The Fourth Courier

by Timothy Jay Smith

  “Agreed.”

  Kurt changed the weights on the barbell in the bench press’s rack. “I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said and stretched out on the bench. He planted his feet on the floor and flattened his back to be entirely supported by the bench. He gripped the barbell and lifted it off the rack. He groaned at the weight and struggled to lift it once. Then he slipped both hands to the center of the bar, let go with one hand, and lifted it twice with one arm before slipping it back on the rack. Kurt smiled up at Jay, who was hovering over the rack to help him if he needed it. “See, that’s how you do it!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jay said, and took his place on the bench.

  The first rounds were easy, but as weights added up, they each took their time adjusting their feet and bracing their backs. Once again it was Kurt’s turn. Jay stood over him, knees pressed to his shoulders, their hands next to each other’s on the barbell to help Kurt lower the weight to his chest before lifting it. His arms knotted. His legs tautened. His groin bunched into a fistful of muscles. Every vein on his body bulged as he pressed it once. Twice. The third time he locked elbows and Jay helped guide it back onto the rack.

  They traded places. Jay wiped his shorts to dry his palms but they were just as sweaty. Kurt leaned over him, grinning fiercely, Jay tasting his salty sweat as it sprinkled his face. Together they lowered the barbell to his chest, and Kurt let go.

  Jay firmed his grip, mustered his strength, and barely budged the weight before it fell back and pinned him to the bench.

  Kurt never stopped grinning.

  “Sonofabitch! Get this off me!”

  “Not from this angle. Bad for the back.” He swung around and straddled Jay’s chest. “Forfeit?”

  “Forfeit!”

  Shakily they managed to heave the barbell back on the rack.

  Kurt raised his arms in victory and strutted a couple of steps.

  Jay grabbed his ankle and tripped him. They grappled until they managed to untangle themselves and scrambled onto their feet.

  They sparred like boxers, bouncing on the balls of their feet, lunging for each other, grinding the other down, entwined and rolling across the mats, wrestling to pin each other though both were too slick with sweat for a hold. Tumbling, twisting, at one point their heads clasped between the other’s knees, until they fell back on the mats, breathing hard.

  “Did they teach you to wrestle at Quantico?” Kurt asked.

  “High school wrestling team.”

  “Me too. Shower time.”

  They picked up their towels and returned to the locker room.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE FAX MACHINE WARBLED AND lifted a sheet of paper between its rollers. Lights flickered on the dials. As the paper jerked forward, the topmost strands of the dead man’s woolly hair appeared. His brow inched out, his dead eyes, his cheek with its black gash. Basia’s lips curled as she remembered his vile breath when he tried to kiss her. She set aside the page as the rest of the report emerged. Kulski had summarized it, but she wanted to read Dr. Nagorski’s conclusions for herself.

  Basia Husarska needed a strategy. She was used to that. Communism had made stupid people stupider and smart ones dull, but shrewd ones survived on their wits. Or at least she had. Her father had been destroyed by the system, and her mother by him. Basia had grown up determined that nothing would destroy her. From an early age she learned the power of sex, even convincing her father that he had seduced her one drunken night, his deference to her whims forever sealed. Her mother gradually disappeared into the shadows of her life. Basia barely took notice of their deaths.

  She had dreams beyond making the system work for her. Basia wanted out. She wanted freedom from the omnipresent hand that puppeteered their lives. Ironically, Solidarity’s rise had threatened the scaffolding of escape she had constructed. The men she had loved—if love was a fair substitute for the word fuck—had fallen from their pedestals, losing their purses full of the favors they could dispense. So many had been in her control, afraid to tell their wives of their indiscretions, and infatuated with her playfulness because she did everything they could bring themselves to verbalize. Now she only had Dravko. Only he remained in her web of deceit. All her other constructs had failed.

