Liberation Movements (7 page)

The metro
brought him to the First District militia station, to homicide. Unlike many buildings that had been torn down and reconstructed in the socialist mold, this station retained its form from before the war. Habsburg flourishes decorated the high, narrow window frames and, along the third floor, cracked maidens gazed protectively down at the street. The cracks continued inside, twisting along the buckling walls, painted over every few months in pale green.

Brano Sev had kept a desk there, on and off, for the past thirty years. As his apprentice, Gavra shared it. At the three other desks sat Katja and Imre, whom he greeted. The third desk was banally empty, and for an instant Gavra wondered if he’d be given Libarid’s desk. He was tired of pulling up a spare chair beside Brano.

The thought made him want to hit himself.

Katja and Imre—his feet propped on his desk as he spoke on the telephone—nodded back at him but didn’t say a word. There was a palpable gloom over the office. Brano didn’t look up at him, but that wasn’t unusual, because the old man came into this business at the end of the war, when state security agents learned how to let people hate them. He created distance with everyone, because he believed that it served him better this way.

Katja had never made a secret of hating Brano, and Imre, in his quiet way, felt the same. Even Chief Emil Brod, despite the obligations of his job and their long shared history, was never warm with Brano Sev, as he was with the rest of them. Brano Sev was a peculiar man.

Gavra paused at Katja’s desk. “How’s it coming so far?”

She tugged some blond hair behind her ear as her phone began to ring. “I’m going to check with the Hotel Metropol today. We only just got the names from the passenger manifest.”

She sounded tense, and she was squeezing a pen tightly. The phone continued to ring. “You going to answer that?”

She looked at the phone, then shook her head. “I know who it is.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a lowered voice.

“Nothing. Look, I wanted you to come along to the hotel, but the
Com
rade says you’re going to be occupied.”

“Take Imre,” he whispered.

Katja rolled her eyes. It was common knowledge that Imre Papp was a dunce. “Why can’t you come?”

“We’re interviewing a suspect.”

“Gavra,” said Brano, using a finger to call him over.

“What suspect?” asked Katja.

Imre, by the window, covered the telephone mouthpiece with his palm. “We’ve got a suspect?”

“It’s not for public discussion,” said Brano. “Gavra. Over here.”

As he moved to the old man’s desk, Katja said, “This is typical. Just the kind of lackluster help I’ve come to expect.”

Gavra pulled up a chair, and Brano leaned close. “I pointed out yesterday that it’s not common knowledge Wilhelm Adler is in this country. Let’s try to keep it that way.”

Just then the far door, marked
CHIEF
, opened, and Emil Brod stepped out. The small, graying man always had an air of confusion about him, and when he saw Gavra he looked for an instant as if he couldn’t remember who he was. “Gavra,” he said finally, coming forward and offering a hand. “Any news?”

“I only know what Brano’s told me.”

“Okay,” said Emil, rubbing fingers through his hair. “Keep me posted.”

The chief returned to his office as Brano grabbed his hat. “Come on, Gavra.”

In the car, Brano handed him a slip of paper with four names. “The hijackers arrived in the Capital on the twentieth, last Sunday, from Istanbul.”

Gavra read:

“They stayed two nights in the Hotel Metropol and then boarded Flight 54. They made no phone calls, and they had no visitors. As far as the Ministry can tell, they never left the hotel.”

“Why didn’t you tell Katja? She’s going to waste a day finding this same information.”

Brano paused, then said, “I don’t want that girl getting in the way.”

Gavra looked again at the paper. Two nights in the Metropol, no visitors, then direct to the airport. “How did they get the explosives?”

“It’s not hard,” said Brano as they passed an old woman selling homemade brooms. “Someone could visit the hotel restaurant at the same time as them and leave a package. If it was all arranged from Istanbul, there’s no way for us to track it down. But if Adler was involved…”

“Libarid would have had access to explosives,” said Gavra.

Brano chose not to answer.

After a grand escape from the Federal Republic of Germany in mid-1974, Wilhelm Adler spent three months in the German Democratic Republic, handing the Stasi all the information he had on the Red Army Faction’s present hierarchy and the security measures of the West German industrial elite. In return, they gave him an East German passport. He worked briefly at the Hotel Unter den Linden in East Berlin before meeting and falling in love with Buba Polinski, a tourist who, once the paperwork was settled, brought him back to the Capital with her. Since then he’d held a job at the Sachet Automotive Works, on the edge of the Tenth District, piecing together carburetors and sending them down the line.

When the supervisor pointed him out through the window of his office, they saw a slumped back, a small man, thin. Gavra was surprised by this. He’d read of Adler’s exploits with his RAF brethren: the bank robberies where they wore rubber Willy Brandt masks and distributed some of their withdrawals to the kidnapped customers; and the low-level politicians they photographed in captivity, then threw from fast-moving cars once they’d received their ransom. Gavra expected someone more erect.

