Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

Erika, worried over the time and money already devoted to this questionable source, said, “No. I don’t see.”

“Where does truth come from?” he asked rhetorically. “For Protestants, it comes from self-examination. For Catholics, from assisted examination. For Orthodox Christians, a man of importance steps behind a screen, talks to God in secret, and comes out to tell you what God wants. It works the same way with politics. Politics for us is a dark, smoky room where a few important people come to an agreement. Afterward, they step out into the morning light and tell the masses that, say, they now live in a communist country. Or that they live in a capitalist one-it doesn’t matter. What matters is that my people will never believe that they’ve taken history into their own hands. That’s not reality for them. In our reality, democracy will always be an illusion.”

Erika nodded at this, if only to be polite, then realized she still didn’t have her answer. “And this is why you want double what we offered?”

“My dear, in a world where all important things are run by men behind closed doors, those outside would kill their own mothers to gain the favor of those on the inside. They will turn in anyone who smells vaguely off and even those who smell of roses. You see, I don’t have to work for you to risk my life; all I have to do is take the train back to Bucharest. You’re not only paying for my cooperation; you’re paying for my return.”

Nearly a quarter of a century later, Erika tried to align that assessment with the St. Tsar Boris the Converter Bulgarian Orthodox Church in the southeastern district of Neukölln, just below Kreuzberg. She stood in the back, the heavy smell of incense filling the gloomy air as the liturgy was almost hummed by a white-bearded man with a black cap and robes. The worshippers seemed to focus more on their hands, clutched in prayer, and most of them stood, which made her feel better hidden.

She had spotted the Stanescus early on. They were near the front with Adriana’s uncle, Mihai. Other pale-faced worshippers had embraced them in their time of need, and despite herself she felt a brief warmth at the thought that here it didn’t matter that the Stanescus weren’t Bulgarian; they were just grieving parents, which anyone could understand.

Then she cut the distracting thought from her head and stepped forward to get a better look. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find here inside the church, but she’d been in her particular line of work for so long that there was always the possibility she’d recognize a person of interest. None of these faces were part of her extensive memories, so she left.

She stepped out into the cool morning light and joined Hans Kuhn, who was waiting by the car. Inside it, Oskar tapped the wheel to the rhythm of a hip-hop CD he’d brought along.

By the time the worshippers began to spill out onto the sidewalk, she and Kuhn had gone through two coffees apiece from a sausage vendor, and she had eaten two käsewurst. She sent Kuhn ahead so she could finish wiping greasy cheese off her chin.

He returned with all three Stanescus. Andrei and Rada were small people who seemed smaller the nearer they were to Erika’s large frame. Both were in black, as was Mihai, the only one with dry eyes. It was Mihai who spoke first.

“Leave them alone, all right? Can’t you see they’ve been through enough?”

As if he’d said nothing, Erika introduced herself to the parents and offered a hand that would have taken rudeness to refuse; Andrei and Rada were not rude. Mihai, however, ignored her hand and went on. “They received their daughter’s body yesterday. My niece! Have some respect.”

“We have new information,” she told them and produced a printed-out image from the videocassette that Pullach had cleaned up and e-mailed that morning. “Do you recognize this man?”

Mihai grabbed the photo first, full of energy. Then he shook his head and passed it to Andrei, muttering something in Moldovan. Neither the mother nor father recognized him either.

“I think this is the man who took Adriana,” she explained.

Rada Stanescu began to cry, and her husband held her closer, an arm around her shoulders. “We answer your questions. Later, yes? Please.” Andrei had a pleading quality to his voice, and Erika remembered again why she hated going into the field.

“I understand,” she said, then turned to Mihai. “Perhaps you can spare a few minutes?”

He wasn’t as accommodating as his relatives, but as he watched his brother and sister-in-law walk away, he shrugged. “You can always take me down to the station if I refuse, yes?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then I don’t have to answer a thing.”

“In which case, I’d be very curious why you wouldn’t.”

Mihai blinked rapidly, perhaps a sign of an upcoming lie, perhaps not. “You know what I do for a living?”

“You’re a baker, and you help people move here.”

He smiled. “Yes, and no. It seems I spend most of my time answering police questions about the people I help. If pressed, I would have to say my main occupation is answering questions.”

“Then you’re experienced,” Erika said and opened a hand toward the car; Oskar was already starting it up. “Shall I occupy you a few minutes?”

Despite his attitude, Erika liked Mihai Stanescu. He was abrupt, to the point, a quality Erika herself was often accused of. He, like his brother, was a small man, but heavier and with an excess of dark hair that grew too quickly on his face and spilled out under his neck when he took off his tie in the Kreuzberg coffee shop they settled on. Erika ordered espresso, but wished she hadn’t when Mihai ordered Trendelburger Feuergeist-“fire ghost,” an aptly named clear liquor she felt she could use right now. When she stared at his shot glass too long, he raised an eyebrow. “You are paying for this, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” He swallowed it all in one go, then said, “Who’s the bastard?”

She glanced at Hans Kuhn near the doorway-she’d asked him to stay back. “You didn’t meet Inspector Kuhn before?”

“Not him.” He tapped the table with a stubby finger. “The one in the picture. The one who took my niece.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“How sure are you about him?”

“We have him on video talking to her just before she disappeared.”

His cheeks and forehead flushed; then he waved to the waiter for another Feuergeist.

“So?” said Erika.

“You’re the one with the questions, right?”

“You know what questions I have.”

That seemed to throw him. He leaned back and took her in with his eyes, then leaned forward again. “You want to know if I have any suspicions.”

“Yes.”

“If I did, I’d tell you.”

“Then tell me about Adriana. Why her?”

“How should I know?”

“Because you do,” she said. She’d been sure of it from the moment he started protecting her parents; he had the guilt of knowledge all over him. “Adriana Stanescu. Fifteen. Moldovan, like you. None of that is exceptional, but there was something special about her. It’s why she was taken. You tell me what makes her special.”

The second Feuergeist went down slower than the first as he considered his answer. He set down the half-empty shot glass. “I have my own demands.”

“Of course you do.”

“Silence. What I tell you-it’s not for the public. Can you promise me this? It’s only to help you do your job, nothing else. Because this is one case I’d like to see you solve.”

If his information proved valuable, the truth was that its public dissemination wouldn’t be her choice. The decision would move up to the second floor, and her opinion would be relegated to one of many blabbering voices that could be-and usually was-ignored. “I can promise this,” she lied.