butter in our churn. Delicious.”
Grandfather burst out laughing, suddenly red-faced, healthy again. Spittle shot across the table, and Lena laughed too, winking at Emil, the brandy and laughter flushing her cheeks. The old man pointed at Lena, and between gasps said, “This one. This one.”
He slept on the sofa-or, he tried to sleep. It was difficult, knowing she was only a couple yards away, in his bed. He was distracted, horny, and had to throw off his sheet; he was sweating. He ached everywhere. If he went to her, he could do nothing anyway. Not in his condition. He sat on the balcony, looking out to where a lone woman stood at the water spigots. A dog circled nearby, sniffing the ground around her.
Blackmail. It was the only thing that made sense. Janos Crowder had blackmailed Jerzy Michalec with something that could fit in a book: a document, or a photograph, like the ones he had found. Aleksander Tudor became mixed up in it at some point. There was a German working with Michalec. Maybe he was the deliveryman, bringing the boxes of cash to Janos s door. But at some point Michalec decided he would no longer pay, and instead liquidated Janos.
One pail was full, and she set it down with a thump on the cobblestones, then started filling another.
He tried to think through what he was going to do. There were rational options. Put Lena into protective custody, or keep her here. File a report on the German assailant; he had the man s photograph, after all. He could ask the other inspectors for help, or even advice. They had decades of experience between them.
The dog was circling closer, sniffing out dinner on the woman’s dirty skirt.
Lena was spread under his sheets in his room. The rational solutions left him. He still didn’t trust those homicide inspectors, no matter how many cakes and coffees they brought him. That would take a long time. Maybe he could get advice from them, nothing more.
A few streets away some dogs began barking in an uneven chorus, and the mutt down below stopped sniffing, raised his head, and barked back. Then more dogs joined in, from streets further out, and soon it was all he could hear. The woman down by the spigot was running as best she could with her heavy pails into an alley, and the dog in the square was walking in a circle, backward, barking frightfully at canine armies he heard but could not see. It was a city of dogs.
He knew, all of a sudden, that he couldn’t do it. This was too important. He couldn’t protect Lena on his own.
“Tell me about the shooting,” said Emil. “The one who shot me.”
Leonek sat down, and they faced each other over Emil’s typewriter. He shrugged. “What’s to tell? Tall guy in an overcoat. A hat. You saw him. Right?”
“Briefly.”
Leonek pulled an ankle up over his knee. “He shot you three times and drove away.”
“Did you get the plates?”
“No license. But it was dark blue. One of those Czech models. Streamlined. A Tatra, I think.”
Emil hesitated, remembering. “Was he driving the car? Or someone else?”
“Yes. Just him.” He glanced over at Brano Sev working away in his corner, then let his foot drop to the ground again. He leaned forward, voice lowered. “But listen, Brod: This is done. It’s finished. These aren’t the kind of men you want to chase after. You understand?”
Emil noticed a dead roach on his desk and flicked it away.
“You attacked him, and he attacked you “ said Leonek. “It’s over.”
“Listen.”
Leonek held up a warning hand and glanced back at Sev, who still faced the wall, then nodded at the door. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”
This bar was a few streets away, hidden beneath a flat-faced, between-the-wars post office, reached by a door recessed in the sidewalk. Despite the early morning hour, it was filled with the law-enforcement community, He saw judges and prosecutors and even overdressed members of state security, looking much more distinguished and put-together than their own department’s famous-but-sloppy security inspector. The bar was the longest Emil had ever seen, its clean brass fixtures shining. A stiff, white- shirted bartender asked very formally what they would have to drink.
“Two beers,” said Leonek as he tossed coins on the counter.
He helped Emil to a table in the corner, pushing through fat men in suits. They sank into a plush, velvet booth. “ You come here?”
Leonek shrugged. “Not usually. Tell me what’s going on.”
So Emil did. He sipped his lukewarm beer and related all the details. The man who searched Lena Crowder’s house was the same man who had shot him, a German, and a German was seen around Janos Crowder’s apartment before he died. All roads led to the German. The German led to Smerdyakov.
“How’s that?”
Emil took out the small photos again-worn now, a little damp-and handed them over.
“Where did you get these?”
“Behind Aleks Tudor’s icebox. You recognize them?”
Leonek held one close to his face, then the next, one at a time until he had seen them all. “Smerdyakov,” he whispered, then nodded. “And your killer.” He laid a hand over the photographs, covering them. “Lena Crowder doesn’t know what it is? This thing?”
“No.”
“That’s her story.”
“She doesn’t know.” Four Central Committee members made a loud circle near the bar, singing some rowdy song from their youth.
Leonek dropped the photos by his beer and shook his head.“You know you can t touch him, right? He’s not a full member of the Politburo yet, but he’s almost there. He’ll be one of a select twenty. People like you and I can’t do anything.”
“Obviously some people can, or he wouldn’t be murdering them.”
A pause, as Leonek rethought his approach. When he spoke he whispered. “Listen. Jerzy Michalec started off as the top man in the Central Committee, back in ‘forty-five. His best friends are the minister of international affairs, the chairman of Party control, and the head of regional secretaries. He eats lunch with Mihai himself. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“He’s connected.”
“No, you goddamn idiot. Michalec is the connection. Once he’s a full member of the Politburo, it’s just a few years until he’s nestled beside Mihai, waiting to receive the General Secretaryship.” Leonek leaned back, his voice severe: “When that happens, when Michalec becomes General Secretary, you, my friend, are a dead man.”
They looked at each other across the table. Emil had listened to so little before-he’d understood everything like a child. His cold fingers tapped distractedly on his glass, then stopped. When Jerzy Michalec became General Secretary, there would be no place in the entire country to hide.
“You remember when we brought in Liv Popescu?”
Emil nodded.
“You asked what was wrong, and I lied. I said it was nothing.” Leonek looked down and gathered himself before continuing. “But the case-Cornelius Yoskovich in particular-made me think of my informer, Dora.” He stopped again, drank some beer.
“The bastard who lied about me?”
Leonek nodded morosely. “I first knew Dora years ago. He was a banker-it’s hard to imagine. He had a wife and a daughter. This was a little before the war-summer of ‘thirty-eight-and I was as new to the Militia as you are now. Back then we weren’t relegated to just homicides. It was a peaceful town; we didn’t need a homicide department.”
He paused again, and Emil wanted to ask him how old he was, because to Emil he looked so young, but he had the kind of face that would hide its age until he was a very old man.
Leonek said, “There were accusations at his daughter’s school. Apparently, Dora had been spending his lunch hours there, and he would talk to his daughter’s friends. They were ten and eleven, pretty young. After a while, he invited them out of the schoolyard and talked them into coming with him to a hotel room. He did this with many of