The factory stank of grease, and the noise of the machinery was deafening, so Brano only tapped Adler on the shoulder. The German was neither unnerved nor taken aback by the sight of Brano’s Ministry card, nor did he hesitate when Brano nodded at the metal stairs leading up to the supervisor’s office. He followed Brano while Gavra walked behind them. Once inside, Brano said to the supervisor, “A moment alone, please?”

The supervisor, a big man, reddened and rushed out.

Adler sat at the desk. “What is it this time?”

“A couple of questions.” Brano sat across from him. Gavra remained standing, hands crossed over his groin, like a heavy in an American noir film.

Brano placed his hat in his lap. “Are you familiar with the Army of the Liberation of Armenia?”

Adler shrugged. “I’ve heard some things. I’m still in touch with my friends on the other side. My old comrades are putting up a good stand in Stockholm.”

“That’s already over,” said Brano.

Adler knotted his brows but didn’t speak.

Gavra said, “Last week, you made an international call to Norair Tigran in Istanbul. You told him about a particular Turkish Airlines flight, number 54, leaving from here, bound for there. You suggested he hijack it.”

Adler rooted in his ear with a finger. “Did he hijack it?”

“His colleagues hijacked it.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Because it hasn’t yet made our papers. Tonight’s edition.”

“I see.”

“Tigran is in prison.”

“That’s too bad.”

Gavra, despite himself, was impressed by this small, slumped man. He spoke as if the conversation were about lost dogs. Of course, Wilhelm Adler had been through a lot, and compared with the rest of his life, this interview was nothing.

“What about the four men?” Gavra asked.

He looked at Gavra. “What four men?”

“The ones who did the job. When did you give them the explosives?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gavra looked at Brano, and Brano nodded. So Gavra squatted beside the chair. He smiled up at Adler. “Have you ever been interrogated before?”

Adler grinned. “Of course. The BND put me through it at Stammheim.”

He patted the German’s knee. “No. I mean an interrogation.”

Adler crossed his hands over his stomach. “That’s what I just said.”

Brano walked to the windows overlooking the factory and lowered the blinds.

Adler said, “I’m not a little boy, comrades. I fought for the workers’ state.”

“Did you?” said Brano.

“I’ve killed five leaders of imperial capitalism. Two politicians, a bank owner, a—”

He stopped because Gavra had punched the side of his head. He gritted his teeth, blinking.

Gavra’s knuckles tingled as he spoke. “I don’t care what you’ve done, comrade. I only care what you tell me now. Inside this little office anything can happen. To me, there’s no one in this whole factory except the three of us.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

Brano watched as Gavra clutched the German’s hair and threw his head on the desk. It bounced. Gavra squatted again. “Listen, comrade. Sixty-eight people are dead, and one of them was a colleague of mine. I was fond of him. You’re the one who dictated what flight would be blown up, and you’re the only one I have my hands on.”

“Blown up?” he said, confused. “They weren’t supposed to blow it up.” He wasn’t able to see very well.

“What were they supposed to do?” asked Brano.

“Money—just money. And to free some comrades.”

“How did you know Norair Tigran?”

“A few years ago. West Berlin. A Marxist discussion group.”

“Okay, then,” said Brano. “Why that plane? Why that day?”

“A phone call.”

Brano straightened.

“What phone call?” said Gavra.

“I get them sometimes, all right? My old comrades know where to find me. But this was from a local. I suppose it was one of your guys.”

“Our guys?”

“From the Ministry.”

Gavra hesitated. “What did this person say?”

He sniffed. “Just to call Norair. Tell him about the plane. That plane, that day. He knew they were trying to decide when to pull it off.”

“Did he say who he was?” asked Brano.

“Of course not.”

“So why,” said Brano, “did you listen to him?”

Adler seemed briefly confused; then a trace of contempt entered his voice. “Are you guys for real?”

Gavra put a fist into his stomach, doubling the German over. “Answer the question.”

Adler took a few breaths. “These kinds of calls, I don’t question them. Yalta Boulevard has its own agenda, doesn’t it? We help liberation movements all over the world.”

Gavra wasn’t sure what to believe. He leaned over the German. “These men. They arrived in town on Sunday. And you met them at the Metropol to give them the explosives. Didn’t you?”

“No,” he said.

Gavra grabbed his ears. He tried to pull away, but by then Gavra had put his knee into his face. His nose started to bleed, and his eyes were dripping as Gavra squatted again. “Tell me the truth.”

“But I am,” he whispered, then wiped his nose and examined the blood on his fingers. “I wasn’t even here. I was in Sárospatak, in a hotel on the Bodrog River. With my wife. We came back late Tuesday.
Ask her
.” He coughed. “I swear I didn’t speak to anyone again after my phone call.”

Brano shrugged and said, “Of course you were in the countryside. We have your hotel registration.”

Gavra looked up. “What?”

“Come on,” said Brano. Then, to Adler: “Remember, you’re being watched.”

