Victory Square

TWENTY-TWO

Michalec again left Gavra alone in the conference room, telling him to consider his options; he’d be back in a few hours. By now, Gavra had recovered fully from whatever drug they’d used to bring him here, and he was able to think through the mathematics of his situation. Escape paths.

There were none. The conference room was simple reinforced concrete, without even a vent that he could find. There was only one exit, through the locked door and past the large, gun-toting block of muscle named Balint.

Somehow, Michalec had known that Karel was his weak point. He was the closest thing Gavra had to a family. He told me later that, despite the vigorous training he’d excelled at in the Ministry, no one had ever taught him how to let his loved ones die. He was only taught not to get himself in that kind of situation. Once there, he was in trouble.

His salvation perhaps lay in understanding why Michalec needed him to kill the Pankovs. Maybe the old man was telling the truth- he wasn’t interested in framing Brano Sev for the murder-but he was certainly trying to tie Brano to it. What would that achieve?

He thought back to America. The CIA was involved with the whole operation, and that meant something. Why would the Americans care about protecting Michalec’s past?

Gavra sat at the long table and rubbed his eyes. That answer was obvious.

Both the Soviet Empire and the American one worked through satellite nations. Moscow was more blatant in its aspirations, setting up puppet governments throughout Eastern Europe and in places like Afghanistan. When communist leaders came to power in Cuba or North Korea or Africa, no secret was made of the money sent pouring into their coffers.

The Americans were subtle. Their money, often passed on by the Central Intelligence Agency, was funneled to political figures they supported. People they believed would help American interests once they gained power. Rather than spreading their troops around the world-though they did that often enough-America used her great wealth to give her favored side an upper hand in any fight.

Americans had supported Solidarity in Poland and Charter 11 in Czechoslovakia-indirectly, perhaps, but there had been help. They’d found ways to stamp their support throughout the Bloc, in the hopes that once the Russians were kicked out they would have a united group of allies along Europe’s eastern edge.

Gavra and the Ministry knew a fair amount about Ferenc Kolyeszar’s activities, and not just from Bernard’s compromised reports. The Ministry never really feared Ferenc’s group, because they were cut off from the outside world. Despite some international attention, Ferenc never met with American spies or diplomats. Occasionally, French literary critics would arrive to talk to him, sometimes bringing along money buried in the false bottoms of their suitcases, but it was only enough to keep him afloat, not enough to truly threaten the government.

To the Americans, Ferenc and his people were nothing more than a rumor spread by the French. What the Americans wanted was someone they could see and hear and touch, someone who could convince them with charm. Only emigres could do this, charming emigres like Jerzy Michalec.

And if the Americans gave their support to Michalec over the years, might they protect their investment by killing someone on their own soil who would risk the millions they’d already spent?

Of course they would.

It made enough sense for him to back up again and whisper it aloud to see if it sounded crazy or not. “The Americans are funding Michalec’s people and have helped erase Michalec’s past to ensure he can come to power without resistance.”

Gavra was suddenly desperate for a cigarette, but Michalec had taken his scented French packet with him. Instead, he poured more water and gulped it down.

The problem wasn’t that it sounded crazy; it didn’t. From an intelligence standpoint it was completely reasonable, an everyday occurrence. What disturbed him was the idea that Jerzy Michalec, a murderer and former Gestapo agent, would be elected as our country’s first democratic president. That was what he couldn’t take.

He heard a sound and looked up to see the door opening. He considered leaping from the chair to catch Michalec off guard, perhaps to kill him-that, at least, would save his country the trauma of having him as president.

It wasn’t Michalec, though; it was Beth, smiling, followed by Harold.

“You look tense,” said Beth.

“Of course he’s tense,” said Harold as Balint shut the door behind them. “The man’s about to become a national hero.”

Despite the way this peculiar couple had tricked him, Gavra couldn’t hate them. He had a feeling they were falling for a much bigger ruse.

So he stood up and gently shook Harold’s hand, then kissed Beth’s cheeks, which made her giggle. “No one’s so polite in the States. I love being back home.”

“Sit down,” said Gavra.

“I told you he’d be fine,” said Beth.

Harold pulled out a chair for her and winked at Gavra. “The woman’s an optimist even when optimism’s a fool’s errand.”

“Have you eaten?” asked Beth.

Gavra nodded. “I feel much better. But I’m still confused. How did the two of you end up here?”

So the story began. Their marriage was true-they’d wed in 1952 in Vranov under their real names, Heronim and Bronislawa Arondt. Soon they had two children, Oskar and Itka. “Beautiful children,” said Beth. Harold squeezed her hand.

“We were just simple folk,” said Harold. “I worked in a grain cooperative, and Beth in the textile factory. We raised our kids as best we could.”

