He looked up and down the street, looking for what, he wasn’t quite sure—just something out of the ordinary, something that might explain his daughter’s worried expression.
When he stepped into the living room, two men in dark gray suits stood up. He gulped and took a step back, but all they did was smile at him.
“Michael Peterson?” one of them asked.
He nodded.
“Lieutenants Schneider and Gomez. Office of Special Investigations.”
“Office of what?”
Both men got out their badges and showed him. “It’s a unit of the Department of Justice. We need to talk to you.”
He shrugged. “So talk.”
“Uh, at the police station.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes, sir. Whenever you’re ready.”
“What’s it about?”
Schneider glanced at Diane. “Better if we tell you down at the station.”
“It’s okay,” Michael replied. “She’s my daughter. She’s my one and only. You can speak in front of her. I have nothing to hide.”
“As you wish,” Schneider said with some uncertainty. “We need to formally interview you regarding allegations of war crimes.”
He almost dropped his shopping bag, but turned and placed it on the couch. “Say that again.”
Schneider displayed an embarrassed smile. “It really would be better for everybody if we talked to you down at the police station.”
“You said ‘war crimes’. You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But . . .” He sat in a heap, right on the bag he’d just put down. “War crimes? Me? This is madness.”
“We just have some questions to ask you, that’s all. We’re here so we can talk about it, and so you can have your say about the allegations.”
“He’s never harmed anyone in his life,” Diane said.
“I even put the catch back in when I go fishing,” Michael said, then turned to his daughter. “Isn’t that right, Diane?”
“It must be a case of mistaken identity,” she said to the gray-suited men.
But the men said nothing. They just stood next to her father.
“All right,” Michael said, pulling himself back onto his feet. “How long will it take?”
“I guess that depends on the outcome,” Schneider said.
Meanwhile, two hundred miles away on the other side of Lake Erie, Asher Kogan was at home in Detroit, beginning his well-rehearsed morning routine. He listened to the radio while he made his breakfast of hot oatmeal with a pat of butter, followed by a handful of blueberries. Then he prepared potatoes for his potato soup lunch—just one serving—and then grabbed his reading glasses, put on his hat and coat, and left the house.
He pulled the door to and locked the padlock, which fixed the chain, which kept the door bound to the doorframe of his shack of a house. As if there were anything worth stealing.
Asher had been living much like this for the last fifteen of his seventy-four years. The five years before that he didn’t like to even think about, let alone talk about. Now his life was the way he liked it: simple, unadorned, uncomplicated. Like oatmeal.
He started walking.
As usual on a Monday morning, he headed for the local library to read the weekend newspapers. It was much cheaper that way.
His route took him along the shadier edge of the local park, where the homeless hung out, their lives’ possessions covered by a tarp. He scuttled past the area as briskly as his worn-out knees allowed.
Soon he was at the library.
He liked it there. It was quiet, peaceful, and warm. He’d made a few friends there, but for conversation they would visit a nearby coffee shop. He’d tried them all and knew the cheapest ones. It was always him and one other friend. Only the one at a time, because any more than that was just too many people to talk to and too much to take in.
Today it was Arnie, who just like Asher had worked for Ford at Dearborn, although they’d never met at that sprawling town of a factory that had sucked in all and any labor it could get after the war—and spent the next few decades spitting it out.
They talked about old times, when Henry Ford’s blue oval was more like a national flag, then Asher went back to the library to read some more.
At midday, he left and headed for the Marist Center soup kitchen—known locally as the Catholic Club. Like most days, he did a shift there, serving the homeless and cleaning up afterward. The Catholic Club had kept him alive for those five years he never talked about, so he liked to return the favor. Then he headed home, hurrying past that part of the local park again. Back behind his padlock, he switched the radio on and started heating up his potato soup.
Later that same day, at Zone One Police Station, Pittsburgh, Schneider switched off the tape recorder and said, “You’re free to go, Mr. Peterson.”
“Is that it?” Michael replied.
“For now. We’ll be in touch.”
“But I’ve told you everything. You’ve got my goddamn life story here.”
Schneider just coughed, and looked at Gomez.
“I mean, are you gonna charge me or not?”
“Uh . . . It doesn’t quite work that way—not with charges of this kind. We have to discuss the interview tapes with our specialists.”
“So when do I get to hear what they say?”
“I can’t tell you that, sir.”
“And when do I get my passport back?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that either.”
Michael let out a long sigh. “Well, can you tell me who made these allegations?”
“Sorry. No.”
“You’re very helpful. Has anyone ever told you that?”
They all stood up.
“I’ll just see you out, Mr. Peterson.”
“Your kindness is stifling.”
“And remember to come here in person and let us know if you intend to stay away from your home overnight for any reason.”
“How ’bout I give you a call whenever I go to the can?”
