“You won’t be out in the streets?”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll be calling you late.”
By two thirty, Lena arrived with one of the front-desk militiamen dragging her huge suitcase. The poor man’s face was red and damp. “Right here,” she said, pointing at the floor beside Bernard’s empty desk, and gave offhand thanks when he left.
“What took you so long?” I said.
“I had to pack, Emil.”
“It’s just a few days.”
Lena frowned at me, then turned to smile at Katja. “You hear how he talks to me?”
Katja came over from her desk. “He’s a real cretin.” She kissed my wife’s cheeks. “But he’s right. Aron’s leaving, too.”
Unsurprisingly, Katja’s opinion carried extra weight. Lena touched my detective’s arm and nodded resolutely. “You get out, too. Okay?”
“Soon,” said Katja.
“You get hold of Georgi?” I asked.
Lena rocked her head from side to side. “I think he’s drunk.”
Georgi Radevych was an old friend of Ferenc’s, a literary type we’d gotten to know over the years. He was genetically incapable of writing anything that could make it through the Culture Ministry censors, so when he finally tired of causing trouble at the Writer’s Union and passing out at endless parties in the Capital, we offered him my family’s dacha in Ruscova, down near the Romanian border. He’d lived there for nearly a decade by now, hammering away at an old typewriter, producing stacks of pages that no one, probably, would ever read. It wasn’t only kindness: Since we rarely went there, he kept the little house in shape, fixing leaks and sometimes making improvements in exchange for a roof over his head. It also left him with enough change to buy liter bottles of cheap brandy.
“You’ll be able to make the drive?” I said as I handed her the pass for the roadblocks.
“Of course.”
“And you’ve got money?”
Lena gave me one of her looks-I was treating her like a child again. It was an old habit; those years when she drank more than even Georgi, it had been necessary. We went to my office, and I closed the door. She said, “This isn’t just about the demonstrations, is it?”
I shook my head. “Remember that missing case file?”
She nodded.
“The person who took it also took six personnel files. I think that person killed Kolev and two of the people in the files. One of the files is mine.”
She reddened and touched the desk. “Then you’re coming with me.”
“I will,” I said, “but later. Trust me, I don’t want to be around when everyone starts shooting.”
She ran a hand down my arm and spoke softly. “Emil, you’re allowed to end your career a day early. Come with me. Don’t be stupid.”
“And leave Katja on her own?”
“She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
I shook my head. “Bernard’s fled. I’m not doing the same thing to her.”
She smiled, rubbing my bald scalp as if it still held hair. “You’re a good man, Comrade Brod.”
“You’re a liar, Comrade Brod.”
I kissed her-I remember that. Nothing dramatic, because I was used to her leaving me for her shopping trips to Western Europe. This was no different, not really.
Then she pulled back and blinked at me. “No.”
“No, what?”
“You’re not staying here. You’re coming with me. We’ll bring Katja and Aron, too.” She fingered my lapels. “Okay? We’ll be out of town in an hour.”
I shook my head, then leaned closer. “Are you crying?”
She wiped her eyes quickly and even sniffed. “Don’t be silly, Emil. I just don’t wear widowhood very well-you know that.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She brought her face close to mine, gripping my arms, so I could hear her choked whisper. “When?”
I wasn’t sure why she was getting emotional over this-it was be-wildering. “I just need to see a few things through. A couple of days.”
“No,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
I considered that. By tomorrow, as Romek had said, the world might be an entirely different place. Tomorrow was a strong possibility. “Okay. Tomorrow. And if necessary, I’ll drag Katja with me.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She sniffed and fixed my tie and kissed me again.
On the way out, she ordered Katja to take care of “my pensioner husband,” and I followed her out to Lenin Avenue, complaining the whole way about whatever she’d packed in her bag.
“I’m too old for this. I’m sixty-five!”
“Sixty-four,” she corrected as we stepped outside into the cold. “Don’t mark up the leather.”
“How did you even get this to the taxi?”
“I asked the driver to come up.” She flashed a fresh smile that outshone her mottled mascara. “He was strong. A real looker.”
“I hope you tipped him well.”
“Oh,” she said, placing a hand over her mouth. “Was I supposed to?”
I groaned, heaving the suitcase into the trunk of my Mercedes.
“Keys?” she reminded me, and I handed them over. She gave me another peck on the cheek, then got rid of the smile. “Don’t forget your medicine.”
“Okay.”
“And you promised, remember? Tomorrow. Early as possible.”
“I remember.”
“I’m serious, now. Do what you have to do, but even if it’s not finished, you come down south. Don’t get too involved in any of this. There’s no reason anymore.”
“You’re worried about me?”
She made a face as she opened the door-her nose was already pink from the cold. “I just don’t want to spend too long alone with Georgi. He reminds me too much of how I used to be.” Then she kissed me again and shooed me away. “Don’t waste time dawdling. You’re on a deadline.”
I returned to the Militia steps and waited for her to drive off. I could see her hunched over the wheel, looking for where to insert the key. This always gave her trouble, but only in my car. It didn’t make sense, because we both had the same model Mercedes. I took a step down toward the sidewalk to help her out, but she got it.
I know this because the Mercedes exploded.
Katja was at her desk when the blast occurred. An instant beforehand, she looked up at a sound-a neighborhood dog let out a single worried bark. Then it happened. It was, she told me later, like two explosions. A low, bass thump she felt in her stomach, then, immediately after, a higher-toned pressure that hurt her ears and shattered the window behind her. Glass caught in her hair and covered the floor. But she didn’t move.
I was thrown back, the corners of the front steps cutting into my back, and for an instant I, too, was frozen. I heard things inside the demolished Mercedes exploding, fire crackling. But the loudest thing was my damned heart. Black smoke billowed into the sky, then sagged, heavy, and filled the street. I rolled and caught the stink of burning gasoline. It was everywhere.
Through the smoke, I saw a flaming, twisted Mercedes, but I was trying to see past it, because this couldn’t be the car that held my wife. I thought that mine was somewhere behind this one. I got up and ran toward it, limping, entering the smoke, choking and coughing. The militiamen told me later that I was shouting her name, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the thumping sound and the smoke and heat that stopped me before I could get to her.
I wasn’t alone. At the sound of the blast, and the sudden rain of broken glass in the station, the militiamen
