Depraved Indifference (45 page)

Terzich nodded and a humorless smile flickered across his mouth. He said softly, “I understand. Please do not take offense, Mr. Karp, but it is difficult for me to believe that you are as naive as you pretend. No connection between the national security apparatus and your office? If you wish to pretend this, I will indulge you. As for your questions, please go on. As you point out so well, I do not have a choice in the matter.”

“OK.” Karp began, “First, I want to know how you came to supply information about the location of Milo Rukovina's typewriter to Sergeant Paul Flanagan.”

A look of faint surprise appeared on Terzich's face. “Oh, that.” He took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “May I?” Karp nodded and he lit up and took a deep drag. “Well, of course, when Karavitch was captured with Raditch and Rukovina, it became essential that we get our hands on him at once, so—”

“Why was it essential?”

“Because we knew that Rukovina and Raditch had been the conduit for money and arms from the U.S. to Croatian terrorists in Europe. Now, Rukovina is a rabbit and the other one is a moron. They had to be very closely directed by someone. What we did not know was who, although we had other evidence that it was a Croat living in this country, with former ties to the CIA. There are many such, and we did not have the resources to track him down.”

He smiled. “You understand, Yugoslavia is still a poor country. In any event, when Karavitch was captured with the other two, it became most probable that he was the one. We wished to talk with him because he, of course, would have the names of Croat sympathizers both in Yugoslavia and in other places. Also we wished to know what further mischief they were planning. But how could we get to him? We have no resources. As you say, we are on one shoestring here.

“So, while I am pondering this, I receive a telephone call from a man I know, a Croat, and an officer in an organization called Association for European Freedom. This organization is of course funded by the CIA, but this man and I have reached an understanding. He knows what I am, I know what he is, but we have an understanding, and sometimes money changes hands.”

“A double agent?” asked Marlene.

Terzich inclined his head a few inches. “Double agent is perhaps too dramatic. In any case, this man informs me that some people in the CIA are extremely upset about what Karavitch has done and do not wish him to remain in custody. They wish the case against him, the local murder case, that is, dismissed.”

Karp said, “Did he say that? The local case?”

“Yes, he was very definite.”

Marlene said, “Sure. The skyjacking's a federal rap. Once he's in federal custody he's a puff of smoke.”

“Right,” Karp replied. “OK, Mr. Terzich, go on.”

“So I asked him how this was to be done, and he said that if I was willing, arrangements would be made with the local authorities to retain me as a translator for the court, and that once this was done some means would be found to destroy the legal case. Naturally, I was suspicious, for I do not wish to expose myself in this affair. But he was firm. His people want me to do this, and no one else. So I agree. Why shouldn't a professor work as a court translator? I think that if it is too dangerous, I can always remove myself, and perhaps I can learn something by this, or find some way to get to Karavitch alone.

“In a few days, a Mr. Wharton calls me and asks me to be the translator, and I agree. For a while, nothing. I am very frustrated because never do they leave me alone with Karavitch. Then, one day, in a conversation between this Rukovina and his lawyer, John Evans, Evans asks him where is the typewriter that types the note and the message found with the bomb. Rukovina tells him, and Evans says he hopes the police do not find it, because it would be very good evidence against us. Later Evans mentions to me, as a joke it seemed then, how strange it is that the rules of evidence say that if the police find the typewriter it would hurt the client, but if he or I should tell the police about it, the case would be ruined and the client would go free.”

“Evans said that? Christ! What did you do?”

“Nothing. I waited for what I knew must come.

Then this policeman, this Flanagan called me and said that he heard I might have some information that would be useful to the police. And I thought of the typewriter and about what Evans had said. This must be why I am hired. So I agreed to meet him, but anonymously, and I took him to the machine.

“Now perhaps the case would be destroyed. But this is no great help to me. I must get to Karavitch before he is transferred to federal custody. Then my Croat friend calls me again. He says that Croatian nationalists have kidnapped the prosecutor in the case, you, Mr. Karp, and they plan to exchange him for Karavitch. Naturally, I must try to prevent this.

