Phantom(48)

‘Do you know what I think, Gusto? I think he makes this product himself. What do you think?’

I deliberated. ‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘You know, Gusto, you don’t exactly need to be an Einstein in chemistry. There are detailed recipes on the Net for how to turn opium into morphine and then to heroin. Let’s say you get hold of ten kilos of raw opium. Then you find yourself some boiling equipment, a fridge, a bit of methanol and a fan, and hey presto, you’ve got eight and a half kilos of heroin crystals. Dilute it and you have one point two kilos of street heroin.’

The man in the all-weather jacket coughed. ‘It requires a bit more than that.’

‘The question’, the old boy said, ‘is how you get hold of the opium.’

The man shook his head.

‘Aha,’ the old boy said, stroking the inside of my arm. ‘Not opiate. Opioid.’

The man didn’t answer.

‘Did you hear what he said, Gusto?’ The old boy pointed a finger at the club foot. ‘He makes totally synthetic dope. He doesn’t need any help from nature or Afghanistan, he applies simple chemistry and makes everything on the kitchen table. Total control and no risky smuggling. And it’s at least as powerful as heroin. We’ve got a clever guy among us, Gusto. That sort of enterprise commands respect.’

‘Respect,’ I mumbled.

‘How much can you produce?’

‘Two kilos a week maybe. It depends.’

‘I’ll take the lot,’ the old boy said.

‘The lot?’ The man’s voice was flat and contained no real surprise.

‘Yes, everything you produce. May I make you a business proposition, herr …?’

‘Ibsen.’

‘Ibsen?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. He was also a great artist. I would like to propose a partnership, herr Ibsen. Vertical integration. We corner the market and set the price. Better margin for both of us. What do you say?’

Ibsen shook his head.

The old boy tilted his head with a smile on the lipless mouth. ‘Why not, herr Ibsen?’

I watched the little man straighten up; he seemed to grow in the baggy, all-year-round, world’s-most-boring-person jacket.

‘If I give you the monopoly, herr …’

The old boy pressed his fingertips together. ‘You can call me whatever you like, herr Ibsen.’

‘I don’t want to be dependent on a single buyer, herr Dubai. It’s too risky. And it means you can force prices down. On the other hand, I don’t want too many buyers, because then the risk that the police will trace me is greater. I came to you because you’re known to be invisible, but I want one more buyer. I have already been in contact with Los Lobos. I hope you can understand.’

The old boy laughed his chug-chug laugh. ‘Listen and learn, Gusto. Not only is he a pharmacist, he’s also a businessman. Good, herr Ibsen, let’s say that then.’

‘The price …’

‘I’ll pay what you asked. You’ll find this is a business in which you don’t waste time haggling, herr Ibsen. Life’s too short and death too close at hand. Shall we say the first delivery next Tuesday?’

On the way out the old boy acted as if he needed to support himself on me. His nails scratched the skin on my arm.

‘Have you thought about exporting, herr Ibsen? The checks on exporting drugs from Norway are non-existent, you know.’

Ibsen didn’t answer. But I saw it now. What he wanted. Saw it as he stood over his club foot with a pivoted hip. Saw it in the reflection from his sweaty, shiny forehead below the thinning hair. The condensation had gone from his glasses, and his eyes had the same gleam I had seen in Skippergata. Payback, Dad. He wanted some payback. Payback for all the things he hadn’t received: respect, love, admiration, acceptance, everything it is claimed you can’t buy. Although you can, of course. Isn’t that right, Dad? Life owes you stuff, but sometimes you have to be your own sodding debt collector. And if we have to burn in hell for it, heaven’s going to be sparsely populated. Isn’t that right, Dad?

* * *

Harry sat by the road looking out. Watched the planes taxiing in and taxiing out to the runway.

He would be in Shanghai within eighteen hours.

He liked Shanghai. Liked the food, liked walking down the Bund along the River Huangpu to Peace Hotel, liked going into the Old Jazz Bar and listening to the ancient jazz musicians creaking their way through standards, liked the thought that they had been sitting there and playing without an audible break since the revolution in ’49. Liked her. Liked what they had, and what they didn’t have, but ignored.