Liberation movements tyb-4 Page 6

  When the supervisor pointed him out through the window of his office, they saw a slumped back, a small man, thin. Gavra was surprised by this. He’d read of Adler’s exploits with his RAF brethren: the bank robberies where they wore rubber Willy Brandt masks and distributed some of their withdrawals to the kidnapped customers; and the low-level politicians they photographed in captivity, then threw from fast-moving cars once they’d received their ransom. Gavra expected someone more erect.

  The factory stank of grease, and the noise of the machinery was deafening, so Brano only tapped Adler on the shoulder. The German was neither unnerved nor taken aback by the sight of Brano’s Ministry card, nor did he hesitate when Brano nodded at the metal stairs leading up to the supervisor’s office. He followed Brano while Gavra walked behind them. Once inside, Brano said to the supervisor, “A moment alone, please?”

  The supervisor, a big man, reddened and rushed out.

  Adler sat at the desk. “What is it this time?”

  “A couple of questions.” Brano sat across from him. Gavra remained standing, hands crossed over his groin, like a heavy in an American noir film.

  Brano placed his hat in his lap. “Are you familiar with the Army of the Liberation of Armenia?”

  Adler shrugged. “I’ve heard some things. I’m still in touch with my friends on the other side. My old comrades are putting up a good stand in Stockholm.”

  “That’s already over,” said Brano.

  Adler knotted his brows but didn’t speak.

  Gavra said, “Last week, you made an international call to Norair Tigran in Istanbul. You told him about a particular Turkish Airlines flight, number 54, leaving from here, bound for there. You suggested he hijack it.”

  Adler rooted in his ear with a finger. “Did he hijack it?”

  “His colleagues hijacked it.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Because it hasn’t yet made our papers. Tonight’s edition.”

  “I see.”

  “Tigran is in prison.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Gavra, despite himself, was impressed by this small, slumped man. He spoke as if the conversation were about lost dogs. Of course, Wilhelm Adler had been through a lot, and compared with the rest of his life, this interview was nothing.

  “What about the four men?” Gavra asked.

  He looked at Gavra. “What four men?”

  “The ones who did the job. When did you give them the explosives?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gavra looked at Brano, and Brano nodded. So Gavra squatted beside the chair. He smiled up at Adler. “Have you ever been interrogated before?”

  Adler grinned. “Of course. The BND put me through it at Stammheim.”

  He patted the German’s knee. “No. I mean an interrogation.”

  Adler crossed his hands over his stomach. “That’s what I just said.”

  Brano walked to the windows overlooking the factory and lowered the blinds.

  Adler said, “I’m not a little boy, comrades. I fought for the workers’ state.”

  “Did you?” said Brano.

  “I’ve killed five leaders of imperial capitalism. Two politicians, a bank owner, a-”

  He stopped because Gavra had punched the side of his head. He gritted his teeth, blinking.

  Gavra’s knuckles tingled as he spoke. “I don’t care what you’ve done, comrade. I only care what you tell me now. Inside this little office anything can happen. To me, there’s no one in this whole factory except the three of us.”

  “But I don’t know anything!”

  Brano watched as Gavra clutched the German’s hair and threw his head on the desk. It bounced. Gavra squatted again. “Listen, comrade. Sixty-eight people are dead, and one of them was a colleague of mine. I was fond of him. You’re the one who dictated what flight would be blown up, and you’re the only one I have my hands on.”

  “Blown up?” he said, confused. “They weren’t supposed to blow it up.” He wasn’t able to see very well.

  “What were they supposed to do?” asked Brano.

  “Money-just money. And to free some comrades.”

  “How did you know Norair Tigran?”

  “A few years ago. West Berlin. A Marxist discussion group.”

  “Okay, then,” said Brano. “Why that plane? Why that day?”

  “A phone call.”

  Brano straightened.

  “What phone call?” said Gavra.

