Liberation Movements

Peter

Seven years later, with a new life, a family, a position and a new name, Peter sat at an outdoor cafe table between the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia, on Mimar Mehmet Aga Caddesi. He did not like Istanbul. It was unbearably hot, packed with the unwashed wretches of Islam, and the noise-what they generously called “music”-was inescapable. Even the mornings were filled with mournful muezzins who climbed their minarets and moaned wobbly prayers for the whole city to suffer through. And this was the city where, eight days ago, he’d stood in the airport waiting for a plane that would never arrive, wondering if its absence marked the end of his career.

He’d arrived badly, of course. A rough flight followed by a swarthy taxi driver who charged him three times the going rate to get to the Sultan Inn, then a hot room that opened onto the noise and stink of Mustafa Pasa, allowing him no sleep.

But his career had not ended-not yet-because he’d recovered swiftly, explaining to the Comrade Lieutenant General that the entire Rokosyn operation would be cleaned up, and soon. That was why he was here. It would be as if the operation had never existed, and the other departments of Disruption Services could continue unabated.

And the old man, always a sucker for easy solutions, only told him, Just clean it up fast. Had the Lieutenant General known what he knew about Zrinka Martrich, and how the Armenians ended up on her plane, he would have said something entirely different.

Up the street, a tablah — and- buzuq street duo made terrible sounds, and Peter felt again that all this could be dealt with, were it not for the music. That incessant, moronic percussion and those tinny, agonizing strings doing their best to remain out of tune. All in praise of fat, coin-adorned belly dancers.

The sweating man at the table with him-another fat one-no doubt loved all the chaos. That music was made for him. Like the music, this Turk lacked any trace of subtlety. After shaking Peter’s hand, he patted the table and spoke in his heavily accented English. “So you have it? The money?”

Peter admitted that he did have the money.

“I can see?”

Peter placed his elbows on the table. Beyond the shade of the cafe’s umbrellas, the unwashed throbbed, sometimes spilling in, grimy children bumping into the backs of chairs. “Not until I have my information,” said Peter.

The fat Turk frowned, then sipped his tea. He was a captain in their police force, used sometimes by this or that side of the Great Game for a nugget of information. It was perhaps the only trait that Peter shared with Captain Talip Evren: Neither had ever known the conviction of the zealot. Evren pursed his damp lips. “You like Istanbul, Comrade…?”

“I love it, Captain. And the music…what a people.” When he said this he made no expression to suggest he meant it.

Captain Evren grinned. “It is a sin…sin cere place, comrade. We are very open people. Sometime, sometime foreigners, they think we are very foolish. Stupid even. But you know in Ottoman time we are making algebra when you make fire with sticks.”

Peter leaned forward. “I don’t care what you were doing a thousand years ago. What I care about, Captain, is the reason I’m carrying two hundred Deutschmarks in my pocket right now.”

“You’re in the hurry, comrade! Why not a cup of tea?”

Peter hushed the shout before it reached his throat. Maybe it wasn’t the noise or the stink or the heat soaking his thin shirt that got to him; maybe it was simply that in Istanbul, the scene of his most complete failure, he so easily lost control of himself.

He took a breath.

He lit a cigarette.

“No, thank you, Captain. I’m not thirsty.”

The captain pointed at the cigarette pack on the table. “May I?”

Peter tapped one out, handed it over, and lit it for him.

Behind a cloud of smoke, the captain said, “You ask for this man.”

“That’s right.”

“According to the border record, this Adrian Martrich, he is on our Turkish soil.”

“Okay, then,” said Peter. “The hotel.”

The Turk scratched his cheek. “Well, this is not so…”

“Two hundred Deutschmarks,” said Peter. “Not a schilling more. So stop wasting my time.”

Captain Evren allowed himself a brief, admiring smile. “The Hotel Erboy, in the Sirkeci neighborhood. Ebusuud Caddesi, number 32. Check in two nights ago. Not by himself.”

“I know. What room?”

“Three-oh-five.”

Peter hesitated, never trusting coincidences. “Three hundred and five.”

“Yes.”

“And there’s no doubt about this?”

The captain shook his head. “The registration, it come yesterday. Of course, it is always possible he will have change hotel, but this very morning I call the Erboy. Is there still.” He put out the unfinished cigarette. “These are very rough for my pink lungs. You have the money?”

On his walk north toward the Golden Horn, crushed by the heat of all those bodies, he wished, as he often did, for his farmhouse. He wished for his wife, Ilza, and four-year-old Iulian, but most of all he wished for that house with its magnificent expanse of empty, rolling fields outside Baia Mare. No one in sight. It was ten in the morning, and at this moment Ilza would have driven Iulian to the village school-the only student in the village to be brought by car-and she would now be in the market, picking over vegetables still dirty from the fields. His wife was accustomed to his long absences-they both were-and she recognized that because of his absences they lived better than anyone they knew. She complained sometimes, of course, because life in the provinces could get to you, leave you longing for the kinetic life of the Capital. But he had explained it enough times. Their home was a refuge from the world. He knew more of the world than his provincial wife did, and she had to trust him when he told her that it was an unimaginably cruel and forbidding place.

He crossed the Galata Bridge lined with fishermen, rode the Tunel up the hill, and continued north to the small Union Church at the Dutch consulate. The inside was peaceful, clean like only the Dutch could pull off in this dirty city, with dark wood pews leading to a small altar. Ilza would have liked this. She was always taken in by the solemnity of religious cults. One lone tourist shared the chapel with him, a young woman reading a guidebook in a pew, no doubt escaping the heat. He ignored her and took the stairs up to the balcony, which held the chapel’s pipe organ.