“Then Miss Ciampi comes to see me. She has the information I am lacking about Karavitch's location and movements. This confuses me because naturally I believe that the district attorney is working with the CIA. But perhaps, I think, there is a personal involvement. Perhaps she is more interested in Karp than in Karavitch. This is why I tell her that I have an agent with the terrorists, which is a lie, but I see by her face that she fears for your life. So I believe she is operating privately. Of course, I believe the police are involved, and that therefore she will not go to them. Obviously I have been mistaken in this. But all in all, I still believe it was a chance I had to take.”

Karp glanced at Marlene. She said, “It jibes.”

“Yeah, it does,” he answered. “Look, Mr. Terzich, I think that's all we need from you tonight. I'll come by with a stenographer tomorrow and take a formal statement. We're going to have to hold you and your people for a while, but I want you to know we appreciate your cooperation.”

He got up and called one of the cops Denton had left on duty. As Terzich stood to go, Karp said, “Wait a second, Mr. Terzich. Let me ask you one more thing: does the name Josef Dreb mean anything to you?”

Terzich nodded slowly, his expression neutral. “Yes, he was an SS officer based in Zagreb during the war and then later with the Prinz Eugen Division. A war criminal. Why do you ask that?”

“His name came up in connection with the case. What happened to him, do you know?”

“He escaped Yugoslavia after the war, but I recall he died shortly thereafter. Murdered in Italy, I think, by one of his companions.”

“I see. OK, that's it. Oh, one more thing. Have you got any idea why Karavitch would have wanted to hijack an airliner and plant a bomb at this particular time?”

Terzich appeared to consider this question for a long moment. Then he said, “You mean that it was irrational for an elderly man, who was secure in his situation, and besides an important link in a terrorist organization, to risk all for so futile a gesture. I have considered this as well, and I have come up with no rational answer. But perhaps there are irrational answers. You and I once had a pleasant conversation about the history of my country. You know that if a child is tormented and deprived enough, there is a good chance that he will grow up to be a madman. In the same way, some nations have a history so dreadful that their politics can become a kind of insanity. Often I think it is like that with Yugoslavia. In that view, for Karavitch to end his career in a demented fashion is perhaps understandable, even natural.

“There is a little story about this. A viper waits on the banks of the Drina. He wishes to cross, but he cannot swim. Soon an ox comes by and the viper asks it if he can ride across on its back. The ox says, ‘Of course not! You are a viper and you will bite me.' So the viper says, ‘Don't be foolish. If I bite you, we will both drown. Why would I bite you?' So the ox sees that this is true and he allows the viper to climb up on his back. Halfway across, the ox feels the sting of the viper's fangs. As he sinks he cries out, ‘Why have you bitten me, viper? Now we are both doomed.' And the viper says, ‘You forgot, ox. We are in the Balkans.' Perhaps you will get a better answer than this from Karavitch, Mr. Karp, but I doubt it.”

“God, I'm tired,” Karp said. “What time is it?”

“Almost three,” said Marlene. “Want to go home?”

They were sitting on the couch in the outer office. The cops and their prisoners had gone, leaving nothing but a wastebasket full of broken glass and plaster shards, and the dried bloodstains where the injured Yugoslavian had lain.

He let out a short, exhausted chuckle. “Yeah, can you carry me over your back? I can't believe I'm going through this shit. I'm a lawyer, it's supposed to be indoor work with no heavy lifting.” He paused and pulled her close. “I didn't say I was sorry yet for bitching at you. You rescued me, all right, just like in that song.”

“‘Tam Lin.' But from Israelis, another layer of weirdness. What's the story on that? You were going to tell me.”

He filled her in on what had happened since the attempted assassination in front of the courthouse. She took it all in, and then said, “So what do you think? Karavitch is Karavitch? Or Karavitch is this Nazi, Dreb?”

“I don't know. It seems kind of academic at this point, except to Leventhal and company. Who gives a rat's ass what his real name is. He killed Terry Doyle and he's going down for it. It's funny, though. This case started with a million questions. I wrote them down on a Chinese menu—who was doing what to whom and why. They're almost all answered now. The Church was screwing up the investigation because they didn't want one of their heroes exposed as a fascist killer. Pillman was screwing it up because of the connection between a couple of the Croats and a gang of Cubans the Bureau had been using for dirty tricks down south. The CIA? Because of the same Cubans, but mainly to protect whoever knowingly recruited a Nazi war criminal who had murdered American troops.

