Olen Steinhauer - Liberation movements

Gavra rubbed his nose.

Where the men were closed to new experiences.

That was when Gavra finally comprehended Brano’s words. Because, love for one’s family or not, who would not choose to shake loose of the Capital and stay, indefinitely, in this paradise?

Then Ludvik Mas left the mullein plant to use one of three pay phones along the opposite wall.

Gavra sipped his coffee as he followed, watching Mas nod into the telephone and bite his lip between words. He reached the next phone and picked it up. Mas was saying, “Of course it’s irregular. That’s what I’m telling you.”

Gavra slipped in a coin and began to dial a random number.

“Okay. But patience isn’t easy. Yes. Yes.”

Mas hung up and walked back to his corner.

“Who are you calling?” It was Brano.

“I was listening to Mas’s conversation.”

Brano, blinking rapidly, shook his head. “Forget that for now. Come with me.”

He followed the colonel down a busy corridor to a door marked GUVENLIK — security-beside which stood another handsome guard wearing a tall cap. Gavra gave him a smile he didn’t return.

The airport security office was small and dark, lit almost solely by the blue haze of video monitors and the glow of five cigarettes held by five sweating men. The scent of Turkish tobacco, which last night at the club had seemed so intoxicating, now made him want to flee.

“This is my associate, Gavra Noukas,” Brano said in English. “Nothing is to be kept from him.”

It was an introduction he appreciated. Gavra nodded at each man, but none introduced himself. A fat Turk sitting in front of the monitors, said, “What to tell? There is no more plane. It blow up over Bulgaria.”

Gavra touched the back of an empty chair to steady himself. “What?”

“The pilot, he reports they are hijacked. So we talk to the hijackers-Armenians, members of…of the what?”

“Army of the Liberation of Armenia,” said another man.

“Who are they?” Gavra asked.

The fat man shrugged. “Who knows? Just more dis…disaffected Armenians what think his empty bank account is the fault of Turkey. We talk to them, then lose contact. Then the plane, it disappear from the radar.”

“You’re sure it exploded? It didn’t go down?”

Brano explained. “The Bulgarians saw it. Sofia Airport reported the fireball.”

“Before we can answer the demands,” said the fat man.

Gavra turned the empty chair around and sank into it. “Then why did they hijack the plane?”

The fat man shook his head. “You think I know, kid?”

“You said you have a recording?” asked Brano.

The fat man nodded. “They bring the equipment right now. But it’s no help. None. Probably they just wire the bomb all wrong. Fucking Armenians.”

Brano turned to Gavra. “I want you to watch him, Ludvik Mas. Maybe he has nothing to do with this, but if he leaves, you follow. Do not make contact, only follow. Here are the car keys. You understand?”

“Okay,” Gavra said. “But Libarid, wasn’t he Ar-”

“Now,” said Brano.

It was seven by the time he left Private Stanislav Klym and, a little drunk, began tracing his steps back through the darkening university district. He was surprised by how unchanged it looked. He’d expected crumbled buildings and commons areas turned into impromptu graveyards, but Prague was much as it had been before he left, the few people he saw only looking a little more exhausted.

He caught a half-empty tram, held onto the leather strap, and, as he swung back and forth, wondered if he hated, or if he should hate, Stanislav Klym. There was something that gnawed at him about the man, but it wasn’t hatred. Despite the invasion, and despite what had happened outside eske Bud jovice, he never felt the urge to spit in any soldier’s face. They were boys just as he was a boy, taken from their homes and stuck in a city where, like Stanislav, they’d rather be tourists.

He wasn’t upset with Stanislav because of his uniform but because of what the man had. Stanislav was happy; he had a life back home he was eager to return to. Whereas Peter Husak was returning to nothing.

In the Tenth District he got out and walked up Pod Stanici to the Hostivar? dormitory, which was decorated by a painted proclamation: AN ELEPHANT CANNOT SWALLOW A HEDGEHOG. He nodded at the young men who stood at the front door as if they were guarding the place. Inside, a thin, spectacled political science student ran up to him. “Jesus, what are you doing here?”

“I didn’t make it, Jan.”

Jan gripped his shoulders and squeezed as tight as his weak fingers could manage. “Christ. Peter-”

“I’m really tired. Can we talk later?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Jan patted his back. “I’m glad you’re all right. Josef’s up there now.”

He took the stairs to the second floor and paused in the empty corridor. The window at the far end was broken, and a cool evening breeze swept through. He took a breath and knocked on the door marked 305.

“Yeah?”

On one of the two cots, his roommate, Josef, lay with a book propped on his chest. Then he dropped it and was on his feet, his small, dark face twisting. “What happened?”

“They caught me,” he said as he dropped into his own cot. “Near eske Bud jovice.”

“Where’s Toman?”

Peter shook his head. “Toman and Ivana weren’t caught.”

“They made it?”

“I assume so.”

Josef paced a moment, as if this news opened a whole new world to him. Then he stopped. “But you’re all right, Peter? They didn’t hurt you.”

Peter stretched out and intertwined his fingers behind his head. “Just questions.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you give them anything?”

Josef had never wanted to bring Peter in on the marches in the first place. He’s got no political conviction, Josef had told Toman. Peter shrugged. “I don’t know enough to tell them anything. You never let me know.”

The pacing began again. “You see why now? If they’d gotten names out of you, there’d be hundreds more dead.”

“Yes, Josef.”

“They were around here, you know. Some bald bastard. Asking questions.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But at least Ivana and Toman made it. They’ll let the Americans know the truth.” He finally sat on his cot and clasped a knee. He sniffed. “Say, Peter…are you drunk?”

“A soldier bought me drinks.”

“One of ours?”

Peter shook his head.

“And you accepted his drinks?”

“I needed them. If you’d ever been in prison, you’d know.” He closed his eyes. “All he wanted was to tell me about his girlfriend.”

Back in the arrivals lounge, Gavra lit another cigarette. His hand didn’t shake, but it seemed that it should. A plane had exploded. His stomach felt like it was working on a stone.

Claustrophobic Ludvik Mas was still by the mullein, trying unsuccessfully to look patient. Gavra scanned the other faces in the crowd, old women and young men and whole families. There was no concern in their sweating faces, only frustration. Some approached the information desk, and the girl did a good job with her smiles and sympathetic shakes of the head, as if she really didn’t know what was going on. Maybe she didn’t.

Ludvik Mas checked his watch. He confirmed it with a clock on the wall-6:48 in the morning-then walked over to the telephones. Gavra joined him, two down.

“…nothing, that’s what I’m telling you. And they’re not saying anything.”

Gavra tapped cigarette ash on the floor and began to dial.

“Who told you that?…I would have noticed something, some activity…Okay. Yes, comrade, you’re right. It does appear she didn’t play along.”