“But you left the country,” said Gavra.

“We left because we had to,” Beth said in a near-whisper.

“You’re probably too young,” said Harold. “You wouldn’t remember what happened when Tomiak Pankov first took power in 1957.”

“Tell me.”

“Before then, we’d lived under Mihai.” Harold smiled sadly when he said this. “Despite the fact that he was a complete bastard, the country loved him. We’d come out of a terrible war, and we were desperate for someone to look up to. He was all we had. Mihai sent his political competition to forced labor camps, but the rest of us found ways to ignore this. Beth and I were no different. We pretended there wasn’t a plague in our country.”

“It’s what people do the world over,” said Gavra.

Harold nodded seriously. “Well, then Pankov took over. He was younger, and we thought this might be a good thing. Maybe things could normalize. But we were wrong. See, he knew how much the people loved Mihai, how much support the old man had in the Central Committee, and how many other politicians had been hoping to take his place. So, very quickly, he started searching for enemies. It started in the Central Committee, and by 1958 a full third had disappeared, replaced by Pankov’s automatons. Then he decided he hadn’t secured his position well enough. He had to find enemies among the regular citizens. That’s when the hell began for the rest of us. Ministry toughs started visiting the factories, quizzing the managers on who was dissatisfied with the government. And the managers, they knew that if they kept quiet, they’d be suspected of harboring criminals. So it soon became a quota system. In a factory of a hundred people, you’ve got to give at least five names; ten is better. And the manager of Beth’s factory, he’d never liked Beth.”

“He was a cretin,” said Beth, reminding Gavra of what Tomiak Pankov had called him.

“Let’s just say the man couldn’t keep his hands to himself,” said Harold. “Beth was something special in those days.”

“Still am,” said Beth.

Harold gave Gavra another wink. “Anyway, that led to visits by the Ministry. They, too, were working on a quota system. They never found anything, and that was their excuse to cart us off. We didn’t have a single portrait of Tomiak Pankov in our house. We didn’t buy those speeches of his they were just starting to bind and publish.” He shook his head. “That made us enemies of the state.”

Harold paused, then looked at his wife and squeezed her hand again. Gavra realized something. “Your children. Oskar and Itka. If you were sent to a labor camp, what happened to them?”

“Orphanage,” said Beth, tears in her eyes. Her hand beneath Harold’s trembled.

He didn’t realize Harold was on the edge of tears, too, until the old man cleared his throat. “We were released in 1962. Four years of hard labor. Lucky to survive, we were.” He swallowed. “First thing we did was try to find our kids, but it was no use. All we learned was they’d been adopted by different families. They’d been separated.”

He rubbed his big nose with a knuckle. “Can you imagine? Seven and eight years old, living together all their lives, never to see each other again? The orphanage refused to tell us where they were.”

“But we tried,” said Beth.

“Yes. We tried for the next two years. By sixty-four we had to give up. See, we were still being harassed. I was sent away for another three months for no reason at all, and then, when I got back, I found Beth talking to a friend from that first camp. He and some more friends had hatched an escape plan. They wanted us to come along.”

“That’s how you got out,” said Gavra.

“Broke our hearts,” said Harold, “but it was the only thing we could do.”

“How did you get to the States?”

Harold looked at Beth, who gave a noncommittal shrug. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

Harold agreed. He turned to Gavra. “They were still keeping internment camps in Germany back then, for the occasional easterner who’d get out. We ended up at one in Frankfurt. That’s where the Americans came to us.”

Gavra had heard of this before. “CIA.”

“Why not?” Beth said defensively. “They couldn’t get their people into our country, and they’ve got this camp full of people who know the language and the lay of the land. Who know everything there is to know, without looking like an American spy.”

“You were sent back in?” said Gavra.

Harold snorted a laugh. “I can’t tell you how many times we came back here over the next decade. All the way up to detente, whatever the hell that was supposed to be.” He put his hands on the table. “You should’ve seen us back then, Gavra. A sharp young man like yourself-I think we would’ve given you a run for your money. Ciphers, tooth caps full of cyanide, radio sets, and even a few disguises.” He laughed. “It was a riot.”

Beth wasn’t laughing. “It wasn’t a riot, Harold. It scared the hell out of you more than once.”

Harold’s smile faded, and he shrugged. He tapped his skull. “Nostalgia.”

“What about your kids?”

The smile was completely gone now. He shook his head. “We tried. Every time we went back, we tried. But we never found them.”

“Jerzy did,” said Beth solemnly. “He tracked them down.”

Harold sniffed. “Once this is over, we’re going to make a couple of house calls.”

It all made perfect sense now. “That’s how he got your cooperation.”

