36 Yalta Boulevard

by Olen Steinhauer

  Once the waitress was gone, Dijana straightened again and leaned toward him, over her plate. She whispered, “Listen, Brano Sev. I don’t must justify what I am doing to you, not to no one. This is why I not live in Yugoslavia. They ask me always questions. Dijana, why you stop with your school? Why you not talk with your friends no more? Why, Dijana, your father is so sick—maybe you think he should not been in jail? They ask me, Dijana, why you want live someplace what is not your home? You are not patriot?” Her eyes were very big. “This is why I go. Because I will not to have interrogations no more. And not from the man what is my lover.”

  Brano nodded into the fist holding up his chin. “If I were the manager of a club—if I were Abel—then you would be right, I’d have no need to ask this. But I’m not a restaurateur. I spent all my life doing intelligence work, and if you were a spy, it would matter to me. I don’t want to think you’re using me.”

  “Using?”

  He nodded.

  “Too long,” she said. “For too long you doing this, you don’t see what is good no more.” She waited, but he didn’t answer. So she shrugged and said, “You want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  She touched the edge of her plate. “Why you think Bertrand buy me apartment? Because he love me too much? I was thinking this at one time, but no. He use me for place to meet with his friends. Those Russians. Of course I did not know they was KGB—he telled me nothing. But it’s not surprise me. He meet with them and I make coffee for them, and then he ask me not to stay there. He send me out to the store so he can to talk.”

  Brano folded his hand over his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Why I should tell you?” She shook her head. “It’s not your business. And anyway, I sweared to him I will tell nobody. He make me swear. He was afraid Lutz will find out.”

  “Lutz?”

  “Pa da. Filip Lutz. They was friends, together all the time. Me, too, we all had good time together. In that time we was at the Carp. But Bertrand, he was scared from Lutz—he say if Lutz find out he is with Russians, then he is dead man.” She frowned then, momentarily confused. “You think maybe Lutz, he find out? He kill Bertrand?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Brano. “What was Bertrand doing with the Russians?”

  “I don’t know. Just talk. He meet them three times what I know of. In my apartment. But I don’t know what they was doing—I am no spy.”

  “Wait.” Brano tried to think through the fresh accumulation of zbrka. “You and Bertrand and Filip were friends at that time.”

  “Da. And that terrible Ersek Nanz, too, you know. But after Bertrand die I stop going to the Carp. It depressing. Anyway, I wanted to be with you, not in Vienna. You remember?” Finally, a brief smile.

  “I remember.”

  “And you was thinking I am spy!”

  Brano rubbed his scalp. “I wasn’t sure, but I suspected.”

  “You still suspecting?”

  “No,” said Brano. Then he called to the waitress for a bottle of wine.

  15 APRIL 1967, SATURDAY

  •

  She didn’t have to be at the Jazzklub Abel until one, so they spent the morning in her apartment lazily, eating and making love, until a headache crept up on him. She gave him aspirin and boiled tea.

  Brano could think of a hundred different ways to punch holes in the story she’d told him. For any good operative there were many layers of cover, each more convincing than the next. The thing that worried him most was her acceptance. She knew that he had worked for state security all his life, yet she had decided to simply believe that his life’s work was now over. Her father had been sent to a prison because of men like him, and she had left her country because of those same men. She had found refuge in the West and then, inexplicably, had chosen a lover from that world.

  Brano found himself thinking over his tea that even if she were telling him the truth, he would never be able to accept it completely. He was, as she had pointed out, terrible.

  “You are cold again.”

  “What?”

  She pulled her robe over her shoulder. “I can see when you, your head, it is far away.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s the way I am.”

  She grunted and reached for her tea. “Pa da. Is what I am learning.”

  In the afternoon he walked her to the Marienbrucke, which crossed the Danube Canal into the Second District, where the Jazzklub Abel lay.

  “Why you not come with me?” she asked. “You can to meet Abel.”

