Gavra
Gavra was furious. He had brutalized a man who, though not innocent in the classical sense, was not guilty of the particular thing Gavra was thinking of as he put his knee into his face.
“Why did you do that?”
Brano turned onto Mihai Boulevard and cocked his head. “I wanted you to keep the pressure on. If you believed Adler had given them the explosives, then you’d push him. He didn’t move the explosives himself, but if he knew who had done it he would have said something. He didn’t know.”
Gavra watched the gray Tisa flowing past. Everyone in the Militia office hated Brano Sev, and he was beginning to understand exactly why. Brano understood people; he knew them well enough to know what to say, or do, to most trouble them. And for Gavra, this method was finally showing results.
When he was ten, Gavra’s father told him that a wild dog lived just outside their village, and that it ate children. When he realized that this was a lie to keep him from wandering, Gavra began to hate his father. Two decades later, his Ministry mentor was doing the same thing.
Gavra lit a cigarette. “We need to look at the Ministry. Someone at Yalta called Wilhelm Adler and told him what information to pass on.”
“We don’t know it was someone from the Ministry,” said Brano. “Adler doesn’t know-he’s just guessing.”
“Ludvik Mas was waiting at the airport. He’s involved.”
“We were at the airport,” Brano countered. “Does that mean we’re involved?”
Gavra cracked the window to let out smoke. “You know what most bothers me?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re choosing to ignore the biggest connection-or coincidence. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Then enlighten me, Gavra.”
“Why was Libarid, the only Armenian in the Militia, on a plane taken over by Armenian terrorists?”
Brano didn’t answer at first. He turned onto Karl Liebknecht, a small side street filled with vegetable shops, and parked. “Continue.”
“I just think it shouldn’t be overlooked.”
“Do you propose speaking to Zara, his widow? One day after she’s learned her husband was killed?”
Brano was testing him; he knew that. The old man always looked him in the eyes when he wanted to measure Gavra’s abilities. “Why not?”
“Okay,” Brano said as he started the car again. “Let’s go see her.”
They parked in a narrow, muddy lot in the Tenth District, between block towers riddled with terraces hemmed in by opaque colored glass. Each piece of glass was cracked. They took a loud elevator to the fifth floor and found TERZIAN on a plaque beneath an eyehole. “Go ahead,” said Brano.
Gavra pressed the buzzer.
From inside came a woman’s voice, “Vahe…Vahe, no!” Then footsteps, and a pause as she peered through the eyehole. Zara opened the door, a robe pulled tight around her small body, her face swollen, her eyes slits. “Brano. Gavra.”
“How are you?” said Gavra.
She looked at him as if the question made no sense. She glanced back. “Come in.”
They sat in the cramped living room, trying not to step on Vahe’s wooden toys, which were scattered across the carpet, though the boy was nowhere to be seen.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, thank you, Zara,” said Gavra.
Brano shook his head; he was choosing silence.
She sat in a stiff wooden chair and put her hands together between her knees, as if in prayer. “Did you catch them?”
“We’re working on it,” said Gavra.
She nodded, and Gavra noticed Brano was suddenly distracted, looking at the wall. To the left of the television hung a large cross decorated at the ends with ornate swirls.
“Which is why we’re here,” Gavra continued. “These terrorists, the ones who were responsible. I guess you know they were Armenian.”
She nodded again.
“So we’re trying to follow up on any possible connection.” He cleared his throat as she stared at him. He should have thought this through before coming here. “During the past few weeks, did you or Libarid have any contact with Armenians you didn’t previously know?”
“You’re asking if we’ve been talking to terrorists?”
He shook his head. “No. What I mean is, the Armenian community here is very small, and it makes sense that if new people arrived, it would be well known.”
She sighed. “Gavra, when people leave the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic, they don’t come here. They go to Moscow, or Belgrade, or even New York. But not here. The Armenians you find in our country had the bad fortune of being born here.”
She bit her lip, as if what she’d said hadn’t come out right. From a back room, Gavra heard the child humming.
“Do you go to church?” Brano asked, nodding at the cross.
Zara’s cheekbones reddened, and she smiled at him, but it wasn’t a kind smile. Her small eyes were pink. “Comrade Sev, my husband may have kept our religion a secret, but I’m not my husband. Here.” She reached back to the bookcase behind her and grabbed a thick book called Orations — the collected writings of General Secretary Tomiak Pankov. She opened it to show that the guts had been ripped out and replaced with a leather-bound book, gold squiggly letters across the cover. “Here it is, comrade. I’m not going to hide my Bible anymore. Want to read?”
Brano said nothing, only leaned back and crossed his arms over his stomach, while Gavra tilted forward, elbows on his knees.
“We’re not here to make accusations, Zara. We’re trying to figure out what happened to Libarid.”
Zara closed the book as Vahe stumbled into the room, grinning. There was a smudge of dirt across his forehead. When he saw the men, he stopped. “Come here,” Zara said, and he approached warily. She replaced the book in her lap with her son, wet her thumb with her tongue, and wiped his forehead clean.
“Hey, buddy,” said Gavra, smiling, but the boy didn’t answer.
“Comrade Terzian,” said Brano, “I asked my question because the church, as the center of the Armenian community, may have some answers for us.”
She nodded, then squeezed her son to her breast. “Sorry. I–I’ve lost the only thing I could depend on. Libarid was the one person in my life devoted completely to me-to us — and now I’m left with only a memory. I…” She kissed the crown of Vahe’s head; he rolled his eyes. “This is no fake emotion, you see. It’s real. It makes rational thought a little difficult. No-we didn’t hear about any new Armenians. We knew about Gourgen Yanikian, of course, like everybody, but that’s America for you. America encourages people to do things like shoot each other.” She paused. “But I don’t know anyone who approved of Yanikian’s killings.”
Then she started to cry, but her son smiled at them, as if to say, Look at her, would you?
At the Militia station, Katja was standing by the window, alone. She looked up as they entered and said, “Any leads?”
“No,” Brano said before Gavra could open his mouth. “And you? Any luck at the hotel?”
She wagged a finger at him. “The desk clerk told me you’d already been there. Would you call that a lead?”
“Perhaps,” said Brano, then went to his desk and began to dial the phone.
Once Brano was looking in the other direction, Katja raised her eyebrows at Gavra and pointed at the door, before walking out through it.
The old man was hunched over the mouthpiece, talking quietly to someone as Gavra followed her out.
He found her on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. “What’s going on?”