  Basia retrieved the pages that fell one by one from the fax machine, skimming them, reading again what the detective had told her about the slug from the P-83, the sixth finger, the radioactive shoes. Time, which once had stretched so uneventfully before her, now seemed her enemy. She only had as much time as it would take to trace the bullet to her. Dravko was her escape. Dravko or his million dollars, which she bet was in his steamer suitcase. Where else would you hide a million dollars in that room? But she couldn’t just walk off with it. She’d be dead before she counted it. She needed more time to come up with a scheme. She set aside the autopsy report, mulling over what to tell him, what pretenses to use to get her way, because Basia Husarska would settle for nothing less.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  THE MARRIOTT’S BAR WAS ALWAYS popular at cocktail hour. More business deals were cut and clandestine affairs sealed in those ninety minutes than any other ninety minutes on anybody’s clock. Basia stood in the doorway looking for Dravko. The place was lively. He usually preferred a quiet table off to the side, but that evening he was seated at the bar. The young barman was laughing at something Dravko had said when Basia slipped onto the stool next to him. “Good evening, Wojtek,” she said.

  “Good evening, Pani Husarska,” the barman replied. “Scotch on rocks?”

  “A double.”

  “You got it.”

  When he moved down the bar, she said to Dravko, “I see you dressed up for young Wojtek.”

  “He likes my medals.”

  “Be careful. They make you look rich.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He doesn’t do anything for free.”

  “Double scotch rocks, Pani,” the barman served her.

  “Dzienkuje,” she said, and to Dravko, “Cheers.”

  They touched glasses and sipped.

  “He is beautiful,” she remarked about the young barman. “I’d like to fuck him too. I’d suggest a three-way but I would probably be ignored. You haven’t asked about your fourth courier.”

  “He didn’t show. I don’t have to ask. He was always adamant he would cross on Monday.”

  “Why?”

  “He never said. But they all crossed on a Monday.”

  “Why did you stay?”

  “To humor you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The American ambassador has invited me to a party tomorrow. Apparently the Americans want to get to know me.”

  “They already know you. They watch you while you’re here, don’t they? And now they can watch your war on the news.”

  “It’s a private meeting at the ambassador’s house.”

  “Ah, that makes a difference! Nobody will be watching you there.”

  “With the situation in Sarajevo, it will be amusing to hear what they have to say.”

  “The whole week could be amusing, Dravko. Stay, wait for your fourth man. I will amuse you whenever you want. And when you tire of me, I am sure it could be arranged with Wojtek, or other boys. There are so many of them, and why not?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Sometimes you think too much. Act on it. Perhaps it is your last chance to have boys before you bury yourself alive in your puritanical Serbia.”

  “You would approve?”

  “I’m only sharing you, Dravko. Of course, I will want to be amused, too.”

  Dravko grinned. “I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LILKA PARKED OUTSIDE HER BUILDING. She counted four tiers of windows up and four over, picking out the square meter of concrete that constituted her balcony. She didn’t see a light, but it was only twilight and Jacek might still be there. She prayed he wasn’t, then admonished herself for as
king so frivolously for God’s intervention. If she were to have a prayer answered, it should be to rid her of Jacek forever.

  In the scruffy, filthy foyer, someone had scribbled a vulgarity over an announcement for a meeting to discuss the building’s “deplorable conditions of habitation.” She braced herself for the climb to her floor and pulled open the stairwell’s stubborn door. Stippled with cigarette butts, the steps reeked from too many men having relieved themselves, especially on the first couple of landings. At her floor, she burst into the hallway wanting fresher air, and gasped when she saw Jacek sprawled across their threshold. For a moment, she thought her prayers had been answered and he was dead. Then he reached for his toolbox.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m changing the goddamn lock.”

  “Why?”

  “For security.”

  He got on his knees to remove the old deadbolt and she stepped around him to go inside.

  He grabbed her ankle. “I don’t want you touching my stuff.”

  She walked out of his grip. “I don’t want to touch your stuff. Why do we need to change the lock for security?”

  “Too many people have keys.”

  “What people?”

  “Aleks. He’s got a key.”

  “He’s our son, and in theory he lives here.”

  “You don’t know who he’s given it to. Another one, your sister’s got a key.”

  “She has a key for emergencies.”

