Having got here, I knew even less just what to do next. There was Criminale’s secret, there was Gertla’s secret, and goodness knows what other obscurities else. I put it all aside. Like Jean-Paul Sartre on his summer holidays, I felt I wanted a rest from all this Angst for a bit. My desk was piling up with the new spring books, which burst out like crocuses at this season. I did my work and let the story ride. But then one day, typing down the computer linkline in my all too open open-plan newspaper office, I had a thought on pure impulse: I knew someone who might know. I picked up the phone and rang the European Commission in Brussels. There followed the usual confusions: multi-lingual chatter, switchboard misdirections, cries of Ciao, invitations to please hold onto your piece. Then a familiar voice was on the line. ‘Ah, ja, Bruckner?’ it said.

‘Oh, Bruckner, guess who?’ I said, ‘Your contact in London.’ ‘Ah, ja, which contact in London?’ asked Bruckner. ‘It’s quite all right to talk?’ I asked. ‘Why not, we talk all the time in the European Commission,’ said Bruckner. ‘It’s Francis Jay, remember,’ I said. ‘Ah, ja,’ said Bruckner. ‘I promised I’d call if I knew any more about Bazlo . . .’ ‘Wait, I transfer this to a more secure line with a certain device,’ said Bruckner. ‘I thought you might,’ I said patiently. A moment later, her voice sounding strangely magnified, Bruckner was back again. ‘So you, my friend, you found out something?’ ‘It may not be important,’ I said, ‘But I was in Argentina and met Criminale’s second wife.’ ‘Gertla Riviero?’ asked Bruckner. ‘You know her?’ I asked. ‘Of course,’ said Bruckner, ‘You just saw her there? So how is she like?’ ‘Well, re-married, rich, and starting a whole new life,’ I said. ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Bruckner, ‘So what did you really find out?’

My news evidently sounded weary and unprofitable, I thought; I went on anyway. ‘She told me a lot of things about Criminale’s political past,’ I said, ‘His links with the Hungarian regime and so on.’ ‘It’s interesting?’ asked Bruckner. ‘It’s dynamite for his – reputation, that is, if it’s true,’ I said, ‘The trouble is I don’t know whether to believe a word of it.’ ‘You called but you think it is not true?’ ‘I think it needs checking carefully,’ I said, ‘That’s why I called. I thought if you ever came to London I could take you out for a bite to eat and we could compare notes. I’m in no hurry to print it.’ ‘You think you will print it?’ ‘She wants me to print it,’ I said. There was a pause, and then Cosima Bruckner said, ‘Listen carefully please. Here are your instructions. Go now to the airport and take the first flight here to Brussels.’ ‘I can’t, I have a job to do,’ I said. ‘Europe will pay,’ said Bruckner, taking no notice, ‘Do not tell anyone what you are doing. Mention Riviero to no one. Go to the Grand’ Place in the centre. In the corner is a restaurant, La Rochette. Everyone knows it from the outside. Meet me at eight. I will expect you. Once again you have done very well, my friend.’ It was curious how, when Cosima instructed, one always obeyed.

That same afternoon, then, I found myself once again in Heathrow’s packed, vile Terminal 2, caught a Sabena flight to Brussels, walked out through the controls at Zaventem, and took a taxi down tram-tracked streets into the grey city centre. There was hardly time to inspect the chocolate shops and pâtisseries before the city clocks were ringing eight. A row of black limousines waited outside La Rochette, their chauffeurs buffing them up to perfection. I made my way through the obscure, dignified entrance: the maître d’ pounced in the doorway. ‘I regret very much, m’sieu, but we take only guests with reservations,’ he said. ‘There’s a guest here from the European Commission,’ I said. ‘Yes, m’sieu, they are all from the European Commission,’ he said, ‘Only they can afford La Rochette.’ ‘I’m joining Miss Bruckner,’ I said. ‘Ah oui, Miss Bruckner! She likes always the quiet table by the window,’ said the maître d’, relieving me, with evident distaste, of my anorak and rucksack, and offering a tie from an extensive rack.

