Victory Square tyb-5

by Olen Steinhauer

  “Hello?” said a man’s voice, wary.

  “A message,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “From Patak.” Go on.

  I tried to remember the exact words. “There’s no time to waste. The apples must be harvested by six o’clock.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what I heard,” I told him. I didn’t know exactly what the phrase meant, nor what it would lead to, but I had to trust that Agota’s friends here in the Capital wouldn’t make a mess of my country.

  “And why am I hearing from you, not from the farmer?”

  In my nervousness I almost laughed aloud at the extended metaphor. “The farmer,” I said, “is busy harvesting her own apples.”

  I’m sure I said it wrong-there was probably something about applesauce or barren trees that was more appropriate-but he seemed to understand. Although her family’s phone was clean-they had begun checking it nightly-Agota suspected her friend’s phone line was being listened to by the Ministry, and she didn’t want the call to be traced back to her family’s house. Further, she knew that in Sarospatak and Tisakarad, she and her family were being watched, and any visit to a pay phone would be noted. I accepted her paranoia as truth and used this phone to make sure nothing could be traced back to my own house, or to Lena.

  “Thank you,” said the man. His tone had changed. It was almost giddy. “Thank you very, very much.”

  Dusan Volan’s Thirteenth District house was far to the north, beyond the Ninth and its clusters of block towers. Out here, among large swaths of poorly managed wheat fields that had been cut from thick forests, one could find the mansions of Politburo members and those who were close to the Central Committee and its Grand National Assembly. There was a time, long ago, when Lena lived out here as well. Her father had been a coal baron before the Russians marched in, and he’d made a deal with the new government to keep hold of his foreign investments, and pass them on to Lena, while they nationalized his business. But after the death of her father, and then her husband’s murder, there was nothing left for her out here, so she sold the land to some up-and-coming Central Committee member and moved into town with me.

  One thing that surprised everyone was that her father’s deal held strong. Lena was allowed to keep her father’s foreign investments-in an English bank, Austrian land, and a Dutch shipping concern- which paid for her frequent trips to Europe’s capitals, and the various perfumes and stockings and gourmet foods that always filled her luggage when she returned. Her money was why we both drove German cars when everyone else drove our national excuse for an automobile, the Karpat.

  So, unlike Katja, I wasn’t intimidated by the high iron gate, the long, curving driveway lined with poplars, nor the large villa we parked in front of. For me, being among these trappings of luxury was like revisiting that period when I was young and knew nothing-when knowing nothing made me brave.

  At least, that’s how I like to remember those days.

  “Are you doing the talking?” she asked as she turned off the engine.

  “Want me to?”

  “That woman hates me”

  The villa had been built in the thirties, during the regime of late Bauhaus. While the foundation was constructed of stones, the walls were reinforced white concrete, which rose and curved to form elegant terraces on the second and third floors. From our angle, we could just make out the treetops of a roof garden and half of a small satellite dish pointing at the sky.

  Since Katja wasn’t going to do it, I pressed the buzzer, and instead of a buzz we heard a soft melody play from inside the house. Then footsteps, and a pause as someone peered through the door’s spy hole. The door opened. A small, heavy woman around thirty looked back at us. She was dressed all in black. “Is Comrade Csilla Volan in?” I said.

  Katja made a noise behind me as the woman smiled thinly.”I am Comrade Csilla Volan.”

  I hid my embarrassment by showing my Militia certificate. “Chief Emil Brod. You know Comrade Lieutenant Drdova?”

  She looked past me at Katja, her face showing nothing pleasant. “Come to ask about my husband’s mistresses again?” she said. “Maybe you’d like to know their sexual positions?”

  1 tried to get her attention: “I’d like to speak to you about your husband.”

  “Comrade Drdova didn’t do her job well enough?”

  “Comrade Drdova did a fine job. There’ve been new developments.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, can you let us in?”

  She shrugged and stepped aside. “Not long, though. I’ve got an appointment.”

  I took off my hat as we entered a large foyer that was two stories high. “What kind of appointment?”

  “My husband’s funeral, Comrade Chief.”

  “Oh.”

  She led us past framed paintings that matched the design of the house-large geometric abstracts in primary colors. Squares, triangles, octagons. The furniture in the living room was similar-white cushions shaped in rigid cubes and rectangles. A minimalist steel chandelier lit the room. Against the far wall sat the largest television I’d ever seen. Though the sound was off, bright, clear images flickered across the screen selling breakfast cereals, and from the occasional text that popped up I saw it was a German station.

  Katja and I settled on one of the two long couches as Csilla Volan sat on an aluminum chair. “Should I be offering you coffee?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Good,” she said. “I don’t want to waste my Colombian.”

  I began to suspect that Katja had, in fact, done her job poorly- she’d made her suspicions obvious during their first interview.

  “Want me to turn it up?” said Csilla Volan.

  I wondered what she meant, then saw she was talking to Katja, who was mesmerized by two dancing cartoon bears on the television. Katja shook her head but said, “How do you get this?”

  “The magic of satellites,” said Csilla Volan.