“No, sir. Only if you—”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You gonna let me out now or what?”
One signature and two security doors later, he heard, “You’re free to go now, sir.”
“And you’re free to go to hell,” he muttered, but only after he’d turned and taken a few steps toward the door.
Outside it was starting to darken, so the flash made him yelp and lift his hands up as if to defend himself.
“Hey! What the hell . . .”
Another flash made him squeeze his eyes shut. His reactions weren’t what they used to be.
By the time he’d gathered his senses together, the man and his camera were fifty yards away. All Michael could do was send some profanities in his direction.
The next Monday, Asher started his usual routine. Oatmeal followed by a handful of blueberries for breakfast. Prepare lunch—potato soup for one. Then out into the big bad world and a slow walk to the library, speeding up for the park section.
At the library, he headed straight for the newspapers and put his reading glasses on.
He always read through the previous day’s New York Times—at least, he read through the national news, international news, health, food, weather, and arts. But sports, showbiz tittle-tattle, fashion, and the rest? Ah, who cared? He used to read the technology and science sections to keep up with progress, but didn’t any longer because—
Damn! He laughed to himself, because there was no point getting angry. Someone had beaten him to it. There was no New York Times. He stalked up and down, peering over people’s shoulders to find the guilty party.
But that person had clearly taken their guilt home—along with the goddamn New York Times.
Why did people steal newspapers? This was a public library. As in, for the public.
He sighed quietly and returned to the rack of papers. Three hours to kill. But that was always the life of the pennile
ss.
He took a minute to peruse the various newspapers and the magazines about computers and music and . . .
The Detroit News. He hadn’t read that in a while. That would do. But then something else caught his eye. It was the Detroit Jewish News. Even longer since he’d read that one. And quite a while since he’d thought of himself as Jewish.
For a second, Asher was a young boy again, his playground the expansive Ukrainian prairies, with seas of shimmering wheat dotted with whitewashed farmhouses. But that was so long ago it felt like three or four lifetimes had passed rather than merely one. Back then, in the 1930s, he didn’t even speak English. He’d spoken Yiddish half the time, Russian half the time, and Ukrainian half the time.
Ha!
Well, it was funny in the 1930s.
He sat down with the Detroit Jewish News—the warm-up read.
Hell, he was out of touch. It had been a while. Some plans for a new synagogue. An interview with some young pop star.
He turned another page. Some politician on the receiving end of anti-Semitic slurs. Nuclear weapons in the Middle East.
Then another page. There he stopped. In a second, his mouth turned dry, his face burned, and his hairs bristled. He gulped and almost stopped breathing, then tilted the page toward the light.
The brightness perfectly complemented the expression of the man in the photograph. He looked scared, clearly flinching at the shock of the flash.
Asher stared at the photograph for five minutes. It was a long time to stare at one image, but then again, it had been a long time.
And the name. The name was . . .
A minute later, the newspaper was folded up inside Asher’s coat and he was casually walking past the counter, smiling and nodding politely as he headed for the door.
When the fresh air hit him he almost collapsed with fear. He’d always been a good boy. He’d never stolen anything in his life. Not until now.
He passed the park, walked up to his house, unlocked the padlock around the frame of his front door, and he was inside. Sanctuary. Today the Catholic Club would have to cope without him. That felt a worse crime than stealing the newspaper.
He hurriedly put his reading glasses back on, sat down at the kitchen table, and unfolded the newspaper. He flattened it against the tabletop and looked at the photograph again. It was still the same picture, but now he was on home turf his mind was working a little better. Now he could read and think properly.
He read the article until it quoted the name—the same name that was in the caption. It said the man was Michael Peterson. Except it didn’t say it was Michael Peterson, it said it was “Michael Peterson, who was interviewed Monday regarding historic war crimes.”
“Michael Peterson,” Asher said to the cold potato soup. “Michael Peterson . . . Mykhail Petrenko.”
He read the article all the way to the bottom three times, then stared at the photo. The face in general was vaguely familiar, but there was one huge pull for Asher, a feature he could hardly drag his attention away from. It meant there could be no mistake. Under the man’s left eye there was a distinctive vertical scar, cutting the bag under that eye in half.
“Pittsburgh,” he muttered. “Hmm . . .”
It took no more than a few minutes to decide.
He grabbed a paring knife, went up to the bedroom, and pulled the linen closet away from the wall. He shoved the knife between two floorboards so one section popped out.
Then the old candy tin was in his hands.
It was hardly worthy of the words life savings, but it was all he had. And what else was he going to spend it on—more potatoes? No, it wasn’t much, but it would certainly run to a bus ticket and a night or two in Pittsburgh.
He’d seen it in the movies. If he went there, any phone booth would have a local directory. And how many people called Michael Peterson could there be in Pittsburgh?
