Olen Steinhauer - The confession

The station was busy enough-the regular throng of weekend travelers going to and from the Capital or stopping along other journeys, farmers and clerks alongside one another. I had a brandy in the bar, waved away a Gypsy muttering about all the children she had to feed, then returned to the main hall. A woman’s voice over speakers told me that the ten-twenty from Vienna, headed to platform six, would be fifteen minutes late. She repeated the announcement in Russian.

I looked at my empty glass.

At exactly ten, Leonek arrived, hunched and dark, almost a Gypsy himself. He crept over with a nod.

“You look like hell. What happened to your hand?”

It was covered in thorn scratches. I stuffed it into my pocket. I smelled like hell, too.

“So you going to tell me?”

I nodded at the arrivals board. “The ten-twenty from Vienna. It’s late.”

“Who are we waiting for?”

“A Frenchman. I don’t want to stop him. I want to see where he goes.”

“Where’s Emil?”

“At home with his wife, where he should be.”

Leonek looked up at the arrivals board to avoid showing me his expression. Then he looked back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ve told you. A Frenchman. The ten-twenty.”

“Not that.”

He seemed to want to discuss it. But I didn’t think I could converse right now, and I saw no need to help calm his guilt. “Let’s wait over by the bar.”

We leaned on the counter, looking through a window over the platforms and drinking slowly. He said, “I learned something very interesting.”

“Did you.” I looked past him at families chatting about times and places and people.

“I finally made it through that interview. Had to use a Russian dictionary for half the words.”

“Should’ve had someone translate it for you.”

“I’m stubborn.”

“I guess you are.”

He looked at his coffee. “Turns out this Boris Olonov knew quite a lot. He told Kliment the names of two of the other three soldiers who killed the girls.”

“What about the third?”

“Wouldn’t give it up. But more importantly, he knew about Sergei’s murder, because there was a witness to it.”

“Someone saw Sergei killed? How did he know about that?”

“Because another soldier knew the witness,” he said. “Now ask me his name.”

“The soldier’s?”

“No, the witness’s.”

“Okay. What’s the witness’s name?”

Leonek smiled. “Nestor Velcea.”

“Nestor-” I began, but stopped. “That’s impossible. Isn’t it?”

“I didn’t make it up.”

I reached for my drink, but it was empty. I couldn’t believe the coincidence. It couldn’t have been a coincidence-that was obvious. But I couldn’t see anything clearly yet. “So what’s the connection?”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Nestor witnesses Sergei’s murder,” I said, thinking it through slowly. “And soon after goes to a work camp.” But I couldn’t follow the thought through because it was time for us to meet the train.

It crawled to us and stopped, its brakes gasping. The rain had given its hull a bright sheen, washing away a little of the dirt. The doors opened and spilled passengers onto the platform. We each took a side of the crowd, watching faces under newspapers held like umbrellas. As the crowd thinned, I saw Louis holding a small, beaten suitcase. I motioned toward him, and Leonek nodded.

Leonek retreated to the other side of the engine as I sat on a bench that faced the opposite direction. I wanted to hide my height. Then I leaned forward as if to tie my laces and looked back between my legs. His feet shuffled past. Ten seconds more. Then I stood slowly and turned around. His back disappeared into the main hall, followed by Leonek’s.

I tossed Leonek my keys and waited by the front door. As he started my car and swung around to get me, Louis climbed into a taxi.

We followed it south. Leonek had to speed up suddenly at some corners, nearly running down irate pedestrians, and below the passenger’s seat I pressed my foot into the imaginary brake. “Turn on the wipers.”

“Rain’s not so bad.”

“Turn them on.”

The streets narrowed, and the taxi stopped at the Hotel Metropol. Louis went inside.

I said, “Let’s give him a minute to get to his room.”

Leonek parked across the street, and we checked our pistols for cartridges.

The lobby’s low ceiling gave the white room a feeling of immense breadth. The men lounging on the upholstered chairs with issues of The Spark didn’t seem to notice us, but I still wondered how many of them were state security men-this was a hotel that housed foreigners, after all-and if they knew anything about Louis. The clerk was a young man who set his fingertips on the counter when he spoke; “Good evening, comrades! Two rooms or one?”

“We’re looking for one of your guests.”

I showed him my certificate, and that made him more eager. “Well of course, Comrade Inspectors. Do you have a name?”

On a hunch, I tried Nestor Velcea first.

He went through a ledger, tapping his fingers happily on the page, but found no Velcea.

“I’m sorry, comrades. Perhaps,” he said, then lowered his voice. “Perhaps an alias? ”

Leonek looked at me, but I shook my head, “Maybe you’ve seen him. About this tall.” I held my hand at shoulder-height. “Blond hair. Missing a finger on his left hand.”

“A finger missing? Oh, that’s good. But no, no one like that.”

I leaned on the counter. “All right. Let’s have Louis Rostek, then.”

I knocked, and Leonek waited beside the door, so that he could not be seen through the viewhole. I knocked again and waited. The light in the viewhole darkened a moment, then brightened. I knocked and said, “Louis? This is Ferenc. Georgi’s friend. Maybe you don’t remember me-”

A crash came from inside the room. I pounded with a fist.

“Louis? You all right in there?”

Something fell to the floor; Louis groaned.

I threw my shoulder into the door, and the second time it popped open. The room was empty. I ran to the bathroom and found Louis climbing to his feet. The window was broken. I helped him up. “What are you breaking things for, Louis?”

His face was deep red, and the fear popped into his eyes when he saw Leonek over my shoulder. “Oh God, Ferenc. Oh God.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. Nothing to worry about.”

He shook his sweat-damp hands and came with me back into the main room. Leonek was trying to latch the broken door shut, but couldn’t, so he leaned against it. I set Louis on the bed.

“What do you think I’m here for? To kill you?”

Louis looked up at me, his big eyes shivering in their sockets. “Well…what are you here for?”

I sat and put my arm around him; he flinched. “Well I’m certainly not here to kill you. Where would you get an idea like that?”

He looked at Leonek, then at me, the terror just beginning to subside. “Nothing.”

“You’re on the fourth floor,” said Leonek. “You would’ve broken your neck out there.”

Louis looked at the open bathroom door, then shook his head and, unexpectedly, laughed. “You’re right about that one. I’m not cut out for this.”

“Is there a bar in here?” I asked, and Louis nodded at a cabinet. I poured him a vodka. He took it quickly, so I poured him another. “Better now?”

Louis nodded. “You were the last person I expected to see on the other side of that door, Ferenc. How’s the writing coming?”

“We’ll talk about that later. First, let’s talk about our mutual friend.”