  “Yeah, well I came home today, and your big dumb brother-in-law was here. I don’t recall an emergency.”

  “We haven’t been able to flush the toilet for two days.”

  “Use a bucket of water. That works.”

  “Tolek didn’t fix it?”

  “He said it needed a new mechanism.” Jacek prodded the deadbolt with a screwdriver and it dropped into his palm. “I guess Mr. Scientist has been demoted to plumber if he’s fixing toilets.”

  “You could be nicer about Tolek. He’s doing us a favor. When’s he coming back?”

  “I told him to stay the fuck away until I said it was okay.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m taking a shower.”

  “Why? You got a date with your FBI boyfriend tonight?”

  “We’re having dinner.”

  “I told you not to see him, didn’t I?”

  “You told me not to bring him around.”

  “It amounts to the same thing. If you’re seeing him, he’ll come sniffing around.”

  Lilka went into the bedroom.

  “Hey! Don’t touch my things!” He scrambled to his feet. “Hey!”

  She opened the closet door.

  “Get away from there!” he yelled at her.

  “I need some clothes.”

  “I didn’t say you could go in there.”

  “It’s my room, Jacek.”

  “Not until further notice it isn’t.”

  “Stop it Jacek, now! I need my clothes.”

  Jacek approached her menacingly. Lilka waited for his blow.

  “Get your fucking clothes but don’t touch anything that’s mine.”

  Lilka slid open the closet door and instantly saw the steamer suitcase Jacek had shoved inside. Dark tan with leather straps and brass pieces, it was too handsome for something he would own. “Whose is this?”

  “I said don’t touch it.”

  “I’m not touching it. I’m looking at it.”

  “Don’t do even that.”

  “You put it on top of my shoes. I have to move it.”

  “DON’T TOUCH IT!” he screamed.

  Lilka jumped back. “What is it? You’re scaring me.”

  “I’ll get your stuff. What shoes do you want?”

  “The purple ones.”

  “Which dress?”

  “Also purple.”

  Clutching her purse and clothes, Lilka locked herself in the cramped bathroom. As she rearranged the stockings hanging over the tub, she heaved a dry sob and glimpsed her haggard self in the mirror. Only last night, she had believed herself to be beautiful. She clung to that memory to fight back tears. For a long time, she thought she deserved Jacek’s anger and his fists, too, when he needed to lash out, because her teenage deception had contributed to the anger that ultimately consumed him.

  She adjusted the water temperature, stepped into the shower, and thought about seventeen years ago—exactly half her life—when Jacek had been a catch, definitely not someone you’d push out of bed. He had mischievous blue eyes, bushy black hair, and an endearing smile. He came from a gruff family, but that didn’t matter too much. He was smart and handsome. He was the boy who was going to do better than the rest. In Jacek’s late teens, like his friends, he started experimenting with sex—meaning trying to score as often as a horny guy could—and he could have had any girl he wanted who was in a similar experimental mood. Lilka’s friends were envious when he chose her. You slept with him? they asked in awe, as if he’d given her his blessing instead of the clap. She missed her next period, and in Catholic Poland, that was tantamount to applying for a marriage license.

  His father was enraged that he’d knocked up a girl and ruined his chances for making a better life for all of them. One night, after too many vodkas, he chased Jacek with a knife, denouncing his stupidity, and blaming what he’d done on his movie star looks. He tripped, and a wild swing caught Jacek in the face and sliced his cheek wide open.

  It ruined Jacek. His self-confidence was wrapped up in his looks. He knew the advantages of being cute as a kid and exceedingly handsome as a young man. He’d kept it a secret that he had applied to a modeling agency—it wasn’t something you talked about around a garbage collector’s table—but that career option evaporated. He grew a beard to cover the scar, but it didn’t quite cover it all, and besides, he was one of those rare men whose looks were diminished by a beard. He knew it, and at one point shaved it off, but when he looked in the mirror, all he saw was his scar. He started growing it back the same day.

