by Mario Bolduc
“You’re forgetting the father, Emil Rosca. After the revolution, Emil came out of prison. He was finally able to travel freely. He went to Amsterdam a number of times to see Christina while Landermann was vacationing in Spain.” Woensdag smiled sadly. “He survived such horror, that little accordion player. He’s even with us here today.”
A door opened behind Max.
He whipped around, surprised.
An old man, his walker before him, struggled slowly into the room.
Toma Boerescu.
40
The Airbus began its descent beneath heavy clouds. Max O’Brien’s mood darkened. Soon snow would fall on Bucharest, maybe just as the plane landed. The city was invisible, hidden behind a veil, revealing itself only at the last minute as the plane’s wheels touched tarmac. Max had never been nervous in planes before, but this time his shirt stuck to his back and his hands were moist. The flight had gone smoothly. When the plane had taken off in Amsterdam, Sacha had watched the snowbound landscape of the Netherlands through the window in silence. After the Airbus finally reached the clouds, Sacha had gazed with fascination at the grey stuff around him, though he could barely see the tip of the wing.
Max thought back to Toma Boerescu, a.k.a. Emil Rosca. His incredible story, Sacha its end point. This grandson Boerescu would never have known about had become, in the course of things — by the acts of men, really — his only family, besides Kevin and Gabrielle. Christina hadn’t listened to her lover’s advice when she’d sent Ioan to his adoptive parents in Great Britain. She wouldn’t accept the loss of his culture, so she’d chosen a Romani family, though one well integrated in gadjo culture. They had known about the importance of the little boy from Romania …
“I was sent back to prison after Timişoara,” Boerescu had told Max when the latter learned his true identity. “I was sure I’d never get out.”
Unbeknownst to him, Christina had overseen Ioan’s education from afar. She’d refused Emil’s defeatism, thinking of the future, even though she’d lost faith in the possibility of true political reform in Romania or elsewhere in Eastern Europe. Boerescu agreed. The early 1980s had seemed to confirm their pessimism. And then, within the span of a few short weeks, the world had changed.
Freed, Boerescu could have taken up arms once again and supported Ioan, now an adult. Yet his life had taught him only harsh lessons, and he decided to live anonymously. Too many of Ceauşescu’s cronies still held sway in the new Romania. For example, wasn’t this new MP, Vasil Lionu, the prosecutor who had presided over his mock trial in 1971, constantly denying his links to Ceauşescu? The one who’d allowed Hans Leibrecht to savagely mutilate his son and daughter? The colour of the table napkins had changed, but it was the same bastards chowing down on the feast.
It was best if everyone thought Emil Rosca had died in the dungeons of the old regime, his existence forgotten once and for all.
“But I did follow what Ioan and Victor Marineci were doing,” Boerescu told Max.
After Ioan’s tragic death — victim of Romania’s extreme right wing, or so Boerescu believed at the time — the old man had come out of the woodwork. Four times a year Boerescu discreetly travelled to Zurich in place of his son to cash a part of Christina’s funds, which he then handed over to the World Romani Congress. He was almost caught a few times but always managed to hide his true identity on his return to Romania. Boerescu wasn’t aware of the role Peter Kalanyos had played in Ioan’s murder, nor did he know of Sacha’s existence. He still thought the death of his son had been directed by neo-Nazis.
“Until Kevin appeared in Romania,” Boerescu said.
Kevin didn’t know about his adoption. Neither Raymond nor Roxanne had ever whispered a word to him about it. With them dead, his true origins could have remained a secret forever.
Josée had taken up the story. “But the letter Kevin received after Lefebvre’s death sent him on a mission.”
In the man’s safe-deposit box was an envelope to be given to Raymond Dandurand or his heir. Michaud sent Kevin a package that contained, among other things, papers revealing details of the agreement between Nordopak and Aspekt-Ziegler in 1973. An agreement of which he was the central piece. It was a copy; the original had probably been destroyed by Raymond.
