing some background checks on me? I had a horrifying vision of Hell cackling as he looked through a dossier on my chequered career. I shuddered and tried vainly to dismiss both the disturbing image and, more generally, my past.
Jenkins clearly felt the same way. When I called him, there was nothing but the sound of deep breathing. "My God!" he finally croaked. "It is you. Thought I'd got rid of you forever." His tone changed from fear to suspicion. "Hell you want? Can't have job back and that's final," he snapped. "Got somebody else. Good guy for a change."
"That's actually all I wanted to find out," I said soothingly. Jenkins' mangled diction aroused a twinge of nostalgia. "Who do you have on the Central Europe beat these days?"
"Correspondents anonymous," Jenkins replied stiffly, but after some coaxing he relented. "Had to hire someone after Rasputin disappeared. New man with no experience. Smart young fellow with lots of initiative. Highly recommended."
"Who is he?"
"Name of Godfrey Blythe. About your age. Went to Oxford too. Know him?"
I suppressed a snigger. The image of God bustling around the chancelleries of Central Europe, hustling confidential interviews with highly placed sources, was too incongruous for words. I wondered how long it would take before Jenkins would have to brace himself for yet another painful dismissal. "Yes, I know Godfrey," I replied. "All too well. Who recommended him?"
"Terence Killjoy-Yuck," Jenkins replied. "Oh shit. Recommended you too, didn't he? Oh, no, what have I done..."
"Don't worry," I said maliciously. "I'm sure you'll just love Godfrey's reports."
"Haven't seen any so far," Jenkins confessed. "Only been on job a week."
"Who was the correspondent before that?"
"No one full-time. Had to look for someone we could trust after debacle with you. Tried out freelancer based in Prague. Didn't work out. Writing style was too sincere. Too Amerikan."
"Bob something?" I asked casually.
"That's right," Jenkins confirmed. "Worked for English language newspaper there."
"Prahahaha!"
"What's so funny about Prague? Never had time to go there myself but everyone says it is a bleak and dismal place."
"Prahaha! is the name of Bob's newspaper."
"How did you hear of it?" Jenkins asked in surprise. "Where are you anyway? Not back in Mongolia yet?"
"I'm in Prague too. I'm the special assistant to Lord Hades at the University of Truth and Justice."
"The Lord Hades?"
"The one and only. He's the rector of this university."
"Xox's university?" Jenkins asked, interested. "Bob sent peculiar report about the place. Claimed university staff all violent psychotics on drugs. Too silly to print until all this currency market turmoil today. Xox is big news now. Might just use story as exclusive scoop for tomorrow's issue. Don't have much else on the man."
"Don't do that," I replied calmly. "Bob showed up at the university completely drunk and proceeded to insult everyone he encountered. Why, he even tried to rape one of the receptionists and when they tried to stop him he swore he would get revenge. I know all about it."
"Really?" Jenkins said dubiously. "Sounded so sober."
"He was clearly on drugs."
"If you say," Jenkins sighed. "Wish we knew more about Xox."
"Doesn't everyone?" I responded sympathetically. "Who else made a killing on this currency speculation?"
"Besides Xox, looks as though Sir Johnny Silver did very well. Quite surprising since he's been going downhill for some time. Perverse investments!" Jenkins chuckled. "Who on earth buys gold in this day and age? Rumoured he was acting clandestinely for Christian Covett but impossible to confirm. Covett is always so circumspect."
"Who's Covett?"
"As you Amerikans like to say," and here Jenkins assumed a truly grotesque exaggerated nasal drawl, "Which planet are you from, anyway?" Much to my relief, Jenkins dropped back into his usual British whine. "Most successful investor of his generation. Whatever he touches turns to gold. Everyone in the business world reveres Covett. Your ignorance extraordinary."
"I'm not in the business world," I replied tartly. "Nor am I Amerikan. Have you ever heard of something called Midas?"
"Can't be happening," Jenkins moaned. "Must be nightmare. Calls out of blue to test my knowledge of mythology. Must be those new sleeping pills."
"Okay, you don't know about the Midas conspiracy," I said, unfazed. "What do you know about Banque Eurolux? Or about the Holier Than Thou Bank? Or about the Bank Run on Islamic Principles Offshore?"
"All have peculiar names."
"Are they involved in any scandals?"
