At that point I stop reading, because the man known as Ludvik Mas is exiting the elevator and descending to the restaurant. It’s time for his complimentary breakfast.
Peter
Sitting over his sparse continental breakfast, Peter found himself dreaming of the afternoon flight home. Only a few hours to go. He had lain in bed last night, uncomfortable, wanting only to proceed to the room with his hunting knife and take care of that Martrich queer as soon as possible. But he had to wait. The flight left at eleven, and he would have to do the job just beforehand, to assure that no one alerted the border guards and kept him in this miserable city.
An hour ago, Brano Sev had called to explain that, despite his best efforts, he had found no record of another agent who would have used the Dutch chapel pistol. But he assured Peter that he would continue his investigations until he’d uncovered the culprit.
“You don’t really care,” Peter said.
“Excuse me, Comrade Mas?”
“Come on, Brano. You’ve never forgiven me for going over your head with Room 305.”
Brano sighed. “I don’t hold grudges.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Comrade Sev.”
“I still feel, however, that the project was never of any political value. I think its history has proven that.”
Peter grunted. He was so far from being Brano’s protege, and it had been such a long time since he’d had to listen to the old man’s antiquated ideals. “Brano, the political died in 1968 in Prague. Since then, socialism has become entirely personal. Room 305 may have had no political benefits, but it certainly had personal benefits.”
“Like your career.”
“For example.”
“Good day.”
“Good day, Comrade Sev.”
Over breakfast he remembered that other meeting in 1972, a week after Brano’s refusal to consider his plan. Peter had gone straight to the Comrade Lieutenant General and received an enthusiastic response. The next day, Brano cornered him in the Yalta lobby. Remember what I told you, Ludvik. Mushroom clouds on the horizon. Some of us don’t actually want that.
Over time their relationship had thawed again, each going about his own work, until Brano’s new protege, that Gavra Noukas, stuck his nose into the great debacle that was Zrinka Martrich.
They’d brought her to the clinic-not in Rokosyn, because that complex had already been destroyed, but a warehouse outside of Uzhorod-and treated her the same way they treated all the other delusionals they’d collected from around the country. Food, guarded walks in the fenced grounds, and sleep. The only plan was to keep them alive.
She was prettier than most-all the Ministry guards noticed this-and very even-tempered. She caused no trouble and, until a year into her stay, didn’t even bother to speak with her guards. When she did, it was to Petrov, an old Ministry hand nearing retirement, who tried to take her by force in the interview room.
Neither knew they were being recorded by a video camera Peter had recently had installed, but when Petrov stepped out into the corridor and placed his Walther PP against his own teeth and pulled the trigger, Peter demanded to see the tape.
Petrov’s recorded voice was not unlike his own back in 1968, when he cornered the fiancee of the man he had killed in Prague, but Zrinka’s reaction was entirely different from Katja Uher’s. When Zrinka pushed him back, she spoke calmly, just a few words about Petrov’s son, Sasha.
Sasha will never understand, but the rest of the world does. The rest of the world knows.
And Petrov went quiet. He walked into the corridor and closed the door. Zrinka crossed her arms…as if waiting. When the gunshot sounded, muffled by the door, she didn’t even jump.
They began the first actual tests the clinic had ever run. Zrinka would not perform for them, so Peter sent in another guard, Dubi, whom they rushed to stop before he cut his own throat with a knife. Dubi spent the next week in a hospital bed, sedated, until finally making it to the window and throwing himself out.
Zrinka Martrich would perform, but only by force.
That was when Peter looked into her file and learned of a brother living in the Capital.
It was simple extortion. If she would go along with a test run on a Swedish Interpol official they wanted dead, then her brother could live. He smiled at her across the interview room’s table.
Stay away from my brother.
Only you can save him now.
You’re a true shit. That’s plain as day.
Such language!
She paused. Why do you want the man dead?
That’s our business.
She squinted a moment, her bloodshot eyes focused beyond him, then relaxed. He’s investigating something, isn’t he? The funding of terrorists. Yes. By our government. By you.
Peter almost dropped to the floor right there. This woman terrified him, but he got control of himself, climbed to his feet, and left.
Zrinka spent the next two days in her room considering the plan. On the video, she appeared to be sleeping most of the time. She ignored her food. Then, finally, she sat up straight and called for him.
What happens after I’ve done it?
Your brother will be allowed to live in peace.
She nodded. And me?
We’ll see then.
To Peter’s surprise, she agreed. Then she said, Would you like to know about an impending terrorist attack?
He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded.
There is a group of Turkish Armenians, led by a man named Norair Tigran in Istanbul, who are planning to hijack a plane from our country. They haven’t yet decided what plane, or when, but there’s one person they’ll listen to. Wilhelm Adler.
That, finally, was enough to force him down into a chair. How do you know about Adler?
I know lots of things, Peter Husak.
He stood again, deeply frightened now, and backed out of the room.
“More?” asked a white-smocked woman with an aluminum teapot.
He watched her pour, then brought the cup to his lips.
From what they’d been able to learn, Zrinka Martrich controlled people not only by the words she spoke but also by the tone of her voice, which was why Peter went through the files of handicapped Ministry thugs and found Adam, a deaf ex-boxer from Krosno, who was told nothing of what would happen on the plane.
Only now was it evident that the bitch had been manipulating him all along. She had told him about the Armenians because she-somehow-knew that he would alter his plan. While she would still be sent to kill the Swede, she would have an additional, surprise task. She knew this. She knew he would call Wilhelm Adler to tell the Armenians to hijack the plane she would be taking to Istanbul. She knew he would supply them with explosives. And she knew that Peter believed that, placed in the middle of such a debacle, she would use her abilities to solve the problem.
He could not explain the how of her abilities. He only knew that she had been smarter than him. She had talked him into arranging her suicide.
At the time, though, he’d only been amazed by his good fortune.
Then, a fireball over Bulgaria.
But why? While Zrinka Martrich certainly had the ability to bring down the plane, he doubted she would kill