  “I get them sometimes, all right? My old comrades know where to find me. But this was from a local. I suppose it was one of your guys.”

  “Our guys?”

  “From the Ministry.”

  Gavra hesitated. “What did this person say?”

  He sniffed. “Just to call Norair. Tell him about the plane. That plane, that day. He knew they were trying to decide when to pull it off.”

  “Did he say who he was?” asked Brano.

  “Of course not.”

  “So why,” said Brano, “did you listen to him?”

  Adler seemed briefly confused; then a trace of contempt entered his voice. “Are you guys for real?”

  Gavra put a fist into his stomach, doubling the German over. “Answer the question.”

  Adler took a few breaths. “These kinds of calls, I don’t question them. Yalta Boulevard has its own agenda, doesn’t it? We help liberation movements all over the world.”

  Gavra wasn’t sure what to believe. He leaned over the German. “These men. They arrived in town on Sunday. And you met them at the Metropol to give them the explosives. Didn’t you?”

  “No,” he said.

  Gavra grabbed his ears. He tried to pull away, but by then Gavra had put his knee into his face. His nose started to bleed, and his eyes were dripping as Gavra squatted again. “Tell me the truth.”

  “But I am,” he whispered, then wiped his nose and examined the blood on his fingers. “I wasn’t even here. I was in Sarospatak, in a hotel on the Bodrog River. With my wife. We came back late Tuesday. Ask her.” He coughed. “I swear I didn’t speak to anyone again after my phone call.”

  Brano shrugged and said, “Of course you were in the countryside. We have your hotel registration.”

  Gavra looked up. “What?”

  “Come on,” said Brano. Then, to Adler: “Remember, you’re being watched.”

  Peter

  1968

  In the tram, looking over the tired faces of his people, Peter knew that Captain Poborsky was right-he had lied about what had happened in that field, and lying was something he was adept at. He’d learned it at home, with his father. But he hadn’t lied when he said he would never leave Czechoslovakia.

  He had followed his friends to the border out of a need to be with Ivana and knew that once they reached the border he would stop. Or he would cross but, after a few weeks or months, turn around again. He had grown up in this country, had known it all his life, and in this system he had studied music and built his modest world. To Peter, each system was as uncomfortable as the next; it only mattered which one you had become accustomed to.

  He was back at the dormitory in a half hour. The corridor was as smoky as the cafe had been, with faces he recognized lining the walls. A few nodded, but most ignored him. They were part of a steady undertone of conversation that, before the Russians arrived, had been an overtone. At least that was something positive about the Russians’ appearance: It was quieter now.

  When he opened the door to 305, a hand grabbed his shirt, pulled and threw him heavily on his cot. His head knocked against the wall. Josef stood over him, his dark features flushed. Behind Josef, Gustav from the medical school reclined on the other cot, watching calmly and scratching his beard.

  “What the hell’s going on?” said Peter, sitting up.

  Josef slammed the door shut. “Where were you, Peter?”

  “I was in town, with Jan.”

  “After that.”

  �
��I came here.”

  Josef stepped closer-he was very quick-and punched the side of Peter’s head. Ringing erupted in his ear.

  Gustav, from the cot, said, “Don’t lie to us. We know you met an StB agent in the Obecni Dum.”

  “The fucking Obecni Dum!” said Josef.

  Gustav said, “Jan saw you.”

  “Was I being followed?”

  “I could kill you,” said Josef.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Gustav.

  “I didn’t tell him anything.”

  Josef hit the side of his head again.

  Peter raised a hand. “Cut that out, okay? I’m telling you I didn’t say a thing. I don’t know anything.”

  “What did he want?” asked Gustav.

  Peter flinched when Josef moved closer. “He wanted to scare me. He wanted names, of course. But I’m telling you, I didn’t give him any.”

  “You were with him for a while,” said Josef.

  “Well, you don’t just stand up and walk out when you’re dealing with these men. Do you?”

  “I’d have strangled him.”