  I took out my notepad, flipped to the last page, and leaned over the coffee table to hand it to her. “Any of those names familiar?”

  She squinted at it, then reached for a pair of reading glasses on the table. “Your handwriting’s atrocious,” she said, putting on the glasses and tilting the pad to get better light. She blinked a few times. “Pu-tonski. I know that name.”

  “Yes?”

  She nodded slowly. “And-yes!” Despite herself, she was getting excited. “Jerzy Michalec. Of course I know about him.” She looked at us. “That was one of Dusan’s first big cases. He sentenced the man to death.”

  That’s what I’d been waiting to hear. “It was commuted,” I told her. “Sentenced to a labor camp instead.”

  She shrugged. “No matter.”

  “What about Putonski?”

  “I know the name but not the man. They knew each other long ago. Not sure how. Dusan brought up Putonski’s name because he heard the man had defected. To America, I think.” She snorted softly. “Lebed Putonski was no fool.”

  “And the others?” said Katja.

  She went back to the sheet, reading with her lips. “Me. Yes, I know me.” She smiled. “And of course everyone’s heard of Brano Sev. He disappeared, didn’t he?” When we didn’t answer, she arched a brow. “What’s this about?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “You think my Dusan was murdered because of these people?”

  I reached out to take back the pad, but she wouldn’t let it go that easily.

  “Answer me, Comrade Brod. I’m not just a little fat woman who takes it lying down.”

  “Please,” I said, waving at the pad.

  She held it to her breast. “Answer me first.”

  I glanced at Katja, but she just shrugged. “Yes,” I said. “We believe there’s a connection between these people. Two people on the list, including your husband, have been killed in the last three days. We believe a third murder is also connected.”

  She looked again
at the list. It was a different list now, because two of them were corpses. “Who.” She said this quietly.

  “Your husband, Lebed Putonski, and Yuri Kolev-he’s not on the list. Did you know Kolev?”

  She shook her head and returned the pad without a word, then peered past me at the television. She reached for a slim remote control on the coffee table and started pressing buttons. “Look.”

  On the screen were nighttime shots of crowds, the video grainy. I recognized a few buildings, so I didn’t need the German voice to know it was Sarospatak. I listened anyway.

  “This footage of last night’s massacre comes from the Yugoslav news agency, Tanjug.”

  It looked less like footage of a massacre than pictures taken by someone who was very frightened. The camera jerked and jumped, and we heard a cacophony of voices punctuated by the low thump of gunshots. Screams, the video smear of flashlights in darkness, and a very quiet Serbo-Croatian voice reporting what was translated by a louder German voice:

  “A peaceful demonstration against the wrongful imprisonment of a priest, which grew over four nights to also protest the economic and human rights policies of the Pankov government, was disrupted last night when members of the Militia, mixed with regiments of the Ministry for State Security, fired on the crowd in 25 August Square. Official estimates are that six died in the shootout, though unofficial estimates place the death toll as high as sixty. In a city where nightly blackouts are common, any hard estimate is difficult to ascertain.”

  It cut to a morning shot of 25 August Square. The camera was inside a building, looking out, fragments of broken glass framing the image. In the center of the square was a single old man with a broom, scrubbing a spot.

  “By morning,” said the German translator, “the government had cleaned the square, making sure that there was nothing left to contradict its official estimates.”

  The news turned then to China, something about arms treaties, and Csilla lowered the volume. It had all given me a headache, and I realized I’d forgotten to take my medication that morning. I grabbed my hat and stood. “Thank you for your help, Comrade Volan.”

  Katja was still sitting, dazed by the television. I squeezed her shoulder, and she looked up.

  “Come on.”

  As we walked back to the door, Csilla Volan kept close to us. “You’ll tell me? If you find out why Dusan was killed.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She opened the door for us but stood in our way. There was a distant look in her eye. “What about everything else?”

  “Everything else?” I said.

  “Sarospatak. Everything.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you think there’s some connection?” I considered that a moment. “Was your husband a dissident?” “Hardly.”

  “Then I doubt it,” I said and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Our condolences for your loss.”

  On the drive back into town, we were silent. I knew what Katja was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. In addition, I was wondering how we were going to find the reserves to focus on this case. Did it even matter anymore? When upwards of sixty people are killed in a single night, why care about a few old, rich men who’ve been murdered?

  Then I remembered why it mattered: I was on the list.

  “I need to call Aron,” said Katja.

  I wasn’t sure what she meant, and said so.

  “He should stay at his mother’s, outside town. If there’s shooting in the Capital, I don’t want him in the middle of it.”

  “He won’t want you in the middle of it either.”

  “Unlike Aron, I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll call Lena, too.”

  Our decisions made, we returned to the station, which was still only half-staffed, and used the phones at our desks. I tracked down my medicine bottle and swallowed two Captopril, then dialed. After a few rings, Lena picked up. “Hello?”

  Its me.

  “A call from work. How privileged am I?”

  “I want you to pack a bag and go stay with Georgi.”

  “No,” she said. That was her initial response to everything, so I wasn’t discouraged.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It looks like sixty people were killed in Patak, maybe more.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I have a feeling something similar’s going to happen here.”