He left the house, grabbed a plain chicken sandwich for his journey, and headed for the bus depot.
It was a long journey, and as the daylight fell away, his mind wandered to a better world—a simpler world of farms and horses and harvests and fishing in the local river. And it was a better world. Perhaps they had little food, but they had enough. They had so little, yet they had so much. And life was so much simpler then, before . . .
He shivered at his next thought, of a perverted world where blitzkrieg, genocide, and the industry of human extermination were the norm.
He switched the light on above him and adjusted it to point directly at his face. That would keep him awake.
By the time he got to Pittsburgh, Asher was fit for nothing except checking into a cheap hotel and going to bed.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast, Asher asked for the telephone directory. That made much more sense than hanging around phone booths. He returned to his room and looked up every M. Peterson in the book.
The newspaper report said this Mr. Peterson was a resident of Pittsburgh city, not the larger metro area. That whittled it down to fourteen of them. But six were female and one was down as Martyn.
Seven numbers to call.
He called the first, and heard that he’d reached the voicemail of Matthew and Gillian Peterson.
He tried the second. Malcolm wasn’t too amused at being woken up this early.
He checked the third number, and his finger hovered over the phone.
What exactly would he say if the man confirmed his name was Michael? Hell, he’d only just considered that.
Hi there. Is your real name Mykhail by any chance?
What if he hadn’t been called that for a few decades? Would he slam the phone down when he heard his real name being uttered? Would he be angry or scared, thinking it was someone asking about these war crimes? If so, then Asher might never find him again.
And Asher didn’t want him scared off; he wanted to be friends. Sure, turning up on the doorstep would be more of a shock than a phone call, but he could explain better in person.
He scribbled down the five addresses and checked out.
He bought a pocket map of Pittsburgh and circled the addresses—his targets. Two were way to the south, and it made sense to try the closest ones first, so he took a cab to the Hill District.
He stood in front of the door, his collar suddenly feeling too tight, and took quite a few large breaths. His hand trembled as it knocked on the door.
Asher held his breath when the door opened, and was a little startled when a black man appeared. A very large one.
“Yeah?”
Asher felt his chest tightening, his sticky throat closing up.
The man looked beyond Asher and up and down the street.
“Say, you want somethin’, buddy?”
His tone didn’t suggest aggression, just no nonsense, but it hinted at a pretty damn scary aggression if the need arose.
“I’m looking for someone called Michael Peterson.”
“You found him.”
“Oh.”
The man shrugged. “And?”
The next moment, Asher felt the man holding his shoulder.
“You okay, old fella?” he said. “You don’t seem so good on your feet there.”
The man was right. Asher did feel slightly dizzy. He looked more closely at the man. There was no anger in his eyes, just concern.
Asher had to do this. He had to. And the quicker, the better. He took more deep breaths. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Thank you for your help. I just . . . made a mistake. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
Ten minutes later, Asher had managed to hail another cab.
“Could you take me to the Troy Hill district please?”
Chapter 27
Pittsburgh, 1997
Michael Peterson had long since finished breakfast. An early riser all his life, he was just back from his morning stroll and was about to settle down, fishing magazine in hand, in the sunroom that was tacked onto the back of the house.
He sat, but found it hard to get comfort
able. He tried to read, but found himself scanning the lines without taking anything in. He tried a newspaper instead, but movie reviews or sports scores or what some politician had or hadn’t said to “a source” didn’t seem to matter. Everything else faded into sepia when you stood accused of something that could wreck your life and destroy everything you’d spent fifty years building up.
Okay, so he’d changed his name when he’d come to this country all those years ago. So what? It avoided all the “How do you spell that?” and “Is that Russian?” crap. It was simpler, goddammit, just SIMPLER. Easier to spell, pronounce, remember, write down. If changing your name to fit in was good enough for Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis, then it was good enough for him. But the rule seemed to be that unless you were a star, it was assumed you were trying to hide some part of your past.
A few days after the police interview he’d had a legal briefing. He’d been told that any witness statements from that long ago would be torn apart by any half-decent attorney, and that was if it even got to court. As long as there was no physical corroborating evidence, such as photographs or official records, there was no way they would be able to lock him up or extradite him for trial elsewhere. Add the fact that the legislation quoted was relatively new and had little precedent, and there were a hundred and one legal obstacles they could put in the way.
So they said.
But could he trust legal people?
Some music might take his mind off these things. Perhaps a little André Rieu.
He groaned as he pushed himself up and out of the chair, and groaned again as the doorbell went off before he reached his tape player in the kitchen.
The press? he thought as he approached the front door. He’d had one or two of those damn parasites visit him since his picture had appeared in the papers. Then again, it could be the mailman with one of those certified mail things that had to be signed for. He’d received a few of those in the past few days: one from the court, some from his attorney.
He froze.
There’s nobody home, whoever you are.
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