said. “She told you this?”
“Yes,” he said. “She has a knack for knowing things.”
“Had.”
Adrian nodded. “Had.”
“How did she know Katja? Or me? Did she meet us?”
“No,” said Adrian. “She just knew.”
“I don’t believe it.”
He shrugged. “I’m not asking you to believe anything, Gavra. I’m just telling you what happened.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“What second thing?”
“The second thing she asked you to do.”
“What time is it?”
Gavra checked his watch. “Quarter after six.”
Adrian frowned, considering this. “It’s not time yet.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay,” said Adrian. “But don’t go doing anything. Just wait. Can you promise me that?”
“I can’t promise you anything.”
Adrian looked at Gavra’s shoes, which were dirty. “At eight, you’re going to get a call here. From Brano Sev. Wait for him to call. He will. When he calls, tell him that the hijackers were not a surprise. Not to Zrinka, and not to Ludvik Mas. And it was no coincidence that he put her on that particular plane. It was a test.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand, dear. The message is for Brano Sev, not you.”
“I should call him now.”
“No,” said Adrian. “That’s not how she planned it.”
Gavra rubbed his eyes. He could hardly see a thing. “This doesn’t make any sense. How could she know these things?”
“I told you, Gavra. She had a knack for knowing things. She always did, even when she was a child.”
“So she wasn’t delusional?”
“Of course not. Unlike most saints, my sister was never delusional.”
“I need to think about this.”
“Go ahead. Lie in bed, and I’ll cook us something to eat.”
Gavra wasn’t sure what to do. Ludvik Mas’s story of a complex ruse to snare foreign agents played and replayed in his head. Was it possible that the real ruse was Zrinka Martrich herself-that she was, in fact, the real thing? Doctor Arendt had talked of “thought broadcasting,” the ability to influence other people’s actions, which was plainly impossible. Yet even the Russians had invested millions of rubles into such research. If it were true, then was Zrinka put through a test to stop a group of Armenian terrorists from hijacking a plane?
“If she had some kind of… powers…then why didn’t she stop the terrorists?”
Adrian stood up. “I don’t know. She told me she wouldn’t survive the flight. Maybe she didn’t want to survive it. Come on,” he said, rubbing Gavra’s shoulders. “Take a rest.”
Despite himself, Gavra did what Adrian asked. He took off his dirty shoes and climbed into Adrian’s bed, blinking in the darkness. He could hear his host going through pots and pans, the puff of the stove being lit, the refrigerator opening and closing.
He remembered what Ludvik Mas had said to someone on the telephone in Ataturk International: It does appear she didn’t play along. Then the urgent, confused voice of the Armenian hijacker:
She said it. She’s one of yours. Yes. Because she knows even more. She told me. How did she know?
He sat up and rubbed his face again just as the telephone in the other room rang. The clock beside the bed said seven thirty.
Adrian’s surprised voice drifted back to him: “He’s early. ”
Gavra went into the living room and approached the phone. Adrian was cooking chicken breast in a pan. “Go ahead. It’s for you.”
On the seventh ring, Gavra picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Gavra,” said Brano. “I thought I should be the one to call, rather than Mas.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid the order has come down from the Comrade Lieutenant General. About Adrian Martrich. You are going to have to do it.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, it doesn’t have to be you. I’ll come over and take care of it myself. I know how hard it can be, particularly when you’ve spent so much time with the subject.”
Gavra blinked toward the kitchen, where Adrian whistled as he cooked. The subject. Ministry terminology drove him crazy. “I have a message for you,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s originally from Zrinka Martrich, before she died.”
“A letter?”
“No,” said Gavra. “She called her brother from the airport and asked him to pass a message on to you.”
“Me?” Brano paused. “She used my name?”
“Apparently so.”
“But I never met-”
“She seemed to know a lot of people she never met. I can’t explain it.”
He could hear Brano Sev breathing. “What’s the message?”
“That Ludvik Mas knew about the hijacking before it happened. And that’s why Zrinka was on that plane. It was a test.”
“A test? What kind of test?”
Gavra bit his lip. He didn’t know how to say this. “It seems that what Ludvik Mas told us was only partly true. The research was real, and Zrinka Martrich was…She had abilities that they wanted to use.”
Brano didn’t speak for a moment. Gavra waited for him to say that this changed everything, that there was no need for him to kill Adrian Martrich. But Brano only said, “Thank you for the message.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What you asked me to do.”
Brano’s breaths were very heavy as he considered this. “I’m afraid that doesn’t change. The order comes from the Lieutenant General, who no doubt knows everything already.”
“But-”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, comrade,” said Gavra. “I’ll take care of it.”
It was possible that he knew what he’d do while he was speaking to Brano, but more likely, he didn’t know until afterward as they sat over plates of chicken and fried potatoes in silence. Adrian didn’t ask a thing, only ate quietly, waiting for Gavra to say something. Finally he did.
“Adrian, I want you to pack a suitcase and get your passport.” He paused, reconsidering. “Do you have an external passport?”
“Of course,” said Adrian. “She asked me that as well.”
Peter
His walk north from the Sultan Inn was long and overly strenuous, his suitcase catching knees and earning him quick, dark looks. So, despite his desire for anonymity, he flagged a taxi at a crowded intersection and settled into the hot backseat.