"All embroiled in major scandals." Jenkins' tone sharpened. "How do you know that? I've only just heard in past hour about impending arrests at Bank Ripoff. At dawn tomorrow. Rumour that Sultan of Arabia himself is named in arrest warrants. Biggest shareholder in Bank Ripoff, you know. Personally guaranteed every Muslim deposit. Not Muslim, are you?" he asked suspiciously.
"I'll tip all my friends off," I promised. "Come on, Jenkins. You haven't even told me what the scandals are. What's the Hotbank scandal?"
"Going on for donkey's years. No solid proof but rumour is Hotbank, Vatikan's bank, you know, is involved up to ears in seriously troubled Italian bank called Banco Nectarini. If Banco Nectarini collapses, Pope out on street. Begging for alms just like Jesus," Jenkins commented irreverently.
"Have you heard anything about a merger of Hotbank and Bank Ripoff?"
"Heard rumour. Amazing if true. Sultan of Arabia hooking up with Pope? Would salvage Nectarini fortune and probably tide Hotbank over cash flow crisis. What is all this, anyway, twenty questions? Can't you read The Sociologist like everyone else?"
"Thanks for answering my questions. I'll give you an inside tip about Xox, if you want."
"What?" Jenkins asked breathlessly.
"He prefers the Financial Times to the Wall Street Journal," I lied.
"Really?" Jenkins breathed. "Could run an opinion piece on that. Should appeal to British readers. Buck 'em up. Master of the Universe reads British paper. Jolly good fillip to national pride. Although did take fifty billion pounds off our Treasury. Makes it sound too much like own goal, doesn't it? Still, thanks ever so much, old chap. Call again sometime."
"I will," I promised. "By the way, how can I get in touch with Godfrey? Where is he based?"
"Funny should ask. Wanted him to start in Vienna, get taste for Central Europe, whipped cream and all that, but fellow insisted wanted to be in Budapest this week. Had hunch something big going to happen."
"I wonder what," I said slowly. "Do you have a number where I can reach him?"
"Not yet," Jenkins replied regretfully. "Wish I did. I'd like to fax him." I smiled, remembering Jenkins' faxes. They were a standing joke among all of the overseas correspondents for The Sociologist, communications which came through on our fax machines at all hours of the day and night, querulous, meticulous, officious, and scrupulous, just like the man himself. I felt a wave of liking for that balding worried middle-aged man sitting so far away at his untidy editing table late at night, hunting for yet another missing dispatch, trying to make yet another deadline, never able to catch enough sleep. I hoped his new sleeping pills would work.
Was it too late to call Hell's nominee to take over the European Studies department? I made a few phone calls and found out that Gunther Otto Troll was ensconced in Berlin as the vice-chairman of Exponential Investments. The former head of the German central bank already worked for Xox. No wonder Hell had been so complacent about persuading Troll to replace Professor Hohenstaufen. What else was up Hell's sleeve and who else was in Xox's pocket? I sighed and picked up the phone again.
"May I speak to Herr Troll, please? I'm the special assistant to the rector of the University of Truth and Justice... Herr Troll, Lord Hades would like you to take over the European Studies department here."
"Hmmm." Troll didn't sound surprised. "Ja, he mentioned this a few weeks ago. When does Otto expect me?"
"As soon as possible. It's a mess right now, frankly."
Troll laughed shortly. "Hohenstaufen's department, nicht wahr? No wonder. I will come to Prague tomorrow. We will have to summon Lady Snatcher and Monsieur Jacques for a debate on the future of Europe." Troll chuckled. "That should be fun."
"Jacques who?"
"I forget this new man's last name. Doesn't matter. It is one of the great unspoken rules that the European president should be named Jacques. Makes it easier for everyone."
"When do you want to hold this debate, sir?"
"Xox should be there."
"He will be here next week to announce the university's permanent endowment. There is also the annual university keynote lecture."
"Who is speaking?"
"Professor Hohenstaufen invited Jean Rameau. The head of Banque Eurolux."
"I know who Rameau is, thank you very much. We are mortal enemies. So Hohenstaufen invited Rameau, did he? How naughty of him. And then he died. Tut, tut. What very bad manners."
"Perhaps we could combine the lecture and the debate?"
"Ach, ja. A small conference in fact. Rameau will lecture. I will destroy him in front of all the assembled dignitaries. Then Lady Snatcher and Monsieur Jacques will claw each other's eyes out. Good. Anything else?"
"No, sir." I was impressed by Troll's brisk efficiency.
"Don't call me `sir', okay? My people call me Gott. My initials, you understand. G-O-T. Gott."
"Jawohl, Gott."
