examining the frame for forced entry, while Gavra tried to manage his annoyance. “Adler’s killed because he talked to us,” said Gavra. “So it’s what I thought. The Ministry’s involved.”
Again, Brano Sev didn’t answer.
“You know something about this, don’t you? Where’s Ludvik Mas?”
Brano maintained his silence as he walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered down at the dark street, now empty of promenading families. “A funeral and two murders.” He let the curtain go. “It’s been a long day.”
Gavra threw Zrinka Martrich’s file on the desk. “Why aren’t you helping?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“What does that mean?”
“Are you watching the brother?” said Brano. “This Adrian Martrich?”
“I will.”
“Give Katja the first shift. You need sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s an order. And Gavra?”
“Yes?”
“Be sure and have your pistol next time. I can see you’re unarmed.”
“Oh. Right.”
Brano Sev walked out.
Katja returned, predictably, with nothing from the neighbors. She’d knocked on doors, and the few who chose to answer insisted they had just returned home or had been watching the evening repeat of Family Popa and heard nothing. So Gavra told her about Adler’s murder.
“Jesus,” she said.
“Can you watch Adrian Martrich’s apartment? The Comrade insists I get some sleep.”
“No problem,” she said, then looked at the wet rug and added, half to herself, “Better than going home.”
Gavra had a natural affinity for puzzles, but this one wouldn’t fit together. Two murders in the Capital and a terrorist action gone wrong. The only connection was a young woman, Zrinka, who had died on the plane, a delusional who left a message for the terrorists when they were standing in the same terminal she was. Zrinka’s old therapist was dead, as well as the German who helped arrange the hijacking.
The answer was in there, he knew, but his Yalta-trained logic was of no use. So he floundered, rolling in his musty bed, finally going to the kitchen for the palinka, which only did its job at 3:00 A.M.
He nearly made it out the door without his Makarov, and had to run back to the bedroom to search for his shoulder holster. He relieved Katja at ten, by which time she’d followed Adrian Martrich in her Skoda from his apartment to the tram, and then to Union Street-where, it appeared, Martrich had decided to open for a few Sunday hours in honor of the next day’s holiday, Monday the twenty-eighth of April, General Secretary Tomiak Pankov’s birthday.
Katja had nothing to report because she was tired-she admitted to falling asleep a few times in the car. Gavra was too exhausted to practice intimidation with her.
After she drove off, he settled in his own Skoda across the street from the butcher shop. It was warm out, so he’d worn shirtsleeves under his jacket, and now loosened his tie. He spent the next few hours trying not to sleep.
During the past year under Brano Sev’s tutelage, he’d sat in so many cars on so many street corners, simply watching. At first it was nearly impossible to take. He grew bored and fidgety within the first half hour and always had to pee. He’d limp off to an alleyway to relieve himself, glancing around the corner to be sure his subject hadn’t changed position, then hurry back to sit behind the wheel. For daytime watches, he found it helped to bring along a novel. He’d read Anna Karenina during a week-long session last summer, and remembered being pleased when Tolstoy entered the mind of a hunting dog as easily as he entered Anna’s.
But Brano disapproved of reading on the job and forced him to learn to do without his books. Mental quiet, his tutor said. Like the Buddhists.
What do you know about Buddhism?
A woman I loved used to be a Buddhist.
Gavra couldn’t imagine Brano with either a woman or a man. Who, after all, could fall for someone as cold as that? The advice was sound though. Sitting in his car, Gavra silenced his wandering thoughts and watched Adrian Martrich come out now and then to oversee the mute crowds their country produced whenever a fresh shipment of lamb arrived. The line grew the length of the block. Gavra observed with some detached interest the subculture of the queue-how, with time, a straight line becomes a crowd, and then each person takes a role. A tall, older man becomes the dictator, keeping track of the order, stopping one person and letting one through. Another, perhaps an old woman, becomes his assistant, her careful eye on everyone, tugging the dictator’s sleeve at the first sign of disruption. Among the sheep are the gossipers, the knitters, the readers, as well as the complainers who make speeches to strangers about the infiltrator-usually a Gypsy who ignores the painstakingly arranged order and tries to slip in undetected. But he never succeeds, because the assistant has tugged the dictator’s sleeve; the dictator has spoken and pointed; and the infiltrator has been blocked by a wall of firm backs, shoulder to shoulder, these steadfast sheep acting as if there’s no one behind them, trying to get through.
Gavra watched until four, when the meat ran out and Martrich walked the length of the block, asking everyone to please leave. Adrian carried himself very well among his disappointed customers. He patted their shoulders and bent to speak with very old, shrunken women. He knew them all and treated them as if they were his people. And they, Gavra could see, appreciated this. They appreciated him. They liked this handsome, pale-eyed young man who handed them their daily ration of meat.
An hour later Gavra watched Adrian’s young assistant leave for home, then Adrian himself locked up. He paused at the door, looking up the street toward the tram stop at the next intersection. He ran his fingers through his hair.
Then Adrian Martrich turned, smiled directly at Gavra, and crossed the street to meet him.
Gavra rolled down his window; Adrian bent close.
“Comrade Noukas, you’re not trying to be secretive, are you?”
“Uh, no.” Gavra’s mental silence was breaking up.
“I noticed Comrade Drdova out here earlier, too. You don’t think I blew up my sister’s plane, do you?”
Adrian was becoming irritating, but Gavra had the overwhelming sense that he was doing this on purpose. “Just making sure you’re all right.”
“Very comforting,” said Adrian. “If you’re watching anyway, can you give me a lift home? Save tram fare.”
Gavra wasn’t sure how Brano would feel about this, but there was no point letting the old man know. “Come on.”
They drove north along empty Sunday streets, and while Gavra tried not to look at his passenger, he felt Adrian’s presence; the right half of his body began to sweat.
“Why do I need protection?”
“We’re not sure you need it.”
“But you have reason to worry.”
“Yes.”
“Doctor Arendt?”
Gavra submitted and looked at him. “How did you know that?”
Adrian was staring straight ahead through the windshield. “Lucky guess. Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Gavra. “Do you?”
Adrian shook his head. “You think it has something to do with Zrinka?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t know much, do you?” He didn’t say this with any bitterness, and Gavra didn’t bother answering.
When they parked in the vast gravel lot between apartment blocks, Adrian said, “Might as well come up.