“Lefebvre had added a handwritten note, describing the details of Raymond’s search and revealing the names of the people who’d been responsible for the unconventional business deal,” Josée said.
Lefebvre had kept all of the information under lock and key since Raymond had come back from Amsterdam with a wife and a child in tow. That was how Kevin had discovered Christina Landermann’s role in the whole affair, and the help offered by Frank Woensdag.
Over the course of a few days, Kevin had communicated with Woensdag and learned some of the details of the transaction. Among those facts was that his mother had been, in truth, his sister. What was more, he’d had a brother, a Romani leader named Ioan Costinar murdered six years earlier.
Kevin was intrigued — as Max would later be — with the coincidence between the dates of Raymond’s and Costinar’s deaths.
When Kevin sought out Laura Costinar to dig deeper, he’d learned from Frank Woensdag that she’d be attending a Kris romani in Spain in a house owned by Aspekt-Ziegler. A meeting of various clans, mostly from Hungary, to speak about the new Europe’s growth eastward.
Max could guess what happened next. Once in Granada, Kevin had managed to gain access to the garden party. It had been open to gadje — journalists and supporters — and Kevin had seen, in the middle of a crowd of Romani children, his own son, Sacha-the-Red.
The next day Kevin told his story to Laura, sharing his suspicions and his intent.
“Was she aware of the agreement between Raymond and her husband about Sacha?” Max asked.
Boerescu had straightened up. “Ioan had nothing to do with this whole mess. I know it! He would never have kidnapped his own nephew, never!” There was a long silence, then the old man added, “Peter Kalanyos is responsible and no one else.”
Woensdag nodded. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time Boerescu had taken up Ioan’s defence.
“Laura would have never tolerated it,” Boerescu continued. “She knew nothing of any agreement. She also had no idea that Kalanyos was behind her husband’s death.”
When Kevin had told Woensdag of his son’s presence at the Hungarian’s party, it became clear that Kalanyos was the keystone of the whole tragedy. The man’s criminal past only reinforced suspicions.
“When Frank told me about Kevin’s journey,” Boerescu said, “and when Laura explained what he’d discovered, it became clear that Kalanyos was responsible for my being tailed in Zurich as well as Sacha’s kidnapping.”
Kevin became obsessed with bringing his son back to Canada, while Laura wanted to get Kalanyos in front of a judge. They joined forces, and Max asked for Josée’s help.
“And Cosmin Micula,” Max asked.
Sergiu’s son, whose family had taken in Boerescu’s children during his detention in Ceauşescu’s prisons.
Kevin’s “almost cousin.”
To Boerescu, Kevin’s plan was a completely insane enterprise that didn’t have a chance of succeeding. He’d refused to lend a hand. When Kevin and Laura were kidnapped by Kalanyos, Boerescu had finally decided to intervene and help Max, who’d just arrived in Bucharest.
For Kalanyos, Max was, at first, only another shitkicker trying to get his hands on his adoptive son. And so he tried to pin Laura Costinar’s death on Max, hoping the Roma would catch him and lynch him. But Boerescu made sure that wouldn’t happen.
The old man smiled. “Sorry to have lied to you, Max …”
“Kevin knows about you? About everything you’ve done?”
“He doesn’t know me. I’ve never even met him.” A veil fell over Boerescu’s face. “Ioan is innocent. I’m sure of
it. He can’t have done what Kevin says he did. If I’ve come out of the shadows now, it’s in part to redeem his memory.”
As the plane came in for its final approach, Max put his hand on Sacha’s shoulder. The little boy whipped around, his eyes wide, filled with fear, as if Max were about to hurt him. Max couldn’t communicate with the child — they didn’t share a language. It wasn’t easy, but after a moment Sacha turned back to look out the window. Just then the wheels hit the tarmac.
From here on out, Max thought, things could go either way. He felt as if he were in some formidable poker game, the stakes life or death. He wasn’t sure he was holding the nuts. All he was betting on was that the cards dealt to Kalanyos weren’t as good as his.