“The CIA involved Terzich because they needed a stooge to trash the case. And since it couldn't be any of Roberts's white shoe lawyers and it certainly couldn't be our glorious leader the DA, who better than a commie agent? They protect their people in Europe and knock out a senior agent in one shot, not to mention keeping the cover pulled up over World War fucking Two.”

“And Bloom went for it because … ?”

“He's a schmuck. Somebody called him from Washington and enlisted him in the service of this great nation. Somebody with major party connections, no doubt, who got him dreaming about Albany or the Senate, provided he did the right thing. And also, I hope I'm not flattering myself, it was a chance to get rid of the kid here. So, that fills in all the boxes, except for the big one, which could be the stopper if we don't get a good answer.”

“You mean the ox's question—why did he do it?”

“Yeah. It's time to go back and talk to the bad guys a little. And I think we can do it with more cooperation from their distinguished counsel than we have had heretofore. If we could just get some kind of total crusher on Karavitch or—who the hell is that?”

Somebody was walking down the hall singing an upbeat version of “I Love New York,” pausing to tap out the rhythm on the glass doors of the offices with something metallic and jingling as he passed them. At the door of the Criminal Courts office he beat a particularly loud crescendo as he finished the song and flung open the door.

“Guma! What are you doing here?” Karp asked in amazement.

Guma was equally amazed. “Butch, you got rescued! What happened? Marlene! What's going on?”

“Don't ask,” she replied. “Butch is safe and the bad guys are out of action. Hey, Guma, what's that funny smell?”

“Like aftershave, you mean?”

“No, sweeter, like candy.” She sniffed closer. “Smells like grape jelly.”

“Oh, yeah, I got a bite to eat on the way down. I must of spilled some on me. But look, what'd you mean they're out of action? What about Ruiz?”

“He sleeps with the fishes,” Karp answered.

Guma whistled. “Damn. Way to go. Who got him?”

“Later, Goom, I can't go through this whole thing again. But what are you doing here?”

“Oh, tonight was my big date with the divine Rhoda. I just thought I'd come by and clear up some details.”

“How'd it go?” Marlene asked.

“Great. I'm in love. By the way, I got to talk to you, Marlene, about these rumors you're spreading about my style in the rack. This shit gets around, it's gonna scare off all the cocktail waitresses.”

“Yeah, but Mad Dog,” Karp asked, “how'd it go? Did you get the keys?”

Guma grinned and held up the object he had been using to tap out the time: Klepp's key ring. “I just came by to pick up some blank tape. Then I was going to raid the DA's office, pull the originals, make copies, and get the originals back before morning.”

“Mad Dog, I love you! Hey, many hands make light work. Let's me and Marlene help.”

“I thought you were wiped out,” she said.

“I am, but this is too good to miss. Look, we should do the taping over at my place. I got this great stereo Marlene bought me.”

Guma said, “Sounds good. We'll go up, steal Bloom's shit, I'll drive you down to your joint, and while you do the copy, I'll go find somebody to slip Rhoda's keys back to her before she gets up.”

“Goom,” Marlene said, “it's past three in the morning. Who you going to get to run an errand like that?”

“Hey, babe, the city never sleeps. I'll find somebody suitable. OK, now give with the story, Butch. I'm on fucking hooks here.”

Rhoda Klepp groaned and tried to force her scrambled brains into order. It was a mistake. With consciousness came sensation, none of it pleasant. Her head hurt, a sharp, white-hot bar between her eyes. Eyes? She couldn't see. She tried to remove whatever was blocking her vision, and found that her hands wouldn't go to her face. She shook her head violently and chunks of something cool and slimy fell down past the side of her head. Then she got the smell, a sour garbagey odor, with something sweet added that seemed to be emanating from her own body. Then nausea hit her, and both ends of her digestive system demanded a visit to the bathroom at the earliest opportunity.