Beth shook her head. “We would’ve come anyway. This just makes it so much sweeter.”

Gavra pushed his chair back and stood up. He walked to the door. Through its window he saw Balint’s wide back and, beyond, officers passing. He turned to the old couple. They would believe anything Jerzy fed them, simply for the hope of seeing their children again. He imagined similar deals had been made with the others; their enthusiasm was only partly for the Pankovs’demise. Their personal desperations were what made them hysterical.

They watched him return to his seat and lean forward, lowering his voice as he spoke. “This is more complicated than you know. Jerzy Michalec is not who you think he is. He’s a murderer.”

They blinked at him but didn’t seem surprised.

“During the Second World War, he worked in the Gestapo. After the war, he killed others to protect this secret, and in 1949 he was convicted as a war criminal. Did you know that?”

They didn’t answer at first, but from their expressions he could tell the information wasn’t swaying them.

“We all make mistakes,” said Beth. “Maybe this is how he’s making up for his. Did you ever consider that?”

Harold nodded his agreement. It was what they both wanted to believe.

Gavra persisted. “Over the last week, he’s also had five more people killed, because all of them knew about his past. One was the wife of a close friend of mine, a Militia chief.”

“Brod?” said Harold. “That was the work of those anarchists in Patak.”

Gavra shook his head. “No. They were scapegoats. Jerzy Michalec had her killed, and he’s still after two more people: the chief himself and an old friend of mine, Brano Sev.”

Simultaneously, Harold and Beth recoiled. “Brano Sev,” Harold said with evident disgust.

“You know him?”

Beth looked at her husband, then rubbed his arm. Harold was reddening.

“What?” said Gavra.

“Of course we know him,” Beth said coolly.

Harold patted her hand to show he was fine. “I met Brano Sev in 1965. The man tortured me.”

Gavra rubbed his forehead, cursing his mistake. He should have considered this. It didn’t matter, though, not anymore. “You’re both part of this too, aren’t you?”

They waited.

“You want me to kill the Pankovs so you can frame Brano for the murder.”

Harold shook his head and pressed a finger into the tabletop, speaking defiantly. “We want you to kill the Pankovs because that’s what they deserve. They took our children away and starved a beautiful country until it was ugly. I suppose you can’t hear from inside this room, but there are still terrorists out on the rooftops. As long as the Pankovs are alive, they’ll keep shooting innocent people. We’re going to kill them and show their corpses to the whole country. We’re going to bring back peace.”

“But why me7” Gavra insisted.

Harold looked at Beth, so she answered. “We don’t want just anyone to kill the Pankovs. We want someone who’s spent his life serving that wretched man’s interests. But not just anyone. Someone who has no political stake in the outcome.”

“Which is why you can’t hand a gun to Andras Todescu.”

Harold nodded.

Beth said, “Brano Sev is the right man for this. If he’s proven to be responsible for killing them, it will show that even the most dedicated servant couldn’t take it anymore.”

Harold grunted. “We’re giving that bastard much more than he deserves.”

“We’re making him, and you, into heroes. Historians will talk highly of the two of you.”

Gavra leaned back and tried to absorb this. It was hard. He traced back the steps that had brought him to this room: the trip to Virginia, the plane ride beside this couple, the phone call in the Militia office, his kidnapping, and then Karel’s. It felt like too many variables at work to have been planned ahead of time, too many to be believable. Then again, it wasn’t planned. Jerzy Michalec’s brilliance lay in his ability to bend with situations, to quickly take into account what had changed and what should be done next. Michalec was a master at thinking on his feet.

Gavra was left in awe. Not only did this plan help assure the success of the revolution; it also assured Michalec’s safety. If Brano was tied to the murder of the Pankovs, then Brano was tied to Michalec, who had captured the First Couple and arranged the execution. If, next week, Brano told the international press about Michalec’s criminal history, he’d be accused of political backstabbing. There would be no evidence for him to cite, and he would be quickly marginalized. Brano Sev would become a nobody.

“You don’t understand,” said Gavra. “Jerzy is doing this-even this — to assure his past is ignored. He’s doing it to assure he can become president. You’re helping a murderer run our country.”

Beth shook her head. “But he doesn’t want to become president.”

“He says that now,” began Gavra, but Harold held up a finger to stop him.

“It’s true,” said Harold. “Jerzy wants his son to become president. He doesn’t want it for himself at all.”

Gavra stuttered just as Tomiak Pankov and I had stuttered. “S-son?”

“You didn’t know?” said Beth. “Sweet Rosta.”

“Rosta Gorski,” managed Gavra.

Just then, the door opened and Michalec stepped in. “I think my son’s ears are burning!”

The Atkinses laughed.