Olen Steinhauer - Victory Square

“Chemicals,” Bernard guessed. He reached down to take Sanja.

“So how was it?” I asked.

“How was what?”

“Don’t be funny. It doesn’t suit you.”

People say a lot of things about Tomiak Pankov now, most of them true, but back then you could think what you wanted; it didn’t change the fact that his very name frightened you. So none of us said it aloud.

She’d done his portrait in the newly finished Workers’Palace, that Third District monstrosity fronted by the long, cobblestone Workers’Boulevard, which The Spark continually reminded us was one meter wider than the Champs-Elysees.

She frowned, trying to find the words to describe the experience.

“Scary?” I offered.

She blew some air, then nodded. “Terrifying. I got some nice shots, though.”

“That’s good.”

“They searched me.”

“What?” said Bernard, bouncing Sanja on his hip.

“On my way out. They searched me. As if I were a thief.”

Neither of us knew how to answer that. Agota reached for her purse as she stood. “I’ve gotta go. Train leaves in a half hour.”

“Wait a minute,” I told her as we started up the stairs. “Let’s call your father-I might drive you halfway. He can take you the rest.”

Bernard groaned loudly. He and his father-in-law spoke only at family gatherings in the Tisakarad farmhouse. Even then, conversation was strained. He smiled, pressing his nose against Sanja’s. “If you can get him to speak about something other than how much the French love him, you’ll have done a great service to humanity.” “Bernard,” warned Agota.

Back in the office, I closed the door and pulled the blinds shut before dialing. After three rings Magda Kolyeszar picked up. We hadn’t talked in a month, and it surprised me how old she sounded. “Emil, that you?”

“How’s the easy life, Magda?”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve been assigned the job of archivist.”

“Archivist?”

“For the dissident. It’s amazing how much bad writing you can accumulate over a lifetime.”

“You should read my case reports.”

She gave a polite chuckle. “You hear about Agi’s commission? Scares me to death.”

“She’s here now. Made it out without a scratch. Is the farmer in?”

“You’re in luck,” she told me. “He’s decided to stay in today. You’ll put Agi on afterward?”

Sure.

She called for her husband, and after a moment that deep voice came on the line. “Emil?”

“Ferenc.” I leaned into the receiver. “How’s the farming?”

“The land doesn’t like me.”

“Can we meet today?”

“Important?”

“I’ve got a dead Ministry officer, and I’d like to know what all’s possible.”

“Who?”

“Yuri Kolev. Lieutenant general. You know him?”

“I know them all, but…” Ferenc trailed off. “The usual spot? I’ll have to get back for tonight’s rally”

“Should you say that over the phone?”

He made a harruph noise. “Trust me, Emil. They know already.”

“What time?” I said, looking up as Agota opened my door and smiled. I waved her in.

“Say, three o’clock.”

By the dusty clock on my wall, it was a little after one. “Perfect. Hold on. I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you.”

It was one by the time Gavra reached the Stop amp; Drop office. The next flight from Richmond to New York wouldn’t leave until late that night, so in the meantime he could at least catch up on his sleep.

Yuri Kolev’s death surprised and disturbed him, but it couldn’t be called a shock. Gavra had long heard Ministry rumors about the Lieutenant General’s cocaine addiction, and so a sudden heart attack wasn’t out of the question. He even began to wonder if this whole job had been some drug-fueled fantasy.

But no. Brano Sev had made such a particular point of trusting the Lieutenant General that Gavra had no choice but to feel the same. That’s how much General Brano Sev’s judgment meant to the younger man, even though he hadn’t spoken to or heard of Brano in the last three years.

Brano Sev’s postretirement vanishing act had only deepened his near-legendary reputation among Ministry agents, as well as those of us in homicide who had worked with him. He’d fought the Germans in the Patriotic War, tracked down ex-Nazis after it, and had quietly, meticulously, made the country safe for socialism. His name evoked both admiration and fear. For me, though, his name provoked feelings of revulsion.

But if the now-absent Brano Sev had said that Lieutenant General Yuri Kolev was to be trusted, that was all Gavra needed to know.

He found Freddy behind the desk, feet propped up, wearing an Orioles cap. Freddy raised the brim with a knuckle. “Well, hey there, Viktor! Decide to take me up on that beer?”

“I need to pay my bill. I’ll be leaving tonight.”

“As you like, man. But as for the beer, I’m insisting.”

“I’m a little tired, Freddy.”

“Trust me. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

Gavra rubbed his eyes for effect. “Okay, but just one.”

Freddy leveled a finger-pistol at him and shot. “You got it, buddy.” He took two cans of Budweiser-not the Czech Budweiser Budvar but something else entirely-out of a tiny refrigerator and passed one over. Gavra tried to appear pleased with the taste-like a half-can of beer topped off with stale water-but it was difficult.

Freddy began their fraternity by complaining. About his old woman. Which Gavra took to mean his wife, Tracey. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s a good woman. Puts out like a goddamned machine and makes a massive pot roast. But that mouth on her… wow! Sometimes I’m like to take a swing at her.”

“You hit her?”

“Not yet, brother. But someday it’s gonna happen. Got yourself a wife?”

Gavra shook his head.

“No problem. How old are you? Fifty?”

“Forty-four.”

“Well, don’t hurry into it. That’s a tip from the top. Might as well track down all the pussy you can before buying the cow. Can’t imagine it’s any different in Russia.”

“It’s the same all over.”

“Who you visiting with?”

Gavra rubbed his eyes. He wished he could get through this terrible can and to bed. “My cousin, Lubov. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“Lubov Shevchenko?”

Gavra thought he’d heard wrong. Not merely that Freddy knew Lubov Shevchenko but that he’d pronounced the name correctly. “You know him?”

“Course I do! My kid, Jeremy, he’s got Shevchenko for math. He’s a tough bastard, doesn’t stand for no bullshit in his class.” He raised his beer in a kind of salute. “Country needs more teachers like him.”

“He teaches?”

“I kid you not. Didn’t Lubov tell you?”

Gavra was speechless a moment. “You know Lubov. He’s secretive.”

“Tell me about it,” said Freddy. He scratched his beard. “I figured it was all Russians, but meeting you, I see it’s just Lubov. School’s just a little farther up the turnpike. Clover Hill High. Done all right by himself, your cousin.”

“I’m glad he’s happy.”

“Land of the free, and all.”

He didn’t have to do this. No one knew that, at the last minute, he’d been handed Lubov Shevchenko’s location. But opportunity changes how you look at the world. With Shevchenko just “up the turnpike,” Gavra could see that nothing really added up. A defector-turned-schoolteacher who needed to be kept alive. Why? A now-dead lieutenant general who wouldn’t share the man’s real name, who was in fact getting his orders from someone else who wanted to remain anonymous. He was starting to believe that the timing of Kolev’s heart attack was too much of a coincidence.