The night before, Max had communicated with the Hungarian, telling him that Sacha had been found and Max was ready for the trade. Kalanyos would get Sacha back in exchange for Kevin. The Hungarian had demanded that the exchange take place in Bucharest itself, in Ferentari, where everything had begun. On Zăbrăuţi Street, to boot.
Max would have preferred neutral ground.
“You’ll come only with Sacha, not another soul. No weapons, of course. And without a police escort.”
“And Kevin? What guarantees are you giving me?”
“None at all.”
“If something happens, Kalanyos, I’ll kill you with my own hands.”
The Hungarian had barked a laugh. “I guess that means I’ll see you in Bucharest soon?”
Max had called Marilyn Burgess to give her the details of his conversation with Kalanyos. There was no way Sacha could actually be given back to Kalanyos. Burgess and her team would set up in Ferentari. Snipers in the surrounding buildings. Kalanyos wouldn’t stand a chance, she had assured him.
Max would have liked to share her optimism. He was mostly worried for Kevin and Sacha. Whether Kalanyos got away or not didn’t bother him overmuch. Burgess and her team could get their hands on him some other time. That was, if he let Kevin and Max go; he might see it as his obligation to kill both of them.
Max would have to play hardball. There was no room for error.
The pilot asked all passengers to keep their seat belts buckled until the plane came to a complete stop, which would take only a few minutes. There were planes at every gate: rush hour at Otopeni. Romanians coming back from Western Europe, gifts in tow. Reuniting with their families and walking out onto home soil. The storm had begun, and snow was falling heavily.
A taxi — driven by one of Burgess’s men in disguise — would be waiting for Max and Sacha outside the airport terminal. Other vehicles would both lead and tail them, switching up their roles occasionally to confuse any surveillance Kalanyos might have put in place. As soon as the Hungarian appeared with Kevin in Ferentari, Marilyn Burgess would snap into action.
The confrontation augured nothing well. There might be a shootout. Peter Kalanyos didn’t seem the sort of man to go for half measures. He wanted Sacha back and clearly wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of Max and Kevin.
A nervous Max leaned toward Sacha to get him to take the small backpack he always had with him. When Max handed it to him, Sacha’s eyes opened wide.
“Uncle Victor!” he shouted.
Max whipped around. Before he could react, Victor Marineci was hugging the child. With dozens of passengers around him, there was nothing Max could do. Marineci spoke a few soft words to him in Romani, the word Féro — Sacha’s new name — spoken several times. The boy returned to his seat all smiles.
Marineci glanced at Max. “A thief who keeps his word. Now that’s a new one!”
Max didn’t know what to say, shocked by the sudden appearance of the Romani MP.
“We’ve never had an opportunity to meet, Max O’Brien.”
Max suddenly understood how Peter Kalanyos had discovered Christina’s secret accounts in Switzerland. “You’re quite the traitor, aren’t you, Marineci?”
Max was about to jump him when Marineci raised his hand. Softly, he said, “Peter and his men can hear us. I’ve got a wire on. If they hear sounds of a struggle or I stop responding, they’ll disappear. Who knows what might happen to your friend then?”
Max turned to Sacha, who smiled up at Marineci as if he were part of the family. The MP ruffled his hair and spoke a few more words in Romani.
“I can’t help but spoil the boy,” he said to Max. “I saw him almost every week. He’s such a smart child …
Max was disgusted.
“We’re going to leave the plane, the three of us together,” Marineci told him calmly. “In the hall, instead of turning left toward Immigration, we’ll go right. The door is usually locked, but it’ll be open for us tonight.” He smiled. “Being an elected official comes with a few perks …”
Max couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen this coming.
The Airbus slowly rolled toward a gate that an Air France plane had just vacated.
“Peter will be waiting for us in his car at the far end of the airport parking lot. With your friend. That’s where we’ll make the trade, you understand?”
In Ferentari, Burgess and her team would be twiddling their thumbs while God only knew what would be happening to Max and Kevin. He had no chance of warning her, either.