  “No you wouldn’t have,” said Gustav. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, scratched his beard again, then looked up when someone knocked at the door. “Yeah?”

  Jan poked his head in. “Josef, can we-” He noticed Peter on the cot. “Josef, can I talk to you out here?”

  Josef closed the door as he left, and Peter looked at Gustav. “You don’t think I betrayed anyone, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” He stifled a yawn. “But you can appreciate that we’ve got to be careful.”

  “Of course.”

  “Josef likes to jump to conclusions.”

  “He’s never trusted me.”

  Gustav lit a cigarette and offered one. Peter took a drag, closing his eyes. “So what’s on the agenda?”

  “What agenda?”

  “My agenda?”

  “You’ll be ostracized, at least until we can assure ourselves you’re not…one of them.”

  Peter crossed a leg over his knee. “At least I’ll have time to study.”

  “What if the policeman comes back?”

  “I can’t tell him what I don’t know.”

  Josef returned, his face a deeper red than before. He moved slowly as he sat beside Gustav.

  “Well?” said Gustav.

  Josef blinked. “It seems Peter hasn’t been completely honest.”

  “Oh?” said Gustav.

  “Oh?” echoed Peter.

  Josef spoke through his teeth. “Today’s list of casualties went up an hour ago. Guess what?”

  “What?” asked Peter.

  “Go ahead. Guess.”

  “Don’t screw around,” said Gustav. “Tell us.”

  “No,” said Josef. “I want this bastard to take a stab in the dark.”

  Peter shrugged, because though he knew, it was best not to know, and so he cleared the knowledge from his head.

  “Come on,” said Gustav.

  Josef leaned forward and patted Peter’s cheek with an open hand, then gripped his ear. “Ivana and Toman are on the list. They were killed outside eske Bud jovice.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Peter. He tried to pull his ear out of Josef’s grip but couldn’t.

  “Remember his story?” said Josef. “He bravely led the Russians away from his friends, who he’d gotten into a tough spot.” He twisted Peter’s ear just a little, so it hurt. “They didn’t make it out of that field, did they?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter began, then grunted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He killed them,” said Josef. “His stupidity killed them, and he won’t even admit it.”

  Gustav straightened. “That’s what it sounds like.”

  “They were alive,” said Peter. “I last saw them alive.”

  Josef punched him in the eye. He fell back, his head hitting the wall again.

  Gustav leaned his elbows on his knees. “What are we going to do with you?”

  “We can’t believe anything he says,” said Josef.

  “No. We can’t.” Gustav stood up. “Come on. We’ll talk to the others and take a vote.” Peter began to stand, but Gustav held up a finger. “Not you. You stay here. The door will be watched. You understand?”

  Peter nodded.

  Gavra

  Gavra was furious. He had brutalized a man who, though not innocent in the classical sense, was not guilty of the particular thing Gavra was thinking of as he put his knee into his face.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Brano turned onto Mihai Boulevard and cocked his head. “I wanted you to keep the pressure on. If you believed Adler had given them the explosives, then you’d push him. He didn’t move the explosives himself, but if he knew who had done it he would have said something. He didn’t know.”

  Gavra watched the gray Tisa flowing past. Everyone in the Militia office hated Brano Sev, and he was beginning to understand exactly why. Brano understood people; he knew them well enough to know what to say, or do, to most trouble them. And for Gavra, this method was finally showing results.

  When he was ten, Gavra’s father told him that a wild dog lived just outside their village, and that it ate children. When he realized that this was a lie to keep him from wandering, Gavra began to hate his father. Two decades later, his Ministry mentor was doing the same thing.

  Gavra lit a cigarette. “We need to look at the Ministry. Someone at Yalta called Wilhelm Adler and told him what information to pass on.”

  “We don’t know it was someone from the Ministry,” said Brano. “Adler doesn’t know-he’s just guessing.”

  “Ludvik Mas was waiting at the airport. He’s involved.”

