story.”
I still didn’t quite comprehend it. “But what do you get out of this, Ludwig? How’s all this in Austria’s best interests?”
Ludwig looked at Brano, who shrugged. “Tell him.”
“We’re not entirely neutral,” Ludwig said. “We’ve never been. How do you think the French get money into the East? They get it in through us. And when we feel like it, we supplement their money with our own. Your friend Ferenc-he and his people are beneficiaries of our generosity. Brano saw to that. Like the Americans, we don’t want to see our money go to waste.”
I looked at Brano, then the Austrian. “Ferenc never told me this.”
“He knows better,” said Ludwig.
I suppose it’s true of all revolutions. When there appear to be two or three sides fighting over a country, each side is made up of infinite smaller interests, working to make their money pay off in the end. No one wants to be on the losing side.
Even sitting in a room with these power brokers explaining everything so clearly, it was still confusing. Magda was right about me. I was too simple for this world.
Jelena finished her orange juice and said, “Can you imagine what it’s like growing up around this kind of stuff?”
I shook my head.
“She takes it well,” said Brano.
“She takes after me,” Dijana muttered as she got up to clear away the food.
After I’d showered and changed into some of Brano’s clothes, which were a little loose on me, he came up to the bedroom with two glasses of Serbian rakija. We sat at a small table by the window, looking out over a forest of maples, and he showed me copies of some of the photographs to be used against Jerzy Michalec. There was Jerzy in a hotel room, clearly marked as the Vienna Inter-Continental by papers on the desk, crouched in a corner, installing a microphone in the overhead lamp, his open briefcase on the bed full of equipment. In another, shot from a passing car, he leaned against a doorway with a camera propped against his face. Another one was a photograph of a Hungarian 37M Femaru pistol laid flat on a table, with a card displaying a magnified thumbprint. “What this?” I asked.
“A murder weapon. Killed a well-known emigre named Filip Lutz in 1967. That’s Michalec’s print.”
“He killed an emigre?”
Brano paused, considering what to reveal to me, and since it doesn’t matter now I won’t hide it either. “He didn’t kill anyone. Michalec only did surveillance, but I’m framing him for this one. He was in Vienna at the time, though I didn’t know it. He was taking photographs of me.”
“Do you know who the murderer was?”
“Someone else pulled the trigger, but it was my fault. A chief of mine did it.”
“Oh,” I said. Asking a question about Brano Sev’s life only provoked more questions.
“Tying him to a murder, rather than just basic surveillance, will let us hold him long enough to ruin his reputation.”
It seemed like a well thought-out plan, but I was still unsure. I was unsure of Brano. So I asked him what I’d wanted to ask all day. “I don’t get it. You, of all people. You’ve been a communist all your life. I thought you were one of the true believers.”
Brano set down the glass and crossed his hands over his lap. When he talked, it was in a whisper. “Emil, I’ve spent my whole life defending socialism. It sounds silly, particularly now that it’s falling apart, but I’ve never stopped believing in it. Socialism-and, yes, communism-were always more important than my own skin. Not more important than my girls, no, but more important than me.” He picked up his glass and took a sip. “But all along the way, decade after decade, I kept running into people like Jerzy Michalec. From the bottom rungs to the top. People who think socialism’s a joke. That it’s only a tool for their own gain. And now,” he said, grunting sourly, “now we’re faced with what’s probably the failure of everything I’ve worked for all my life. Why? Because socialism has been crippled the whole time by people like Jerzy Michalec.” He cleared his throat. “It makes a joke of everything I’ve tried to do. It makes a joke out of my entire life. And that doesn’t sit well with me.”
He took another drink, as if the discussion were over. So I prodded: “If you’ve always worked for socialism, why were you helping out Ferenc and his people?”
He set down his glass again. “You have to understand that what we had in our country wasn’t socialism. It was totalitarianism. I always knew that, but I believed-foolishly-that it was just the first step. Marx talked about it. The Dictatorship of the Proletariat. It’s supposed to be a transitional phase. You control the economy and adjust it in preparation for pure communism. It looks good on paper,” he said, smiling. “It really does. But Marx was as naive as I was. He thought that greed would lose its power when people were faced with the possibility of Utopia. It took me a long time to see the mistake. People like Jerzy Michalec, Tomiak Pankov, and even Nikolai Romek-they’re the reason we’ll never see pure communism on this earth. They eat it up from the inside.”
He shook his head and finished the shot. I brought my own glass to my lips but realized it was empty. Was Brano Sev really serious? Yes-it was all over the old agent’s face. I felt sorry for him. He was the only true believer I’d ever met. I began to see my old country as if it were a church full of atheists, where the only Christian wasn’t even standing at the podium but sitting in the back pews.
“You’re full of surprises, Brano.”
“I’m not,” he said. “The problem is that no one has ever believed me.”
We let that sit between us a while as we stared out at the maples. Then I asked him why I was there. “You don’t need me for any of this.”
He nodded. “That’s true, but I wanted you to see it for yourself. I feel responsible for what’s happened, and it’s the only thing I can think of to help you. I want you to be there when the man who murdered your wife is taken down.”
Everyone makes mistakes, even Brano Oleksy Sev.
He left me alone to get some rest, and that, too, was a mistake. It gave me too much time to think through my anger and come out the other end. It allowed me the time to betray him.
Whoever made the mistake, what followed was not Brano Sev’s fault. It was mine. I can claim some temporary insanity, I suppose, but that’s not right either. The truth is, I knew what I was doing every step of the way, and the blame is entirely mine. Remember that.
There was a telephone in the room, and I listened a moment for the dial tone, then called the operator. She had a heavy Vienna accent, which I found endearing, and after she’d given me the number of my embassy, she said, “GruB Gott,” which I liked as well. I didn’t like the sound of the male secretary who picked up at the embassy. When I told him I needed to speak with the ambassador, he refused outright.
“Get him on now,” I said. “I have information on a plot against Jerzy Michalec’s life.”
A half hour later, when Brano came up to fetch me, I made a show of rubbing my temples. “Sorry, Brano. I appreciate you bringing me here, but I can’t. I can’t look at that man again, not after what he did to Lena.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and patted my knee affectionately. “Like I said before, Emil, you always have a choice. You can even stay if you want. In the West. Think about it.”
“Thanks.”
I walked with him across the hall to his study and watched him take a key from his desk and use it on a cabinet where he kept three handguns. He took out a Makarov and proceeded to load it. “It’s important he not be killed,” Brano told me, as if he suspected.
I nodded, as if I agreed.
“If we kill him, then we lose leverage over the son. A dead father is less threat to Gorski’s political career than a living one with a corrupt past.”
Again I nodded.
Brano locked the cabinet, put the key back in his desk, and slipped the Makarov into his belt.
I stood with Dijana and Jelena and shook Brano and Ludwig’s hands and wished them luck. They went to the BMW. First they would meet up with Ludwig’s men near the airport, then take their positions. That gave me time. They drove off, leaving the Volkswagen behind, and after they were gone Dijana said, “I’m scared. That bastard always tells me he’s retired, then he pulls something like this.”
“Dad’s a professional liar,” said Jelena. She seemed amused by that fact. “A commie pinko liar.”