  “Now what makes you think that?”

  “Remember what I was going to do for Agi?”

  She hummed a yes.

  “That’s what makes me think it. I’m serious, Lena.”

  “But I can’t go anywhere.”

  “What?”

  “I told you, but you never listen. My car’s not starting.”

  “Then call a taxi, come here, and take mine. I have to write you a pass for the roadblocks anyway.”

  “That sounds like a lot of trouble.”

  I fought the urge to shout at her; I could feel my blood pressure skyrocketing. She was being difficult because she thought it was cute. But it wasn’t. “Do it, Lena. I have to leave, but I’ll be back by…” The clock on the wall told me it was twelve thirty. “I’ll be back by two. I’ll expect you here.”

  “I love it when you talk like a sergeant, dear.”

  Despite myself, I smiled but tried not to let it come through in my voice. “You’ll be here?”

  “When you say it like that, how can I refuse?”

  I found Katja with her feet crossed on her desk.

  “You find Aron?”

  She nodded. “His supervisor was incredibly annoyed, but I told him I’d send him to a work camp if he didn’t give me my husband.”

  “He believed you?”

  “Well, he found Aron pretty quickly.”

  “And he’s going?”

  “He’ll stop by here after his shift’s over.”

  “Good.” I handed her a travel pass I’d stamped and filled out with her husband’s name. “Now come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Just come, will you?”

  SEVEN

  Forty thousand feet above the Atlantic, Gavra was in the four-seat center row of a Boeing 747 headed to Frankfurt, crammed in beside a pensioner couple who, once they’d taken off, introduced themselves as Harold and Beth Atkins of Philly, Pennsylvania. He’d tried to ignore them, but Beth, an old woman who wore the bright primary colors one dressed a child in, just kept talking. When she told him their final destination, though, he gaped at them. “Don’t you know what’s going on there?”

  Beth’s smile remained fixed, but her husband leaned over her lap and whispered, “We did see on the TV about Sarospatak.” (Gavra was impressed that Harold had said the city’s name properly- because it was a Hungarian name, each s was pronounced sh.) “But we’ve had this vacation planned and paid off the last four months.” He shook his head. “I’m not letting a little disturbance get in the way. We’ll just stay around the capital.”

  Gavra tried not to sound irritated. “It could spread, you know.”

  “From what we’re able to see,” said Beth, “it looks like your president, Mr. Pankov, he’s got a tight grip on things.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “A week,” she said, then went on to explain that they’d originally planned for just three days, so they’d have time to go on to Prague, but Berta Raskovic, their travel agent back in Philly-she’d been a proud American citizen only three years-convinced them that her home country deserved more than just three days. Get to know the people, she’d told them. They’re a wonderful people.

  Harold said, “You should’ve heard her. Wow! Czechs? she said. They’re the rudest people on Earth, after Yugoslavs. Can you believe it? And she sold us koronas at 2,950 to the dollar. I checked on it afterward; it’s a good deal.”

  “You know the real reason we’re going?” whispered Beth.

  Gavra bowed his head close. “Tell me.”

  “Harold’s in love with our
travel agent. She could sell him Florida swampland.”

  “Not so!” Harold said with vague indignation.

  In addition to everything else, Gavra found himself worrying about this idiotic couple. They were staying at the Metropol, at least, which meant that they could barricade themselves in if things became violent. But still…

  Luckily, a couple of hours into the flight, they started to doze, and he could work over what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  After escaping the Chesterfield Towne Center, he’d driven nonstop back to the Richmond airport, where he dropped his P-83 and Frank Jones’s Bren Ten into a wastebasket and bought a ticket on the next flight to JFK. He again wished he’d had an American visa in his own passport, because it was possible that by now Lebed Putonski had been discovered and an arrest warrant issued for Viktor Lukacs. So when he bought a ticket home, via New York and Frankfurt, he noticed the way the JFK Delta clerk stared at him. “Something wrong?” he said, giving a stiff smile.

  The woman blushed and apologized. “Sorry, sir. You just look very tired.”

  “I am,” he said, because by then it was four in the morning, and he’d been awake two full days.

  He washed in the airport bathroom to make himself presentable, and despite more stares from the guards he was allowed through passport control to the international terminal without hassle. Only once he’d reached his gate did he allow himself a couple of hours’sleep on the uncomfortable chairs.

  It was during his erratic nap that it occurred to him that Frank Jones and his Virginia driver’s license weren’t a lie. He was American. No one from Gavra’s country could master the accent and idiomatic phrases as well as he had.

  Before dying, Kolev had told him two things. One, that Lebed Putonski’s life was in danger. Two, that he got his information from a contact in the CIA. Were those two facts linked? Had Central Intelligence ordered Putonski’s murder?

  Hours later, with Beth Atkins’s head sliding dangerously close to his shoulder, Gavra went back to this slow line of reasoning.

  Lebed Putonski was a defector, brought into the United States by Central Intelligence, protected for eight years, and then killed by his protectors. Why? Why now?