A trace of a smile flickered across Mas’s face. He aimed between Gavra’s eyes and descended a step, speaking calmly. “Comrade Noukas, we can both die on this stairwell, or we can both survive the night.”
He descended two more steps. He said, “I suggest you speak with Comrade Sev before you pull that trigger.”
“Who’s the man downstairs?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
He was two steps above Gavra, their pistols pointed at each other’s faces. Ludvik Mas lowered his, but Gavra didn’t shift his aim.
“I’m going now, Comrade Noukas.”
“You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll do no such thing. Speak with your superiors.” He paused, then added, “Faggot.”
He passed quickly, trotted down the next flight, and was gone.
Gavra stood with his gun by his side, feeling suddenly cold, then continued up. In answer to his knock, Adrian opened the door. The butcher’s face, at first hesitant, lit up and even smiled when he registered who his visitor was. But Gavra only said, “I need to use your phone.”
During the twenty minutes they waited for Brano Sev, Gavra smoked three cigarettes. Adrian poured them each a vodka and sat across from him on the sofa. Absently, Gavra said, “Thanks,” and threw back the shot.
“You’re sure he’s dead?” asked Adrian.
Gavra looked at him.
“From the door,” he explained. “I could hear everything.”
He nodded.
“Who is he?”
That question stunned him, because in his distraction he hadn’t thought to check this. He bolted out of the apartment. His feet clattered down the stairs. After a few minutes, he returned with a wallet and a passport, frowning. He sat again in the chair and asked Adrian, “Do you know a Maxwell Palmer?”
Adrian shook his head. “Can I see?”
Gavra showed him the bland photo in Maxwell Palmer’s passport. The face was also unfamiliar, but Adrian frowned at the cover. “Why is there a dead American here?”
He wanted to be open with Adrian Martrich, to let him know that the man who killed the American was a state security officer, and that he suspected the next target had been Adrian himself-but Ludvik Mas’s confidence made this difficult. Mas was part of that shadowy world of the back offices of Yalta, like Room 305, the source of puzzling commands and sudden bursts of retribution. Room 305 was the last office Gavra wanted causing him trouble.
So he held his tongue until Brano Sev arrived, the gray hair behind his ears wet, as if he’d been called from the bath. He nodded imperceptibly at Adrian, then turned to Gavra. “Comrade Noukas, can we talk?”
In the corridor and down the stairs, Gavra told him every detail of the story, omitting only Mas’s final word, faggot.
Brano looked through the dead American’s papers. “So it’s Maxwell Palmer tonight.”
“You know him?”
“His real name is Timothy Brixton, CIA. His cover is as a television salesman.” Brano paused. “What was Brixton doing here?”
“He came alone, and an old man let him in.”
“A contact?”
“No. But Ludvik Mas was following him. And he had a key.”
“He would.”
Brano squatted to stare at the hole in the dead American’s throat. Blood covered Brixton’s clothes and congealed on the stairs. Gavra could still smell the potassium nitrate from the shot that had killed him.
“You say Mas was heading to Adrian Martrich’s apartment?”
“Looks that way. But when he saw me, he left. It seems clear enough that Ludvik Mas also murdered Doctor Arendt and Wilhelm Adler, and that his next target was Adrian Martrich.”
“Is it clear?” Brano began going through the dead American’s pockets. “But Timothy Brixton was here for a reason as well.”
“Are you going to talk to Mas?”
“I’ll certainly try,” said Brano.
“He’s our prime suspect.”
Brano came up with some loose change and a key from the Hotel Metropol.
“Can you tell me?” Gavra asked.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Mas seemed to think you would know.”
Brano stood. “I can find out. Let’s get someone to clean this up. And, Gavra?”
“Yes?”
“Keep this quiet. It’s not the kind of thing Katja should know about.” Brano handed over the Metropol key and squinted at the top of the stairs as something occurred to him.
“What?”
Brano shook his head. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Just make sure Comrade Martrich survives the night.”
Katja
We’re on velvet-seated stools at the Orient Express Bar of the Pera Palas, surrounded by pink-tinted walls. Past Istvan, at dark corner tables, men in loosened ties with fuming cigarettes huddle over drinks, and the occasional tourist family tries to rein in their children. This is so different from the bar where I last met Brano Sev.
“Spies used to come here,” says Istvan.
“That so?”
“Mata Hari, Kim Philby. Back when spying was still glamorous.” He winks when he says that, and, as he slides a glass with clear liquor in front of me, adds, “Agatha Christie wrote Orient Express in one of their rooms.”
“Thus the name of this bar.”
“Exactly.”
I look at my glass as he pours cold water into it, the mix turning milky.
“ Rak? Turkish brandy,” he says. “Is that all right?”
I answer by draining the anise-heavy liquid, and Istvan, seemingly impressed, calls for another.
He talks to me like a man trying to sell something. He tells me about electric fans. “The real symbol of the twentieth century. Man over nature. When nature makes you hot, you beat her to the ground with one of these. The next step is climatization, what the Americans call ‘air-conditioning,’ but we’re not yet ready for that much control over nature.”
“You’re very philosophical for a salesman.”
“You’d be surprised. Salesmen are some of the most philosophical people around. It’s the long hours alone, stuck with your own thoughts. And the hotels, which, even if they’re as beautiful as this one, begin to look the same. The world begins to look the same. And you start to wonder how different we all really are, and why we do what we do. That’s really all of philosophy in a nutshell.”
“The why. ”
“Yes, why. That’s the basic question of philosophy. How is a question for science.”
“Maybe you should write this down.”
“I know my limits.” He takes a drink and cocks his head, and in this light I can see his scalp through his thin hair. “So why are you in Istanbul? Obviously not business, or you’d have a reservation.”
“I just wanted to see it. Istanbul.”
“And what do you do back in the Capital?”