  “I don’t think Abel wants to meet me.”

  “Why not? He’s not boy.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to meet him.”

  “Dragi,” she said, and kissed his cheeks. “You is not so cold after all.”

  He smiled.

  “And your head? How is it?”

  “It hurts.”

  She straightened the lapels of his jacket and kissed his forehead, then whispered, “I don’t want to making your head more bad, but there is a man behind you what is watching us.”

  “Does he have a sunburn?”

  “You mean his face?”

  “Da,” he said.

  “Yes, is very bad.”

  “He’s just watching me, don’t worry.”

  “Who he is?”

  “He’s Austrian.”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding and looking over his shoulder. “He is always with you?”

  “Always. To be sure I’m not getting into trouble.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I make stupid choice for a man, no?”

  “Yes, Dijana. You made a terrible choice.”

  She snorted a laugh, kissed him again, then headed off. He watched her cross the steel bridge, waiting until she was just out of sight, before turning back.

  As usual, Filip Lutz was at his back table, surrounded by soiled cups and saucers, and a full ashtray. Ersek Nanz was there, too, leisurely stretched out in his chair, listening to his friend’s lecture. Through the windows, Brano’s shadow wrote something in a notepad.

  “Our senior intelligence officer has arrived!” said Lutz. “Come, come.”

  Ersek turned in his chair with some effort, sticking out a hand. Brano patted his back and sat down. “I’m not feeling particularly intelligent today.”

  “Just today?” asked Ersek. He was brushing dry his upper lip, where the beginning of a mustache was forming. “You’re doing better than the rest of us. Turns out one of the principal shareholders in Nanz Editions just died of a heart attack. Now his executors want to sell his piece to pay off his debts. You want to invest in publishing?”

  “With what? Ask Filip.”

  Lutz opened his hands. “I already own thirty percent.”

  Brano scratched his sore forehead to mimic serious thought. “I suppose I could get someone to sell my Trabant back home.”

  That received a few seconds of obligatory laughter.

  “How’s your girl?” asked Lutz.

  Nanz straightened. “Yeah, you don’t bring her out, do you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?”

  Both men fell silent, until Lutz said, “We don’t know her that well.”

  “Not from what she says.”

  Ersek leaned forward. “How does she say it?”

  “She says you two and Bertrand Richter were all very close.”

  “That’s how it is among expats,” said Lutz. “We form close friendships for a while, then we stop.”

  “You stopped when Bertrand was killed.”

  Ersek found a cigarette and popped it into his mouth. “You have to admit, Brano, that puts a strange tone on a friendship, when your friend’s dead.”

  “Even more so when he’s killed,” said Lutz.

  “Do the police know who killed him?”

  “The Austrian police couldn’t find a hooker in the Canal District with a handful of koronas. But he was a good guy.”
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  “A bore, though,” said Ersek. “You have to admit.”

  “Sure,” said Lutz.

  “I don’t know about Lutzi,” Ersek continued, “but to tell the truth, I was nice to him because he had a pretty girlfriend. I think a lot of people were the same way. And now—now I’ve got a reason to be nice to you!”

  Lutz rapped the table. “Let’s change the subject, okay? It’s no good for my indigestion.”

  The change of subject seemed an excuse for Lutz to regale them with the details of his latest date with the interpreter, with whom, this time, he had finally achieved success.

  “You’re a bastard,” said Ersek. “A lucky bastard.”

  Lutz squeezed out from behind the table. “That I am.” He patted Nanz’s shoulder, excused himself, and lumbered off to the bathroom.

  “What do you think of Dijana?” asked Brano. “Honestly.”

  Ersek considered him. “I liked her. A little baffling, but you probably know that. All those Balkan chicks are. And she gets around, if you know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You asked, right? But she’s perceptive as hell, that one, and great to look at.”

  “And Richter? Was their relationship good?”