The plane shook slightly, locking with the gate. Passengers jumped to their feet and grabbed luggage from the overhead compartments. Marineci helped a teenager pull down her bag.
“Thank you,” she said.
The young woman followed the line of passengers toward the door, and Marineci turned to Max. “Do you also need a hand?”
Max had no idea what to do, what to think, how to get out of this predicament. He was trapped in a line of passengers, while Marineci spoke soothing words to the child in a language Max couldn’t understand. A child telling his uncle all about his trip. They got along well, the two of them. Max was the stranger here; he was the bad guy, the kidnapper.
“Can’t you see how happy he is? How cruel must your friend Kevin be to want to take him away from his family.”
“Sacha is his son!”
“He never knew him, or barely. They don’t even speak the same language.” Marineci tidied the boy’s hair with his hand, and Sacha leaned against him. “They’ve got nothing in common. At all.”
Outside the plane, as predicted by Marineci, no one said a thing when the MP and his travel companions moved in the opposite direction of the other passengers.
“What got into you?” Max asked. “Why did you have Costinar killed?”
Marineci sighed. “Poor Ioan would never have had such success in the first place if it hadn’t been for me.”
It had been a harmonious relationship at first. Costinar was the face of the operation, making speeches, mobilizing the troops. Behind the scenes, Marineci pulled the strings. Soon the éminence grise understood that his protégé was a gold mine, a man who might make a difference, not only in Romania but across Europe. Since the European Union had come into existence in 1993, Romania had been petitioning to join it, and Brussels now seemed to favour the idea. Ioan Costinar was destined for greatness.
“But Ioan refused to play the game,” Marineci said.
“Or maybe he could sense that your ambitions weren’t in line with the hopes of the Roma!”
Marineci laughed. “Perhaps.”
At the end of the corridor, in a deserted waiting room, a uniformed driver stood. He smiled obsequiously when he saw the trio approach.
“This is Laszlo,” Marineci said.
Without another word, the driver took the MP’s bag and led the three passengers down another corridor with tall glass windows that gave onto the landing strip. Snow was falling in earnest now, wind blowing the heavy drifts almost horizontally.
Marineci gestured toward the driver. “Laszlo works for Peter, so don’t try to make a scene.”
Kala
nyos now knew, thanks to the wire Marineci wore, that Max had respected his end of the bargain — Sacha was back on Romanian soil. Soon Kevin would be worth nothing to Marineci and his accomplice. If Max could manage to take Sacha with him and run, Kalanyos would need to keep Kevin alive, at least a while longer.
“Raymond didn’t go to Woodlands to see Ioan, did he? He came to see you.”
Marineci smiled. “Better late than never, right?”
He and Raymond had known each other for years. When Sacha was born, Marineci had gotten in touch with the businessman to tell him the child was worth a fortune, though he hadn’t given him all the details. Marineci had offered a large sum of money to get his hands on the boy.
Toma Boerescu had been right. His son, Ioan, had nothing at all to do with the kidnapping.
The businessman’s financial problems had happened at the right time for Marineci. A perfect opportunity to get rid of Costinar, while still keeping control over the money the Romani leader had access to. Of course, Marineci couldn’t take the risk of keeping Dandurand alive. Raymond would come back to him sooner or later the next time he got into a bind and ask for more money. The emperor had become a witness to be eliminated.
“I didn’t know Emil was still around,” Marineci said. “Though he’s so sick, he won’t be alive much longer. In a few months, no one will be able to stop me from going to Zurich and emptying the accounts.”
The wind blew across the strip, forcing the door shut. Max had to put all of his weight on it to open it. The four stood in the parking lot, where snow was already piling up in drifts. Max raised his coat collar, while Marineci hugged the child close to him. Sacha seemed worried again, as if he could sense the importance of the moment. Soon he would be given back to his kidnappers — to him, his true family. Meanwhile, his father, his true father, would be murdered. Like Raymond, Laura, Micula, and the others had been.
So many killings, so much violence, and Sacha unaware of it all.