Father Janssen, whose real name was something entirely different, was eating an egg sandwich at the organ’s stool. He looked like he didn’t appreciate the interruption of his lunch.

“Evet?”

Peter glanced around, but they were alone. He said in clear English, “Are you Father Janssen?”

The priest squinted and laid down his sandwich. “Again?”

“Again what?”

“I am called Father Janssen.”

“Has the harvest come down from the mountains?”

Father Janssen shook his head. “This isn’t an armory, you know.”

“Of course. I just know that-”

“Your people already have it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Someone came this morning and picked it up. I haven’t had time to replace it.”

“Who?”

“How should I know? I don’t even know who you are.” He wagged a finger at Peter. “And I don’t want to know.”

It was simple bad luck. Poor timing. As he made his way south again, back across the Galata toward his hotel, he almost found it amusing that even such a straightforward cleanup operation could always, in a city like this, unravel.

He could still get hold of a pistol, but it would take time. He could walk to the Kapali Carsisi and search for the men who floated on the edge of the Grand Bazaar’s teeming crowds, their eyes attuned to extravagant tourists and undercover policemen. He’d find one who looked willing, then explain his need. A meeting would be arranged, somewhere discreet, and terms would be established. The price-that would require an hour of hateful but obligatory haggling. Then, and only then, would a final meeting be arranged. But by that point it would probably be too late; the queer would have made his way to another city.

At least he’d had the foresight to bring along the old hunting knife he’d acquired seven years ago. He’d brought it for sentimental reasons, as he always did when leaving the country for work, but never thought that he’d have to depend on it to kill Adrian Martrich.

Katja

I didn’t plan it. Not really. It was something that had to be done. I needed an escape, and this man, this soldier-he was the opportunity. Do you know what I mean? This guy, you see, he had everything. He had an apartment and a girl he was going to marry. He had a life. What did I have? I didn’t have a thing. Do you think that’s fair? Do you think I was any less brave than him? I told you what I did, what I did to my own friends. Did Stanislav ever have the courage or the presence of mind to do what I did? No, because he never had to. This is what I couldn’t accept. Because of circumstances beyond our control, he was someone, and I was not. So I took that drunk bastard out of that bar, I went with him to the Charles Bridge, and I stabbed him. I took his papers, his keys, and his money.

Don’t think I enjoyed it. I was only doing what was necessary. But at the same time I didn’t shy from it. I can admit to some confusion, yes. And at the border I was not as composed as I would have liked. But the border guards didn’t notice, nor did they stare too closely at the photo in his passport. That’s the funny thing. It wasn’t me in that picture, but they didn’t even realize. And I understood then that there are more things possible in this world than we realize. With a straight face and a bit of courage you can do anything.

I dial with shaking fingers and listen to the monotone ring. Then he answers.

“Aron?”

“Katja? Is that you? Where the hell are you? I’ve been-”

“I’m not in town. I just…how are you?”

“What do you mean, how am I? I’ve been worried sick. No one in the Militia knows where you are, and that chief of yours, Emil, he called asking if you were at home-where are you?”

“Listen, Aron, I can’t tell you about it now. But I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“You’re having an affair, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“That Ministry guy you always talk about. Gavra. He’s gone missing, too. I’m not a fool.”

That gives me pause, because I can’t imagine how he could suspect such a thing-where is this coming from? I say, “Sometimes you are a fool, Aron,” but really, he’s not. Not at all. Had Gavra ever given me the slightest sign, I would have slept with him without a second thought.

He tries to think through his words. “I know we have our problems, Kati. Hell, we have more than most. But this isn’t the way to deal with them.”

“I’m not having an affair.”

“Whatever you want to call it, I don’t care. Just come home, okay? We’ll work it out.”

I even smile to myself then. Aron is wonderful at deluding himself and making things sound so easy. We’ve been trying for three years to work out our problems, and it’s the hardest thing in the world. “I just wanted you to know I was all right.”

“Come home, Katja.”

Despite the smile, I’m choking up. He can hear the soft sound that always precedes my tears, and it gives him hope. He thinks it’s a sign I’m weakening. But he’s never been able to read me because I’ve never taught him how.

“It’s not a problem, Kati. Really. You come home and we’ll talk. We’ll take a vacation together. I’ll talk to my supervisor and arrange time off. But you have to come home first.”

Aron will never understand. So I say, “I’ll see you in a few days. Okay?”

“Now.”

“A few days.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “And I love you.”

“Christ, Kati.”

I hang up and get off the bed and walk past the tape player out to the terrace, where the sun has set over minarets and domes and decomposing Ottoman rooftops. A hot, stinky breeze rises from the street, bringing with it the choked sound of automobiles and shouting vendors. I’m shaking. Maybe that’s only because I haven’t eaten a thing all day.

The telephone rings. I look at it from the terrace for a while before coming back inside to get it.

“Hello?”

“Katja, it’s me.”

“How did you get this number? I didn’t tell you where I was.”

“It doesn’t matter, Katja. Did you see him today?”

“Not yet.”

“Just know that he’s changed hotels. He’s now in the Erboy. Ebusuud Caddesi, number 32. Under the name Ryzsard Knopek. Room 512.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because he reported in, Comrade Drdova.”

“I see.”

Brano Sev hangs up.