“I only know what Brano’s told me.”
“Okay,” said Emil, rubbing fingers through his hair. “Keep me posted.”
The chief returned to his office as Brano grabbed his hat. “Come on, Gavra.”
In the car, Brano handed him a slip of paper with four names. “The hijackers arrived in the Capital on the twentieth, last Sunday, from Istanbul.”
Gavra read: Emin Kazanjian Sahag Manoogian Jirair Keshishian Zareh Petrossian
“They stayed two nights in the Hotel Metropol and then boarded Flight 54. They made no phone calls, and they had no visitors. As far as the Ministry can tell, they never left the hotel.”
“Why didn’t you tell Katja? She’s going to waste a day finding this same information.”
Brano paused, then said, “I don’t want that girl getting in the way.”
Gavra looked again at the paper. Two nights in the Metropol, no visitors, then direct to the airport. “How did they get the explosives?”
“It’s not hard,” said Brano as they passed an old woman selling homemade brooms. “Someone could visit the hotel restaurant at the same time as them and leave a package. If it was all arranged from Istanbul, there’s no way for us to track it down. But if Adler was involved…”
“Libarid would have had access to explosives,” said Gavra.
Brano chose not to answer.
After a grand escape from the Federal Republic of Germany in mid-1974, Wilhelm Adler spent three months in the German Democratic Republic, handing the Stasi all the information he had on the Red Army Faction’s present hierarchy and the security measures of the West German industrial elite. In return, they gave him an East German passport. He worked briefly at the Hotel Unter den Linden in East Berlin before meeting and falling in love with Buba Polinski, a tourist who, once the paperwork was settled, brought him back to the Capital with her. Since then he’d held a job at the Sachet Automotive Works, on the edge of the Tenth District, piecing together carburetors and sending them down the line.
When the supervisor pointed him out through the window of his office, they saw a slumped back, a small man, thin. Gavra was surprised by this. He’d read of Adler’s exploits with his RAF brethren: the bank robberies where they wore rubber Willy Brandt masks and distributed some of their withdrawals to the kidnapped customers; and the low-level politicians they photographed in captivity, then threw from fast-moving cars once they’d received their ransom. Gavra expected someone more erect.
The factory stank of grease, and the noise of the machinery was deafening, so Brano only tapped Adler on the shoulder. The German was neither unnerved nor taken aback by the sight of Brano’s Ministry card, nor did he hesitate when Brano nodded at the metal stairs leading up to the supervisor’s office. He followed Brano while Gavra walked behind them. Once inside, Brano said to the supervisor, “A moment alone, please?”
The supervisor, a big man, reddened and rushed out.
Adler sat at the desk. “What is it this time?”
“A couple of questions.” Brano sat across from him. Gavra remained standing, hands crossed over his groin, like a heavy in an American noir film.
Brano placed his hat in his lap. “Are you familiar with the Army of the Liberation of Armenia?”
Adler shrugged. “I’ve heard some things. I’m still in touch with my friends on the other side. My old comrades are putting up a good stand in Stockholm.”
“That’s already over,” said Brano.
Adler knotted his brows but didn’t speak.
Gavra said, “Last week, you made an international call to Norair Tigran in Istanbul. You told him about a particular Turkish Airlines flight, number 54, leaving from here, bound for there. You suggested he hijack it.”
Adler rooted in his ear with a finger. “Did he hijack it?”
“His colleagues hijacked it.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Because it hasn’t yet made our papers. Tonight’s edition.”
“I see.”
“Tigran is in prison.”
“That’s too bad.”
Gavra, despite himself, was impressed by this small, slumped man. He spoke as if the conversation were about lost dogs. Of course, Wilhelm Adler had been through a lot, and compared with the rest of his life, this interview was nothing.
“What about the four men?” Gavra asked.
He looked at Gavra. “What four men?”
“The ones who did the job. When did you give them the explosives?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gavra looked at Brano, and Brano nodded. So Gavra squatted beside the chair. He smiled up at Adler. “Have you ever been interrogated before?”
Adler grinned. “Of course. The BND put me through it at Stammheim.”
He patted the German’s knee. “No. I mean an interrogation.”
Adler crossed his hands over his stomach. “That’s what I just said.”
Brano walked to the windows overlooking the factory and lowered the blinds.
Adler said, “I’m not a little boy, comrades. I fought for the workers’ state.”
“Did you?” said Brano.
“I’ve killed five leaders of imperial capitalism. Two politicians, a bank owner, a-”
He stopped because Gavra had punched the side of his head. He gritted his teeth, blinking.
Gavra’s knuckles tingled as he spoke. “I don’t care what you’ve done, comrade. I only care what you tell me now. Inside this little office anything can happen. To me, there’s no one in this whole factory except the three of us.”
“But I don’t know anything!”
Brano watched as Gavra clutched the German’s hair and threw his head on the desk. It bounced. Gavra squatted again. “Listen, comrade. Sixty-eight people are dead, and one of them was a colleague of mine. I was fond of him. You’re the one who dictated what flight would be blown up, and you’re the only one I have my hands on.”
“Blown up?” he said, confused. “They weren’t supposed to blow it up.” He wasn’t able to see very well.
“What were they supposed to do?” asked Brano.
“Money-just money. And to free some comrades.”
“How did you know Norair Tigran?”
“A few years ago. West Berlin. A Marxist discussion group.”
“Okay, then,” said Brano. “Why that plane? Why that day?”
“A phone call.”
Brano straightened.
“What phone call?” said Gavra.
“I get them sometimes, all right? My old comrades know where to find me. But this was from a local. I suppose it was one of your guys.”
“Our guys?”
“From the Ministry.”
Gavra hesitated. “What did this person say?”
He sniffed. “Just to call Norair. Tell him about the plane. That plane, that day. He knew they were trying to decide when to pull it off.”
“Did he say who he was?” asked Brano.
“Of course not.”
“So why,” said Brano, “did you listen to him?”
Adler seemed briefly confused; then a trace of contempt entered his voice. “Are you guys for real?”
Gavra put a fist into his stomach, doubling the German over. “Answer the question.”
Adler took a few breaths. “These kinds of calls, I don’t question them. Yalta Boulevard has its own agenda, doesn’t it? We help liberation movements all over the world.”