  “We were at the airport,” Brano countered. “Does that mean we’re involved?”

  Gavra cracked the window to let out smoke. “You know what most bothers me?”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re choosing to ignore the biggest connection-or coincidence. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Then enlighten me, Gavra.”

  “Why was Libarid, the only Armenian in the Militia, on a plane taken over by Armenian terrorists?”

  Brano didn’t answer at first. He turned onto Karl Liebknecht, a small side street filled with vegetable shops, and parked. “Continue.”

  “I just think it shouldn’t be overlooked.”

  “Do you propose speaking to Zara, his widow? One day after she’s learned her husband was killed?”

  Brano was testing him; he knew that. The old man always looked him in the eyes when he wanted to measure Gavra’s abilities. “Why not?”

  “Okay,” Brano said as he started the car again. “Let’s go see her.”

  They parked in a narrow, muddy lot in the Tenth District, between block towers riddled with terraces hemmed in by opaque colored glass. Each piece of glass was cracked. They took a loud elevator to the fifth floor and found TERZIAN on a plaque beneath an eyehole. “Go ahead,” said Brano.

  Gavra pressed the buzzer.

  From inside came a woman’s voice, “Vahe…Vahe, no!” Then footsteps, and a pause as she peered through the eyehole. Zara opened the door, a robe pulled tight around her small body, her face swollen, her eyes slits. “Brano. Gavra.”

  “How are you?” said Gavra.

  She looked at him as if the question made no sense. She glanced back. “Come in.”

  They sat in the cramped living room, trying not to step on Vahe’s wooden toys, which were scattered across the carpet, though the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Zara,” said Gavra.

  Brano shook his head; he was choosing silence.

  She sat in a stiff wooden chair and put her hands together between her knees, as if in prayer. “Did you catch them?”

  “We’re working on it,” said Gavra.

  She nodded, and Gavra noticed Brano was sudd
enly distracted, looking at the wall. To the left of the television hung a large cross decorated at the ends with ornate swirls.

  “Which is why we’re here,” Gavra continued. “These terrorists, the ones who were responsible. I guess you know they were Armenian.”

  She nodded again.

  “So we’re trying to follow up on any possible connection.” He cleared his throat as she stared at him. He should have thought this through before coming here. “During the past few weeks, did you or Libarid have any contact with Armenians you didn’t previously know?”

  “You’re asking if we’ve been talking to terrorists?”

  He shook his head. “No. What I mean is, the Armenian community here is very small, and it makes sense that if new people arrived, it would be well known.”

  She sighed. “Gavra, when people leave the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic, they don’t come here. They go to Moscow, or Belgrade, or even New York. But not here. The Armenians you find in our country had the bad fortune of being born here.”

  She bit her lip, as if what she’d said hadn’t come out right. From a back room, Gavra heard the child humming.

  “Do you go to church?” Brano asked, nodding at the cross.

  Zara’s cheekbones reddened, and she smiled at him, but it wasn’t a kind smile. Her small eyes were pink. “Comrade Sev, my husband may have kept our religion a secret, but I’m not my husband. Here.” She reached back to the bookcase behind her and grabbed a thick book called Orations — the collected writings of General Secretary Tomiak Pankov. She opened it to show that the guts had been ripped out and replaced with a leather-bound book, gold squiggly letters across the cover. “Here it is, comrade. I’m not going to hide my Bible anymore. Want to read?”

  Brano said nothing, only leaned back and crossed his arms over his stomach, while Gavra tilted forward, elbows on his knees.

  “We’re not here to make accusations, Zara. We’re trying to figure out what happened to Libarid.”

  Zara closed the book as Vahe stumbled into the room, grinning. There was a smudge of dirt across his forehead. When he saw the men, he stopped. “Come here,” Zara said, and he approached warily. She replaced the book in her lap with her son, wet her thumb with her tongue, and wiped his forehead clean.