"Give my regards to Otto. Congratulate him on grabbing little Pipi so quickly." Troll chuckled again. "The old crocodile still snaps up his prey faster than anyone else."
"Have you known Otto long?"
"I was his student at Chicago thirty years ago. I still remember his Game Theory course. He gave me a C. I wanted to kill him. It would have been so easy to rig up a little car bomb..." Gott sounded wistful. "Xox also wanted to kill Otto. Even though he got a B+. He was a megalomaniac even in those days. As if he didn't know that Otto never gave anyone an A. Anyway, mustn't open old wounds. See you soon, young man."
"Yes, Gott." Xox had been Hell's student. The two men had known each other for thirty years. Why did Hell pretend to know nothing about his former student and present employer? I put the phone down, stretched my weary body, cracking every joint in my back, and yawned. It had been a long day and I had done a lot of work and I deserved some rest. I had weathered a barrage of insults, regained my old job, seen a man die, arranged for his physical and legal disposal, ordered a tank to blow a hole into the building in which I was now sitting, and found out more tantalizing titbits about billionaires and banking scandals. And yet each moment's revelation only led to more secrets, as though questions were rabbits multiplying in some dark warren. In that moment I longed for the simplicity of an answer.
"What the devil do you want now?" Hell growled, taking off his reading glasses and looking up from the enormous pile of papers and books which, as usual, had slipped over from his table onto every other horizontal surface in his office. I gnashed my teeth. The old devil knew perfectly well what I wanted. I wanted to ask him lots of questions and to get some real answers. But I didn't have the nerve, so I temporized.
"Two things, Otto. What happens to the European Studies department now that Hohenstaufen has… retired?"
"Hire a replacement, obviously."
"Why do we need a European Studies department anyway?"
Hell frowned. "Asking questions again," he reproved.
"It was a rhetorical question," I protested.
Hell sniffed, implicitly conceding the point. "Xox wants to defuse the anger against him by giving away some money. I told him that you can't buy love. He replied that it's not about love. Eurocrats are all whores anyway. Man's got a point."
"Whom do we want to bribe?" I asked bluntly.
"The Germans lost the most money."
"But Xox didn't even speculate against the deutschmark!"
"The Germans had to lend the European central banks the most money. They lost more than four hundred billion dollars."
I whistled. "Xox made that much?"
"Not just him. Lots of other speculators as well. But he made the most. At least two hundred billion." Hell shrugged. "Call Troll."
"Who?"
"Gunther Otto Troll. Former head of the German central bank. Ask him to take over the European Studies department."
I stared at Hell through narrowed eyes. "And he will? Just like that? You set this up, didn't you?"
"None of your business." Hell flashed me his old alligator grin. "What was the second thing you wanted to ask me?"
"Nero Insanetti managed to seriously offend a journalist from The Sociologist. They're influential. It might damage our reputation if they published something negative."
Hell shrugged. "Used to work for them, didn't you? Who's the editor? Dogsbody, isn't it?"
"He retired twenty years ago," I said kindly. "The new man is Jenkins."
"Call him up. What do you need to bother me for?"
As I sat down in Delilah's office, poised to call Jenkins, I suddenly wondered how Hell knew that I had once worked for The Sociologist. I had never told him and he had never evinced any interest at all in my past. Had he been doing some background checks on me? I had a horrifying vision of Hell cackling as he looked through a dossier on my chequered career. I shuddered and tried vainly to dismiss both the disturbing image and, more generally, my past.
Jenkins clearly felt the same way. When I called him, there was nothing but the sound of deep breathing. "My God!" he finally croaked. "It is you. Thought I'd got rid of you forever." His tone changed from fear to suspicion. "Hell you want? Can't have job back and that's final," he snapped. "Got somebody else. Good guy for a change."
"That's actually all I wanted to find out," I said soothingly. Jenkins' mangled diction aroused a twinge of nostalgia. "Who do you have on the Central Europe beat these days?"
"Correspondents anonymous," Jenkins replied stiffly, but after some coaxing he relented. "Had to hire someone after Rasputin disappeared. New man with no experience. Smart young fellow with lots of initiative. Highly recommended."
"Who is he?"
"Name of Godfrey Blythe. About your age. Went to Oxford too. Know him?"
I suppressed a snigger. The image of God bustling around the chancelleries of Central Europe, hustling confidential interviews with highly placed sources, was too incongruous for words. I wondered how long it would take before Jenkins would have to brace himself for yet another painful dismissal. "Yes, I know Godfrey," I replied. "All too well. Who recommended him?"
