The Confession

13

It took a while, and the operator had to call me back, but finally I was speaking, in very poor Russian, to the switchboard operator of the Moscow Militia. She was stern-sounding, but when she heard the name she brightened. Immediately. There was no one in the office around me, and Moska’s door was shut.

“Da?”

“Comrade Inspector Kliment Malevich?”

“Moment.”

I was trying to not think about Svetla’s story, the details she never quite spelled out, and to ignore the knots in my stomach when I didn’t succeed.

“What is it?”

I hadn’t spoken to him since he and his mother had left almost two decades ago. He had been a fat child then. “Comrade Kliment Malevich?”

“Da.”

“I was a friend of your father’s. In the royal police.”

He hummed into the phone, unsure of what to say.

“My name is Ferenc Kolyeszar.”

“I think I remember.” He sounded young. “Didn’t you…”

“Yes. Leonek Terzian and I discovered your father’s body.”

That seemed to reassure him. “Okay, Ferenc. How are you?”

“As good as can be expected in difficult times.”

“Truly.”

“And yourself? Your mother?”

“I’m excellent, but my mother’s been dead five years.”

“Was it easy for her? I hope.”

It was obvious to us both that I was no good at small talk. “Tell me, Ferenc. Tell me why you’ve called.”

I described the situation in as much detail as I could, so he would understand the necessity of what I was asking of him.

“Who’s this husband of hers?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“So he’s political.” He paused. “And I do what, exactly?”

“You give her a ride, that’s all. Find out where her father lives and drive her there.” I told him the exact number of rubles he would receive.

“You don’t need to pay me, Ferenc. I’ll do it.”

“Consider it expenses-what’s left over is a tip. And if the conductor gives you one ruble less, break his knees.”

Kliment laughed.

As I hung up, Moska came out of his office with a half-eaten sandwich, wiping a spot off his tie. “Where’s the Woznica woman?”

I swiveled in my chair. “Who?”

“Jesus, Ferenc.” He brought the sandwich down to his side. “Tell me.”

“Wasn’t her. Some hooker I’d known from before. I took her back to the Canal District and told her to stay away from trains.”

He didn’t know whether or not to believe me. But he had other things on his mind. “I’m sending you back there. To the canals. I’ve got a real murder for you.”

“I think I feel my illness coming back.”

Moska didn’t smile. “Come on.”

He settled in his chair and watched me sit across from him. “Do you know what you’re doing, Ferenc?”

I shrugged a forced unconcern.

“I was as disturbed as anyone by yesterday. You know that.”

I did know.

He picked up a typed sheet. “If you need to talk it over, okay? Just come to me. I’ll do what I can from my side, and if you need anything, let me know. Don’t ruin your career.”

“Thanks.”

He looked at me a moment more, then read from the sheet, his tone back to its usual efficiency. “Augustus II Square, number three. A burned body.” He handed it over, and there wasn’t a lot more. No identifying traits, just a body in the center of the Canal District. It had been called in anonymously and not yet verified. “You’re the only one around to take the case.”

“I can’t pass it on to someone else tomorrow?”

“Stefan’s still wasting time on that suicide, and Leonek’s working on a dead case-not to mention he thinks I hid Sergei’s files.” He shook his head. “That kid doesn’t have the slightest idea how a bureaucracy is run. Anyway, when Emil gets over his flu, he can help you.”

On my way out I passed Kaminski and Brano Sev in the corridor. Brano looked again like himself-he’d gone back to the long leather coat, and his somber mouth was too small to ever form a shout.

“So you’re feeling better,” said Kaminski. There was no more levity in his manner. He’d run out of it.

“Yes.”

“A lot of sick guys today. Me, I’ve got a sore back. Stumbled carelessly into a van. You, though,” he said, his trigger finger tapping his thigh, “You were quite sick yesterday. Very ill. It was obvious in everything you did.”

“I’m okay.”

Brano nodded at my hand, which held the folded sheet. “But you’re shaking. You’re not quite recovered.”

“Looks like we should keep an eye on him,” said Kaminski.

I pressed my lips together until they formed something meant to look like a smile.