Free The God Hunter by Tim Lees Page B

nail polish remover. Ganz went off to fetch a car, and I keyed Shailer’s number in my cell phone.
    I remembered him that first night, answering his phone every ­couple of minutes. Now it rang and rang.
    The answerphone kicked in. I rang off, dialed again.
    On the fifth attempt, he finally decided to reply.
    A click. An open line, muffled background noise; a crowd, a sauna maybe, or a meeting room.
    â€œChris,” he said. “Be quick. Can’t talk now, old buddy . . .”
    â€œShailer. What the fuck is going on?”
    â€œShouldn’t be talking here, Chris. I’m just about to board. What’s the problem?”
    â€œYou know what the fucking problem is! You dropped it on me! Where are you, anyway?”
    â€œI’m at the airport, Chris. You know? Where you left me, after Esztergom?”
    Not a trace of last night’s bonhomie; the voice was dead, drained of expression. And it wasn’t just a coke hangover, I was damn sure.
    â€œChris,” he said, “I’m going to Berlin now, Chris. Next leg of the tour. I have a speech to make. Now, I left you a job to deal with, and I’m expecting you to deal with it, OK? I’m trusting your discretion. You need to be discreet. I’m emphasizing that. You need—­ah. One minute.”
    Blurred words, rapid conversation. Silence. When he spoke again, his voice was low. I pictured him hunched in a corner, shielding his mouth with his hand.
    â€œYou filed a report, Chris. You filed a report stating specifically that you’d had an equipment failure, and that you claimed you fixed it. You claimed you solved the problem, Chris. At no point does this report make any mention about me. Only you, Chris. Only you. Hear that? And it doesn’t matter who you talked to, way back then. So sort it out, will you? Get it dealt with. Or I’m not sure I can save you from the consequences. Understand?”

 
    CHAPTER 15
    THE DEAD ROOM
    I sat low in the passenger seat of Ganz’s car. I didn’t speak. I didn’t look at her. She might have thought that I was sulking, but that’s because I was.
    Since when did I do work for O&D? Since when did I turn into Adam Shailer’s fix-­it man? The little shit had shafted me. Again. After all these years, I was still picking up his mess for him. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
    Worse than that, I’d only got myself to blame. I’d thought that I was so damn smart, playing the game, swallowing my anger, doing it the way the big boys do it, all those years ago; going with the company politics. I should have put in a complaint right then and there. I’d wanted to. But ­people had told me no, don’t try it that way, best forget, move on. And I’d followed their advice; I’d toed the party line. And now I got my just reward. No good deed goes unpunished . . .
    â€œYou have your meter.”
    Only some faint, conditioned fear of seeming rude made me reply. I tapped the pouch at my side.
    â€œReader,” I said. “We call it a reader.”
    Outside, the streets of Budapest flicked by, the beautiful old buildings black with soot, just as I remembered them; dirt and grime, the dirt of history, but not a speck of litter on the streets. It was a city full of contradictions, that way. I could remember ­people waiting for the lights to change before they crossed the road. There were no cars in sight, but nobody would budge an inch until they got the go-­ahead. And there was porn at almost every newsstand, stuff on view you’d never get away with back in London. Yet I’d seen pretty girls in scanty summer clothes stroll down the street with not even a glance, much less the kind of lewd remarks they’d probably endure at home.
    A patrol car stood at the roadside. We pulled up behind. On the pavement, a large, fleshy man with a shaved head was quibbling with a lone cop set to guard the door. The