Olen Steinhauer - Liberation movements

Once he was gone, Brano rewound the tape and pressed STOP. Then PLAY.

The voice that came out was staticky, speaking English. “…and this is an order, from the Armenian Diaspora across the planet, sufferers of the genocide at the hands of the Turkish imperialists, in solidarity with our freedom-loving comrades in Palestine and West Germany…”

“He’s reading it,” Gavra said.

“Shh.”

“…a hundred thousand in United States dollars and the release from United States prison of the revered Gourgen Mkrtich Yanikian.”

Then came another man’s voice, clearer: “We understand. Just give us some time. You have enough fuel to remain in the air for-”

“I know this! We know everything. The Armenian nation has-”

The tape squealed as Brano held down the fast-forward button. “A lot of dogma here.”

“Who’s Gourgen Yanikian?” Gavra asked.

“American citizen, Armenian descent. Two years ago he invited the Turkish consul general and the consul to lunch at the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara, California. He shot them both with a Luger. Killed them.”

“Right.”

“I suspect,” said Brano, “that these people are connected to the Prisoner Gourgen Yanikian Group.”

“I remember. Two months ago.”

“Yes, in February they committed two acts in Beirut. They tried to bomb the Turkish Information and Tourism Bureau-it went off while police tried to defuse it. Then they set off a bomb in the Turkish Airlines offices.”

“I thought the ASALA did that.”

Brano shrugged. “The Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia also claimed responsibility.”

“Too many names,” said Gavra.

“Listen to this.”

Brano pressed PLAY.

The hijacker was crying now, and through the sobs he spoke Turkish that Brano translated in his monotone. “She said it. She’s one of yours. Yes. Because she knows even more. She told me. How did she know?”

A click, then the other man said in English, “What did she say to you?”

“Just that…that…” Brano translated, then stopped because the voice had gone silent.

“Hello?” said the other man. “Are you still there? Come in, five-four.”

There was no reply. Brano stared hard at the machine. “That was the last transmission before the explosion. It occurred a couple of minutes later.”

“‘She’?”

“I don’t know.”

Gavra sank into a chair. “A suicide. Then why the demands?”

“That’s the question.”

“Then let’s talk to Mas.”

Brano stood up.

The fat Turk’s name was Captain Talip Evren, and he found a guard to walk them through the security check. Mas was at Gate 5 with thirty other travelers, reading an old copy of The Spark, a leg crossed over his knee.

“Ludvik,” said Brano.

Mas looked up, then smiled easily, losing the claustrophobia of before. “Brano. What are you doing in Istanbul?”

“I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

“It’s the nature of our business we seldom get answers.”

“You were always philosophical, Ludvik.”

“Who’s the kid?”

Gavra said, “Captain Gavra Noukas.”

“Noukas?” Mas bit his lip. “I’ve heard about you.”

Brano sat in the chair next to him. “You were waiting for someone. Now you’re going back home. That’s correct?”

“Well, your boy was following me, so I don’t suppose I should lie.”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

Mas folded the newspaper into his lap and spoke with the patient confidence of a much older man. “Brano. Each of us has our orders, and we follow them. Yes, I was waiting for someone, but that someone didn’t arrive. I called my contact and learned what happened. It’s a tragedy, but the fact is that my job is now over. I’m going home. You’ll no doubt be asked to do the same.”

“How did your contact learn what happened?”

“My contact keeps his ear to the ground.”

A tone sounded, and a uniformed woman at a podium called, “Flight number 603-”

Mas stood. “Let the Turks take care of this. They have an admirable police force.” He shook Brano’s hand, then Gavra’s. His grip was sweaty. “Good to meet you, young man. And stick with Comrade Sev. He’s the best there is.”

That afternoon, Gavra sat at the Hotel Erboy’s small rooftop cafe, looking over the city while Brano used the telephone at the front desk. His vista included the mouth of the Golden Horn and thick-settled Beyo lu; in the foreground was a pair of handsome young Germans drinking vodka tonics by the ledge. One noticed him and smiled, then leaned to whisper to his friend, who glanced over and shrugged.

“They want us back home,” Brano said as he took the other seat. “There’s a flight at eleven in the morning.”

“What about the hijacking?”

“Nothing we can do here, and I suspect there won’t be much to do in the Capital. The Turks have the passenger manifest, and the Ministry’s looking into the records of four Armenians who were on the flight-we should hear something when we return.”

“Four Armenians with the exception of Libarid?”

“Yes.”

Gavra pulled out a cigarette as a ship in the Bosphorus moaned. “What about Mas? He could be connected to this. Maybe he was also waiting for Libarid.”

Brano shook his head. “It’s just a terrible coincidence. Libarid was on a plane that some Armenians wanted to use to get back at the Turks. It’s bad for us; it’s bad for Mas. It’s bad for everyone.”

“I see.”

“And I called the station. Gave the news to Emil. He’ll pass it on to Imre and Katja.” Brano was squinting in the light.

“Was it hard?”

The old man shrugged. “I’ve delivered this kind of news often enough. I think it’s going to be hard on him, though. Emil Brod does his best, but he’s not well equipped to deal with tragedy.”

“And you are.”

“Well, if I wasn’t, I doubt I’d still be alive.” Brano paused. “There are only two of us now.”

“Two of whom?” Gavra noticed that the Germans were paying their bill and leaving.

“Two veterans.” He frowned. “Stefan was killed back in the fifties, and at the same time Ferenc-Ferenc Kolyeszar, you’ve heard of that samizdat of his, The Confession — he was sent into internal exile and has been in a work camp the last three years. And now Libarid.” Brano blinked a few times, coming out of his reverie. “You’re not going out tonight, are you?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to have to kick some poor girl out of your bedroom in the morning,” Brano said, but without scorn.

The foreign soldier’s beers settled his frayed nerves and helped him drop into a deep, dreamless sleep for hours, until he was woken by gunshots outside. He blinked in the darkness, at first only hearing Josef snoring in the other bed. Peter crawled to the foot of his cot and peered out the window. Down on Pod Stanici, against the silhouette of another building, he saw a tiny burst of flame and heard another rat-a-tat. He couldn’t make out the figure with the gun, nor the intended victim. Boots crunched against the sidewalk, and as he waited for another gunshot he remembered that same sound just outside eske Bud jovice. A field, a shouted order from the road, then all three of them running westward through the stumps of harvested corn. Toman ahead of him, Ivana just behind. Toman was cursing- Fucking Peter, fucking goddamned Peter — beneath the rat-a-tat. Peter looked back in time to catch Ivana’s beautiful heavy-eyed face suddenly seize up. Then she fell forward, as if she’d tripped. Toman, ahead, was no longer shouting words, only long, painful notes, and Peter realized that he’d passed Toman’s writhing body in the stalks. But he kept on running as the rat-a-tat stopped and he heard one of the men at the road shouting at another in Russian. Though he knew Russian, he couldn’t make out the words.