“She decided to stay,” I answered, gasping, but winked. He laughed.
I had to drive quickly. I took the turnoff that placed me on Mihai Boulevard, then crossed the Georgian Bridge, heading south past the Canal District. I could only guess how long it would take them to search the Central Committee Building, decide I wasn’t there, then send out my name and description to the army units checking papers around the edge of the Capital.
By that hour-it was eleven thirty-cars had started to appear on the streets again, and I had to swerve around smoke-coughing Karpats and Trabants and Skodas while avoiding oncoming traffic. I reached the roadblock by noon, stopping behind four Karpats as the soldiers casually leaned over windows, checked papers, and chatted with pretty girls. I almost laid on the horn to hurry them up but decided against attracting attention.
When I reached the front of the line, I was faced with the same soldier who’d checked me and Agota on Wednesday, the one who had given Agota and Sanja a flirtatious smile. Having faced hundreds of faces since then, all of them much more memorable than mine, he didn’t remember me. When he asked where I was going, I answered honestly. “Tisakarad and Sarospatak.”
“The First City,” he said.
“What?”
“First City of the Revolution. That’s what they’re calling Patak now.”
I forced a smile. “First City it is.”
He waved me on, and soon I was in the fields that lay to the south of the Capital. I wondered what would become of all this farmland, which in 1947 had been nationalized, chopped up, and given to farmers who owed half their yield to the State. By 1950, they were giving 95 percent to the State. I imagined some of the families who’d once owned all this land were still around, and soon they’d be filing claims to get it back. What would happen to the farmers who’d spent the last forty years working the soil?
That’s when it came over me, and enveloped me. I pulled over on a barren patch and climbed out. Beneath my feet, frozen mud stood in ridges. I turned slowly, taking in all of it.
Shooting Rosta Gorski had cleared out a part of my head that I hadn’t used, probably, since I was a child. My personal tragedy receded for a moment, and for the first time I saw that my country had become an entirely different place. It was as vast and beautiful as it had always been; everything I knew and loved was inside its borders. But now it had changed. Maybe that’s when I changed as well. After forty years, I suddenly felt the need for all of this to survive. I actually believed I could protect it.
It’s the other reason I’m writing this.
I got back in the car and kept driving-carefully, because my eyes kept tearing up, turning the landscape into mist. The afternoon sun burned my roof as I crested the next hill, and the golden countryside spread out for miles.
TWENTY-TWO
Michalec again left Gavra alone in the conference room, telling him to consider his options; he’d be back in a few hours. By now, Gavra had recovered fully from whatever drug they’d used to bring him here, and he was able to think through the mathematics of his situation. Escape paths.
There were none. The conference room was simple reinforced concrete, without even a vent that he could find. There was only one exit, through the locked door and past the large, gun-toting block of muscle named Balint.
Somehow, Michalec had known that Karel was his weak point. He was the closest thing Gavra had to a family. He told me later that, despite the vigorous training he’d excelled at in the Ministry, no one had ever taught him how to let his loved ones die. He was only taught not to get himself in that kind of situation. Once there, he was in trouble.
His salvation perhaps lay in understanding why Michalec needed him to kill the Pankovs. Maybe the old man was telling the truth- he wasn’t interested in framing Brano Sev for the murder-but he was certainly trying to tie Brano to it. What would that achieve?
He thought back to America. The CIA was involved with the whole operation, and that meant something. Why would the Americans care about protecting Michalec’s past?
Gavra sat at the long table and rubbed his eyes. That answer was obvious.
Both the Soviet Empire and the American one worked through satellite nations. Moscow was more blatant in its aspirations, setting up puppet governments throughout Eastern Europe and in places like Afghanistan. When communist leaders came to power in Cuba or North Korea or Africa, no secret was made of the money sent pouring into their coffers.
The Americans were subtle. Their money, often passed on by the Central Intelligence Agency, was funneled to political figures they supported. People they believed would help American interests once they gained power. Rather than spreading their troops around the world-though they did that often enough-America used her great wealth to give her favored side an upper hand in any fight.
Americans had supported Solidarity in Poland and Charter 11 in Czechoslovakia-indirectly, perhaps, but there had been help. They’d found ways to stamp their support throughout the Bloc, in the hopes that once the Russians were kicked out they would have a united group of allies along Europe’s eastern edge.
Gavra and the Ministry knew a fair amount about Ferenc Kolyeszar’s activities, and not just from Bernard’s compromised reports. The Ministry never really feared Ferenc’s group, because they were cut off from the outside world. Despite some international attention, Ferenc never met with American spies or diplomats. Occasionally, French literary critics would arrive to talk to him, sometimes bringing along money buried in the false bottoms of their suitcases, but it was only enough to keep him afloat, not enough to truly threaten the government.
To the Americans, Ferenc and his people were nothing more than a rumor spread by the French. What the Americans wanted was someone they could see and hear and touch, someone who could convince them with charm. Only emigres could do this, charming emigres like Jerzy Michalec.
And if the Americans gave their support to Michalec over the years, might they protect their investment by killing someone on their own soil who would risk the millions they’d already spent?
Of course they would.
It made enough sense for him to back up again and whisper it aloud to see if it sounded crazy or not. “The Americans are funding Michalec’s people and have helped erase Michalec’s past to ensure he can come to power without resistance.”
Gavra was suddenly desperate for a cigarette, but Michalec had taken his scented French packet with him. Instead, he poured more water and gulped it down.
The problem wasn’t that it sounded crazy; it didn’t. From an intelligence standpoint it was completely reasonable, an everyday occurrence. What disturbed him was the idea that Jerzy Michalec, a murderer and former Gestapo agent, would be elected as our country’s first democratic president. That was what he couldn’t take.
He heard a sound and looked up to see the door opening. He considered leaping from the chair to catch Michalec off guard, perhaps to kill him-that, at least, would save his country the trauma of having him as president.
It wasn’t Michalec, though; it was Beth, smiling, followed by Harold.
“You look tense,” said Beth.
“Of course he’s tense,” said Harold as Balint shut the door behind them. “The man’s about to become a national hero.”
Despite the way this peculiar couple had tricked him, Gavra couldn’t hate them. He had a feeling they were falling for a much bigger ruse.
So he stood up and gently shook Harold’s hand, then kissed Beth’s cheeks, which made her giggle. “No one’s so polite in the States. I love being back home.”
“Sit down,” said Gavra.
“I told you he’d be fine,” said Beth.
Harold pulled out a chair for her and winked at Gavra. “The woman’s an optimist even when optimism’s a fool’s errand.”
