edge of the table, a faint odor of sweat misting off her cheeks, and asked if he was sure he didn’t want a drink with that. “We’ve got the best brandy in the region.”
Brano shook his head and watched her return, frowning, to the kitchen, then opened his briefcase and took out the case file with cold fingers.
Until last August, Brano had been a major in the Ministry for State Security, located on Yalta Boulevard, number 36. But for the last five months he had been a comrade-worker at the eternally noisy Pidkora People’s Factory, the third man down the assembly line, fitting electrical wires into gauges so that the machines of socialist agriculture would never fail. Then, yesterday, he felt a tap on his shoulder. His alcoholic foreman stood behind him.
Someone to see you, Sev! In my office!
Brano followed him through the jungle of machinery to the glassed-in box in the center of the factory floor. Behind the cluttered desk, holding a newspaper and smiling, sat the Comrade Colonel, Laszlo Cerny, wiping his unkempt mustache.
The foreman closed the door as he left, muffling the sound of machines.
Brano.
Comrade Colonel.
Sit down, said the colonel, tapping the newspaper on the desk. Then he held up the paper, which was Austrian. Kurier. He said, You ever meet this guy?
Who?
Filip Lutz.
Brano said he hadn’t, then began to understand. This was the way meetings at Yalta Boulevard had always begun, with pleasantries and diversions. The Comrade Colonel even read out portions of that expatriate’s slanders about the “acts of barbarity” committed by the Ministry for State Security. The lies he tells. Those Austrians will believe anything. Say, Brano, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in leaving this factory, would you?
The waitress delivered his coffee with an arched brow. “You’re up here for work?”
Brano closed the file. “How do you know I’m not from here?”
“Your accent. And your car.” She nodded at the mud-grayed window. “Those plates are from the Capital.”
“That’s very good.”
“So?”
“Yes?”
“Are you here on business?”
“You’re very curious.”
“My husband says it’ll get me into trouble one day.”
“Visiting family,” he said. “In Bobrka.”
“ Bobrka? ” She crossed her arms over her chest and raised the mottled side of her lip. “From the Capital to Bobrka. That’ll be a shock.”
“It certainly will be.”
He opened the file again as she walked away, and he looked at the top photograph, of a handsome man’s face-wide, with faint features.
This was the reason for interrupting his day’s work-Jan Soroka. Five and a half months ago, in August, this petroleum specialist had made it out of the East, to Vienna. Colonel Cerny shrugged. Through Hungary, we suspect. Their border is full of holes. Assumedly for asylum, Soroka twice visited the American embassy, then remained in Vienna for the following three months. In November, he reentered the American embassy and did not emerge again.
Well, we lost track of him at least. It happens. Just an oil rigger. Sometimes people slip through your fingers. But listen to this.
Ten days ago, Soroka had reappeared, magically, in Bobrka-his hometown, and Brano’s.
Brano had left Bobrka in 1941, so Jan Soroka was unfamiliar, as was his wife, Lia, whose puffy lips in her Galicia Textile Works identification photo made her look as if she’d just been hit. There were no photographs of their seven-year-old son, Petre.
And he hasn’t been arrested? Brano asked.
Colonel Cerny shook his head. He won’t be, not yet, because that’s what he must be expecting. His wife and son have joined him there. It’s the “why” we’re after. And who would be best equipped to go in and work on him?
Does this mean that I-
Cerny held up a finger. Temporary and unofficial reinstatement, Brano. These might come in handy. He reached in his pocket and handed over Brano’s old internal passport, marked with the crest of the Ministry: a hawk with folded wings, its head turned aside. The Lieutenant General wasn’t in favor of it, but I used my influence. And if you distinguish yourself, then there’s a chance-
“That your wife?” the waitress asked.
Brano closed the file. “Wife?”
“She’s pretty.”
“Thank you.”
Among the papers he found a brief typed summary of the file’s contents. Soroka had been born in 1934 in Sanok, to Wladislaw and Soft Soroka, farmers. His childhood was not mentioned, nor his parents’ 1947 transfer to the Bobrka Petroleum Works, though it was noted that in 1950, at sixteen, Jan was part of a Red Pioneer trip to the Capital to shake hands with General Secretary Mihai and see the sights. When he was twenty-three, Jan applied for and received permission to move to the Capital, where he advised the Central Gas Industry Committee as part of the industrial reform program Mihai had implemented the year before, in 1956, some months before his death. Before he disappeared, Soroka attended a conference in the spa town of Gyula on “the future of power in the socialist neighborhood,” attended by scientists from all over the Empire, specialists in gas, petroleum, and nuclear energy. But a week after it ended, his wife, Lia, filed a missing person’s report-Jan had never returned home. Militia Lieutenant Emil Brod investigated it-but without success. A line toward the end of the summary said, “ EXTERNAL ACTIVITIES: See attached.”
The Vienna report’s five pages speculated on Soroka’s date of entry into Austria-21 August, six days after Brano had left-and listed various places he had visited. The list was not exceptional. There were the regular sights- the Stephansdom, the MAK, the Schonbrunn Palace-and bars where one might run into one’s own countrymen, the most well known being the Carp, on Sterngasse. Then, on 25 August, a Thursday, he first entered the American embassy. During that five-hour visit, his hotel room was searched, but nothing of interest was found. Soroka returned to the embassy the next day, for only an hour. He then went to the Carp and got drunk.
On the following Monday, he appeared for the first time at the Raiffeisen-bank and, as far as the agents could discern from their vantage on the other side of the lobby, opened an account. This was never properly verified.
The report became sporadic after that, skimming over the following three months with summaries. Soroka began eating in specific restaurants and going to a limited number of bars-the Carp most often-and made brief friendships before dropping out of touch. It was the life of a dissatisfied exile. A couple of these acquaintances were agents who tried to get the story out of him, but short of a full interrogation there was no way to learn more. He was not considered important enough to abduct-which, the report speculated, was probably a mistake, because on 18 November he returned to the American embassy and did not emerge again.
Brano said, Who’s the Vienna rezident now?
Cerny pressed his lips together. Josef Lochert.
He — But Brano didn’t finish the sentence. After his expulsion from the Ministry and five months standing beside an automated belt, this was, finally, something. So where does Soroka say he’s been all this time?
The Comrade Colonel grunted his delight. You’ll like this. He says he’s been with a mistress in Szuha-a small village near the Ukrainian border. Guess her name.
I don’t know.
Dijana Frankovic.
Brano flinched.
Yes, said Cerny. I don’t know what the Americans are up to. They know we’re aware Soroka was in Vienna,