  “Who ever knows these things? He was crazy about her, that’s for sure. He was paranoid someone would take her away. He accused each of us at one point or another. Me, Lutz, even that cold fish from the embassy, Josef Lochert—you know him?”

  Brano hesitated. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Well, Lutzi brought him to the Carp one night for a good time.”

  The air seemed to dry up. “This Josef Lochert is a friend of Filip’s?”

  “Sure,” said Ersek. “They’ve known each other years. Longer than I’ve known Filip. But if you meet Lochert, you’ll understand why Bertrand got upset. He has a way of staring that’s entirely impolite, and he gave it to Dijana. Bertrand went off the handle completely and tried to take him outside for a fight.”

  “They fought?”

  Ersek shook his head. “Nah. I wanted to see Bertrand get kicked, but Lutz stepped in and made peace. What did he say? Yes. If we fight one another, then there’ll be no fight left when we need it. Or something like that. Very poetic.”

  When Brano realized he was tapping the table like a nervous old man, he placed his hands in his lap.

  After a couple of drinks, Brano feigned fatigue, which the men immediately associated with his sex life. They laughed as he reddened and gave him masculine slaps on the back, whistling as he walked away. His sunburned shadow followed him south, in the tram, all the way to Web-Gasse.

  In his bathroom, he prepared the note that demanded an 11:30 appointment the next day, just before his scheduled meeting with Ludwig, and wrapped it around the nail. He stuck it in his pocket, grabbed his book, and left again. The light was failing, but he didn’t care. He walked up Liniengasse to Gumpendorfer, then found his bench at Eszterházy Park. He stared at the open book.

  Brano remembered a time, which seemed very long ago, when he could move slowly in the street and etch out a painstaking portrait of a dull, daily life, all for the benefit of the socially infirm men who followed him. But as he closed the book far too soon, the urgency came in the form of his mother’s voice. Brani, do you think this is the family I always hoped for?

  He pressed his hands to the bench to help himself up, wandered to the third tree, and unzipped his pants. He had to concentrate to get anything out of himself, and when he transferred the nail to his right pocket, dropped it through his pant leg and stomped, it was into earth that was dry and unyielding.

  The sunburned man standing at the base of the flak tower watched him curiously.

  Dijana stayed at Web-Gasse that night, and they cooked together, stopping once to make love on the kitchen counter. “Dragi!” she said, as if anything could surprise her. Then they half-watched late-night television and split a bottle of wine that they soon brought to his bed. She told him she wouldn’t stand for masculine untidiness and would clean his apartment the next day. He smiled and rolled her over, into the pillow, so she could not see the zbrka all over his face.

  16 APRIL 1967, SUNDAY

  •

  Brano waited until the door to the Liebengaste bathroom was shut before reaching to turn on the light. White walls glimmered around him, and Lochert looked upset. He was sweating.

  “What’s going on?” asked Brano.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. You have your orders. There’s no reason for us to meet.”

  “We’re going to talk.”

  “What on earth do you need? You’ve met the guy I don’t know how many times, you know what to do.”

  “You’ve been lying to me,” said Brano. “You never mentioned you were an old friend of Lutz’s.”

  “It’s a small city.”

  “Not that small. And you never told me that Bertrand Richter was holding meetings with the Russians. He was using Dijana’s apartment for his sessions.”

  “Did she tell you that?” Lochert raised an eyebrow. “You’re a sucker, Brano Sev.”

  Brano ignored that. “Richter believed that Lutz would kill him if he found out he was meeting the Russians. Lutz! He couldn’t kill a man if he tried.”

  “And?”

  “And then we find the major players all together, in the Carp. Richter, Lutz, and you.”

  “Don’t forget your girlfriend,” said Lochert.

  “How could I?” Brano stepped closer. “Bertrand Richter tried to start a fight with you over her. What made him so nervous?”