  His scar is all that is left of him, Lilka thought as she dried off. While putting on her purple dress and pumps, she listened to Jacek’s banging and swearing at the stubborn lock. Then he suddenly stopped. She gathered what she needed and left the bathroom.

  Jacek was seated on the couch pulling at a beer. “I see ‘fuck me’ written all over your face,” he said.

  “I need a key to the new lock.”

  “Stay home.”

  “I need one for Tolek, too.”

  “I said I don’t want him in here. Nobody, you hear?”

  “Even you must like it better when the toilet flushes. Give me a key, Jacek.”

  He flipped one onto the table.

  She snatched it.

  Right after she did, he stabbed his knife into the table. “That’s for your FBI boyfriend if you bring him back. He’ll never fuck you or anyone else again.”

  She went to the door.

  “What’s he say that makes you want to give it to him for free? Or is it for free?”

  She was in the hallway.

  “Does he say you’re beautiful?” he shouted after her.

  She was at the stairwell.

  “You think you’re so fucking beautiful when you look like a fucking whore!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  KURT CRAWFORD SLOWED AS HE passed General Mladic’s lodge and kept going. A taxi following him braked and pulled up to the curb. In his rearview mirror, he observed the general, out of uniform, slip into its back seat. He mulled over the probability that the payoff for the couriers was in the general’s room, and he was equally curious how Mladic might spend his sudden free time in Warsaw. Would he somehow reveal his hand in the weapons trade? Did Kurt dare offer an unrefusable bribe to the lodge’s proprietor to let him in Mladic’s room for five minutes?

  He slowed, pretending to look for an address to keep his face turned away as he let the taxi pass him. When the driver turned onto a m
ajor boulevard, Kurt sped up and was easily able to tail him in the light traffic.

  Ahead of him, Dravko had no idea he was being followed. Instead, he imagined the adoring crowds that would one day line that boulevard during a state visit and cheer his name so thunderously that the ground vibrated. Then that scene, playing like a movie in his head, became real. He saw those crowds and felt the earth move as he towered over his handsome honor guard who carried him on an open palanquin. He was searching the faces for the world leaders who were certain to be there when the taxi driver said something. The film stopped. “What did you ask?” Dravko said.

  “You got a number or a name or something?”

  “Wolska Street is good enough. I’ll find my way.”

  “We’re on Wolska Street. There’s a lot to find on it.”

  Dravko, beginning to feel that not giving a number would draw more attention than he desired, gave his destination’s address.

  “Cholera!” the driver swore and made a reckless U-turn. “Why didn’t you say you were going to the Arena? That’s at the other end.”

  Dravko shrank back in the seat. The purplish light from passing shops gave him an unhealthy pallor. He worried the driver had seen his face too clearly and might report him, but then he remembered he could lose those fears in Warsaw. There was no longer anything to gain by reporting another’s innocent misdeeds.

  Over his shoulder the driver said, “I’ve never been inside but I take a lot of guys there. I figure I know what it’s about. Is it nice?”

  “I don’t know. It’s my first time,” answered Dravko.

  The driver laughed. “They all say that! I guess there’s a first time for everything. Maybe I’ll have to give it a try my own first time!” He pulled to the curb. “Here you are. Inside there. The door’s on your left.”

  Dravko peered into an arcade and saw a sign for the Arena Baths.

  “Bingo,” Kurt said to himself as he swerved around Dravko’s stopped taxi.

  “Go through the arch and there’s a door on the left.”

  Dravko waited until the taxi had driven off, and even then did not walk straightaway into the arcade. He wandered a bit, peering into shop windows, feigning interest. He tried to look inconspicuous as he checked out other pedestrians. Most hurried along the rain-darkened street, but more than one slowed his steps and cruised him—behavior that felt reckless to him. He couldn’t have risked even a sideways glance in his own country, let alone a turn of the head. A rumor could topple him and put him on the receiving end of electric shocks intended to torture the queer out of him. The only men Dravko had had sex with were a few escorts procured by the lodge’s discreet proprietor and a lengthening list of encounters in prison, where his gratification was another method to debase inmates who obligingly didn’t survive to tell.