1968

In the tram, looking over the tired faces of his people, Peter knew that Captain Poborsky was right—he had lied about what had happened in that field, and lying was something he was adept at. He’d learned it at home, with his father. But he hadn’t lied when he said he would never leave Czechoslovakia.

He had followed his friends to the border out of a need to be with Ivana and knew that once they reached the border he would stop. Or he would cross but, after a few weeks or months, turn around again. He had grown up in this country, had known it all his life, and in this system he had studied music and built his modest world. To Peter, each system was as uncomfortable as the next; it only mattered which one you had become accustomed to.

He was back at the dormitory in a half hour. The corridor was as smoky as the café had been, with faces he recognized lining the walls. A few nodded, but most ignored him. They were part of a steady undertone of conversation that, before the Russians arrived, had been an overtone. At least that was something positive about the Russians’ appearance: It was quieter now.

When he opened the door to 305, a hand grabbed his shirt, pulled and threw him heavily on his cot. His head knocked against the wall. Josef stood over him, his dark features flushed. Behind Josef, Gustav from the medical school reclined on the other cot, watching calmly and scratching his beard.

“What the hell’s going on?” said Peter, sitting up.

Josef slammed the door shut. “Where were you, Peter?”

“I was in town, with Jan.”

“After that.”

“I came here.”

Josef stepped closer—he was very quick—and punched the side of Peter’s head. Ringing erupted in his ear.

Gustav, from the cot, said, “Don’t lie to us. We know you met an StB agent in the Obecní Dům.”

“The fucking Obecní Dům!” said Josef.

Gustav said, “Jan saw you.”

“Was I being followed?”

“I could kill you,” said Josef.

“What did you tell him?” asked Gustav.

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

Josef hit the side of his head again.

Peter raised a hand. “Cut that out, okay? I’m telling you I didn’t say a thing. I don’t
know
anything.”

“What did he want?” asked Gustav.

Peter flinched when Josef moved closer. “He wanted to scare me. He wanted names, of course. But I’m telling you, I didn’t give him any.”

“You were with him for a while,” said Josef.

“Well, you don’t just stand up and walk out when you’re dealing with these men. Do you?”

“I’d have strangled him.”

“No you wouldn’t have,” said Gustav. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, scratched his beard again, then looked up when someone knocked at the door. “Yeah?”

Jan poked his head in. “Josef, can we—” He noticed Peter on the cot. “Josef, can I talk to you out here?”

Josef closed the door as he left, and Peter looked at Gustav. “You don’t think I betrayed anyone, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think.” He stifled a yawn. “But you can appreciate that we’ve got to be careful.”

“Of course.”

“Josef likes to jump to conclusions.”

“He’s never trusted me.”

Gustav lit a cigarette and offered one. Peter took a drag, closing his eyes. “So what’s on the agenda?”

“What agenda?”

“My agenda?”

“You’ll be ostracized, at least until we can assure ourselves you’re not…one of them.”

Peter crossed a leg over his knee. “At least I’ll have time to study.”

“What if the policeman comes back?”

“I can’t tell him what I don’t know.”

Josef returned, his face a deeper red than before. He moved slowly as he sat beside Gustav.

“Well?” said Gustav.

Josef blinked. “It seems Peter hasn’t been completely honest.”

“Oh?” said Gustav.

“Oh?” echoed Peter.

Josef spoke through his teeth. “Today’s list of casualties went up an hour ago. Guess what?”

“What?” asked Peter.

“Go ahead. Guess.”

“Don’t screw around,” said Gustav. “Tell us.”

“No,” said Josef. “I want this bastard to take a stab in the dark.”

Peter shrugged, because though he knew, it was best not to know, and so he cleared the knowledge from his head.

“Come on,” said Gustav.

Josef leaned forward and patted Peter’s cheek with an open hand, then gripped his ear. “Ivana and Toman are on the list. They were killed outside
eské Bud
jovice.”

“That’s horrible,” said Peter. He tried to pull his ear out of Josef’s grip but couldn’t.

“Remember his story?” said Josef. “He bravely led the Russians away from his friends, who he’d gotten into a tough spot.” He twisted Peter’s ear just a little, so it hurt. “They didn’t make it out of that field, did they?”

“I don’t know,” Peter began, then grunted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He killed them,” said Josef. “His stupidity killed them, and he won’t even admit it.”

Gustav straightened. “That’s what it sounds like.”

“They were alive,” said Peter. “I last saw them alive.”

Josef punched him in the eye. He fell back, his head hitting the wall again.

Gustav leaned his elbows on his knees. “What are we going to do with you?”

“We can’t believe anything he says,” said Josef.

“No. We can’t.” Gustav stood up. “Come on. We’ll talk to the others and take a vote.” Peter began to stand, but Gustav held up a finger. “Not you. You stay here. The door will be watched. You understand?”

Peter nodded.