"Terence Killjoy-Yuck," Jenkins replied. "Oh shit. Recommended you too, didn't he? Oh, no, what have I done..."
"Don't worry," I said maliciously. "I'm sure you'll just love Godfrey's reports."
"Haven't seen any so far," Jenkins confessed. "Only been on job a week."
"Who was the correspondent before that?"
"No one full-time. Had to look for someone we could trust after debacle with you. Tried out freelancer based in Prague. Didn't work out. Writing style was too sincere. Too Amerikan."
"Bob something?" I asked casually.
"That's right," Jenkins confirmed. "Worked for English language newspaper there."
"Prahahaha!"
"What's so funny about Prague? Never had time to go there myself but everyone says it is a bleak and dismal place."
"Prahaha! is the name of Bob's newspaper."
"How did you hear of it?" Jenkins asked in surprise. "Where are you anyway? Not back in Mongolia yet?"
"I'm in Prague too. I'm the special assistant to Lord Hades at the University of Truth and Justice."
"The Lord Hades?"
"The one and only. He's the rector of this university."
"Xox's university?" Jenkins asked, interested. "Bob sent peculiar report about the place. Claimed university staff all violent psychotics on drugs. Too silly to print until all this currency market turmoil today. Xox is big news now. Might just use story as exclusive scoop for tomorrow's issue. Don't have much else on the man."
"Don't do that," I replied calmly. "Bob showed up at the university completely drunk and proceeded to insult everyone he encountered. Why, he even tried to rape one of the receptionists and when they tried to stop him he swore he would get revenge. I know all about it."
"Really?" Jenkins said dubiously. "Sounded so sober."
"He was clearly on drugs."
"If you say," Jenkins sighed. "Wish we knew more about Xox."
"Doesn't everyone?" I responded sympathetically. "Who else made a killing on this currency speculation?"
"Besides Xox, looks as though Sir Johnny Silver did very well. Quite surprising since he's been going downhill for some time. Perverse investments!" Jenkins chuckled. "Who on earth buys gold in this day and age? Rumoured he was acting clandestinely for Christian Covett but impossible to confirm. Covett is always so circumspect."
"Who's Covett?"
"As you Amerikans like to say," and here Jenkins assumed a truly grotesque exaggerated nasal drawl, "Which planet are you from, anyway?" Much to my relief, Jenkins dropped back into his usual British whine. "Most successful investor of his generation. Whatever he touches turns to gold. Everyone in the business world reveres Covett. Your ignorance extraordinary."
"I'm not in the business world," I replied tartly. "Nor am I Amerikan. Have you ever heard of something called Midas?"
"Can't be happening," Jenkins moaned. "Must be nightmare. Calls out of blue to test my knowledge of mythology. Must be those new sleeping pills."
"Okay, you don't know about the Midas conspiracy," I said, unfazed. "What do you know about Banque Eurolux? Or about the Holier Than Thou Bank? Or about the Bank Run on Islamic Principles Offshore?"
"All have peculiar names."
"Are they involved in any scandals?"
"All embroiled in major scandals." Jenkins' tone sharpened. "How do you know that? I've only just heard in past hour about impending arrests at Bank Ripoff. At dawn tomorrow. Rumour that Sultan of Arabia himself is named in arrest warrants. Biggest shareholder in Bank Ripoff, you know. Personally guaranteed every Muslim deposit. Not Muslim, are you?" he asked suspiciously.
"I'll tip all my friends off," I promised. "Come on, Jenkins. You haven't even told me what the scandals are. What's the Hotbank scandal?"
"Going on for donkey's years. No solid proof but rumour is Hotbank, Vatikan's bank, you know, is involved up to ears in seriously troubled Italian bank called Banco Nectarini. If Banco Nectarini collapses, Pope out on street. Begging for alms just like Jesus," Jenkins commented irreverently.
"Have you heard anything about a merger of Hotbank and Bank Ripoff?"
"Heard rumour. Amazing if true. Sultan of Arabia hooking up with Pope? Would salvage Nectarini fortune and probably tide Hotbank over cash flow crisis. What is all this, anyway, twenty questions? Can't you read The Sociologist like everyone else?"
"Thanks for answering my questions. I'll give you an inside tip about Xox, if you want."
"What?" Jenkins asked breathlessly.
"He prefers the Financial Times to the Wall Street Journal," I lied.