He presented me with a house aperitif; Miss Bruckner had not yet arrived. I sat at the table looking at the prices on the finely printed menu, and quickly realized why the citizens of Brussels knew La Rochette only from the outside. A few moments later, Cosima Bruckner walked in. I saw at once she looked different. She had abandoned her usual leatherized motorcycle gear, and was wearing a soft, expensive dove-grey dress. I have to confess that, to my: Nineties post-punk fabric-loving eyes, she looked suddenly much more attractive. The maître d’ seated her: ‘Armand, this is my special guest from London,’ she said, ‘Look after him nicely.’ ‘Enchante, m’sieu, welcome to La Rochette,’ Armand said, ‘The best champagne, perhaps?’ ‘Please,’ said Bruckner, ‘And how is the lobster this evening?’ ‘Ah! Parfait!’ cried Armand. ‘Do you like some?’ Bruckner asked me. I glanced at the prices on the menu, and must have turned starch white. ‘Oh, please do not worry,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘Europe is willing to pay.’

The chandeliers tinkled and twinkled over our heads; the quiet waiters flitted, the champagne buckets clanked. I glanced round the room, and realized it was a murmur of ministers, a parley of parliamentarians, a babel of bureaucrats, a chatter of commissioners, a lobbying of lawyers, an argument of advisers. ‘Who are all these?’ I asked, ‘Why so many people here from the European Commission?’ ‘Remember, this New Europe is a very strange place,’ said Cosima, ‘A great and complicated mega-country. And these are the élite of Brussels how, the new class, the people from the Berlaymont.’ ‘The Berlaymont?’ I asked. ‘That is the great four-legged building in the Rue de la Loi, with all the flags, you know?’ said Cosima, That is the Commission, where I work. I and about fifteen hundred other bureaucrats.’

That’s where you work,’ I said, ‘What do you do there?’ ‘I think you know,’ said Cosima. ‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘I only know you chase people and spy on them all the time.’ ‘You also, I think,’ said Cosima. ‘For different reasons,’ I said. ‘No need to tell your reasons, I know almost everything about you,’ said Cosima. I looked up. ‘You’ve been checking on me?’ ‘Naturally, it was necessary to check on everyone,’ said Cosima. ‘You probably know more about me than I do,’ I said uncomfortably. This is possible,’ said Cosima Bruckner. ‘Well, as Professor Codicil would say, who is the man who can entirely explain himself?’ ‘He said this?’ asked Cosima, ‘You were right about him, of course.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘It was as you said, he was the centre of it,’ said Cosima. The centre of what?’ I asked. ‘Naturally I cannot tell you,’ said Cosima, the eternal enigma.

‘So you know about me,’ I said, ‘Now tell me a bit more about you.’ ‘Why should I do this?’ asked Cosima. ‘Because I can’t see what this Criminale business has to do with the people of the Berlaymont.’ ‘Please, my friend, you do not know what riffraff might be listening,’ said Cosima, glancing round. ‘Riffraff?’ I asked, glancing myself round the room. Nothing could have seemed in better order. I saw the King of the Belgians, the European Foreign Ministers (I recognized Hurd and Genscher), the Sheikhs of Araby, the Deputy-President of the European Commission, closeted in a quiet corner. ‘Of course,’ said Cosima. They look like a very high class of riffraff to me,’ I said. ‘Many of these people are not what they seem,’ said Cosima, ‘I see you do not really understand our New Europe.’ ‘I probably don’t,’ I said.

‘If you like to understand it, think of Switzerland,’ she said, ‘You remember Switzerland, where we last met?’ ‘I shall never forget it, Cosima,’ I said. ‘Both have many things in common,’ said Cosima, They are confederations, they have complicated government, they are rich. That is why tonight you eat lobster.’ ‘At moments like this I’m all for the New Europe,’ I said. ‘Both have many different cultures, many different languages. In Europe nine official ones, and then Euro-speak.’ ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘It is mostly acronyms, like when the ERM of the EMS leads to the EMU and the ECU,’ said Cosima, ‘And both are very pretty countries, no? The fields are full of cows and grain and vines, all supported by subsidies. Both have wonderful lakes and mountains. You know our nice lakes, I hope? The Wine Lakes, the Milk Lakes, the Olive Oil Lakes? Then our wonderful mountains.’ ‘Yes, the Beef Mountain, the Wheat Mountain, the Butter Mountain,’ I said.