  “I like to look at pretty girls. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Bertrand was sitting with Lutz, whom he feared,” said Brano, “and Lutz had brought along a man with experience in killing. You. Richter feared that he had been uncovered.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Richter never was GAVRILO.” Brano paused, the words making last night’s insomniac suspicions real. “He was leaking information, that’s true. But to the Russians, not the Austrians. And he wasn’t giving away our networks. He was exposing next month’s insurrection.”

  Locher’s mouth worked the air.

  “When we—or when you—killed Richter, we weren’t working for Yalta. We were working for Lutz.”

  Lochert rubbed his face, but when he brought his hand away, he was smiling. “Come on, Brano. You’ve gotten paranoid in your old age. We had the evidence that Richter was selling information to the Austrians, and if he was also selling to the Russians, that’s no surprise.”

  “I never saw those trucks being checked on the Austrian border,” said Brano. “You’re the one who reported it back to me. No.” He pointed. “You were probably the informer. You, or Lutz, were GAVRILO.”

  Lochert, against the wall, waited a moment before answering. “So you’re thinking that I killed Richter in order to protect myself?”

  “I’m not sure.” Brano stepped back. “But you and Lutz were working together, and both of you wanted Richter dead. Now, though, you want me to kill Lutz. Why?”

  Lochert found some confidence. “I don’t have to tell you anything, Brano. I’m your rezident.”

  “Fine, then I’ll walk over to the embassy and tell them everything I know. And I have some idea what the Lieutenant General will do to you.”

  Lochert, to Brano’s surprise, laughed quietly. “You know, this is what happens when you give people half-information.” He sighed. “Maybe it’s my fault. I’m secretive. It’s my nature.” He looked away for a moment, into the mirror over the sink, then rested his hands on his hips. “I’ll be in trouble if this gets out, you know. We’ve had our problems in the past, but I don’t want to think you’d reveal what I’m going to tell you.”

  “Tell me,” said Brano.

  “Okay.” Lochert placed his hands behind himself, on the small of his back. “I’ve told you about Lutz’s operation to start a revolution bac
k home. That’s the absolute truth. And it’s true we don’t have many details. Sometime in May, that’s about it.”

  “It’s the fourteenth of May,” said Brano. “That’s what Richter said to me on the phone, back in August. You were with me when he let that slip.”

  Lochert raised his eyebrows. “Very good, Brano. Quite a memory. But Richter—he was selling out Lutz’s plan to the Russians, yes. That’s how we first learned of it. The Russians told us, and we told them we’d take care of it ourselves. We didn’t want the KGB doing our work for us. But he was also central to the conspiracy itself. That’s why I framed him in August.”

  “But why didn’t we capture Richter?” asked Brano. “It would have been simple. He could have told us what we needed to know. That was stupid.”

  “No it wasn’t,” said Lochert. He paused, considering something, then brought his hands out from behind his back. In his right fist he held a pistol. Hungarian made, a Femaru Walam 1948, 9 mm.

  Brano looked into Lochtert’s eyes. “It wasn’t stupid, because you’re working with Lutz, and both of you needed to get rid of your leak.”

  Lochert shrugged. “It takes you a while, but in the end you do get to the truth, don’t you?”

  “And why do you want Lutz killed?”

  “I think we’ll have to end this conversation now.”

  “You’re going to shoot me?”

  “We live by our orders.”

  Brano’s knees were weak, but when he dropped it was of his own volition. He crumpled to the tiles and kicked, catching Lochert’s legs. Lochert tumbled, and an explosion filled the bathroom. Despite the buzzing in his ears, Brano caught Lochert’s hand and twisted the pistol until it turned back and went off again, quieter this time, because it was buried in the soft flesh of Lochert’s stomach.

  Lochert’s face tightened, reddening, his exposed teeth clenched. Then he coughed. Brano’s knees ached as he stood up and stared at the dying man. Lochert coughed again, red spittle appearing on the white tiles. He seemed to want to speak but was unable.