"Really?" Jenkins breathed. "Could run an opinion piece on that. Should appeal to British readers. Buck 'em up. Master of the Universe reads British paper. Jolly good fillip to national pride. Although did take fifty billion pounds off our Treasury. Makes it sound too much like own goal, doesn't it? Still, thanks ever so much, old chap. Call again sometime."
"I will," I promised. "By the way, how can I get in touch with Godfrey? Where is he based?"
"Funny should ask. Wanted him to start in Vienna, get taste for Central Europe, whipped cream and all that, but fellow insisted wanted to be in Budapest this week. Had hunch something big going to happen."
"I wonder what," I said slowly. "Do you have a number where I can reach him?"
"Not yet," Jenkins replied regretfully. "Wish I did. I'd like to fax him." I smiled, remembering Jenkins' faxes. They were a standing joke among all of the overseas correspondents for The Sociologist, communications which came through on our fax machines at all hours of the day and night, querulous, meticulous, officious, and scrupulous, just like the man himself. I felt a wave of liking for that balding worried middle-aged man sitting so far away at his untidy editing table late at night, hunting for yet another missing dispatch, trying to make yet another deadline, never able to catch enough sleep. I hoped his new sleeping pills would work.
Was it too late to call Hell's nominee to take over the European Studies department? I made a few phone calls and found out that Gunther Otto Troll was ensconced in Berlin as the vice-chairman of Exponential Investments. The former head of the German central bank already worked for Xox. No wonder Hell had been so complacent about persuading Troll to replace Professor Hohenstaufen. What else was up Hell's sleeve and who else was in Xox's pocket? I sighed and picked up the phone again.
"May I speak to Herr Troll, please? I'm the special assistant to the rector of the University of Truth and Justice... Herr Troll, Lord Hades would like you to take over the European Studies department here."
"Hmmm." Troll didn't sound surprised. "Ja, he mentioned this a few weeks ago. When does Otto expect me?"
"As soon as possible. It's a mess right now, frankly."
Troll laughed shortly. "Hohenstaufen's department, nicht wahr? No wonder. I will come to Prague tomorrow. We will have to summon Lady Snatcher and Monsieur Jacques for a debate on the future of Europe." Troll chuckled. "That should be fun."
"Jacques who?"
"I forget this new man's last name. Doesn't matter. It is one of the great unspoken rules that the European president should be named Jacques. Makes it easier for everyone."
"When do you want to hold this debate, sir?"
"Xox should be there."
"He will be here next week to announce the university's permanent endowment. There is also the annual university keynote lecture."
"Who is speaking?"
"Professor Hohenstaufen invited Jean Rameau. The head of Banque Eurolux."
"I know who Rameau is, thank you very much. We are mortal enemies. So Hohenstaufen invited Rameau, did he? How naughty of him. And then he died. Tut, tut. What very bad manners."
"Perhaps we could combine the lecture and the debate?"
"Ach, ja. A small conference in fact. Rameau will lecture. I will destroy him in front of all the assembled dignitaries. Then Lady Snatcher and Monsieur Jacques will claw each other's eyes out. Good. Anything else?"
"No, sir." I was impressed by Troll's brisk efficiency.
"Don't call me `sir', okay? My people call me Gott. My initials, you understand. G-O-T. Gott."
"Jawohl, Gott."
"Give my regards to Otto. Congratulate him on grabbing little Pipi so quickly." Troll chuckled again. "The old crocodile still snaps up his prey faster than anyone else."
"Have you known Otto long?"
"I was his student at Chicago thirty years ago. I still remember his Game Theory course. He gave me a C. I wanted to kill him. It would have been so easy to rig up a little car bomb..." Gott sounded wistful. "Xox also wanted to kill Otto. Even though he got a B+. He was a megalomaniac even in those days. As if he didn't know that Otto never gave anyone an A. Anyway, mustn't open old wounds. See you soon, young man."
"Yes, Gott." Xox had been Hell's student. The two men had known each other for thirty years. Why did Hell pretend to know nothing about his former student and present employer? I put the phone down, stretched my weary body, cracking every joint in my back, and yawned. It had been a long day and I had done a lot of work and I deserved some rest. I had weathered a barrage of insults, regained my old job, seen a man die, arranged for his physical and legal disposal, ordered a tank to blow a hole into the building in which I was now sitting, and found out more tantalizing titbits about billionaires and banking scandals. And yet each moment's revelation only led to more secrets, as though questions were rabbits multiplying in some dark warren. In that moment I longed for the simplicity of an answer.
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