Victory Square

by Olen Steinhauer

  “Who’s she?” said Gorski, as she settled stiffly in a chair. “Do I know her?”

  “I used her to get in here. She’s French, doesn’t understand a word we’re saying.”

  “That’s good,” said Gorski, then smiled at Gisele and said something in French about me being crazy—fou. He turned back to me. “Can I get a cigarette?” He motioned toward a shiny pine box on his desk.

  I went to the edge of the desk and opened it. Inside were rows of Marlboros. I chose one at random and threw it in front of him, then tossed over a pack of Metropol matches I’d grabbed from the bar.

  His hands shook when he lit it, but that was more adrenaline than fear. He waved the match, making a long ribbon of smoke, then dropped it into a crystal ashtray. “What can I do for you, Emil Brod?”

  “I think you have some idea.”

  “I have no idea.”

  I don’t know what I expected from him—some eager admission of guilt, I suppose—but there are some people who can sense what you desire, and for that reason they give you the opposite. Rosta Gorski was one such person. I said, “Two weeks ago you went into the Ministry Archives with Nikolai Romek. You signed out six personnel files and one case file. You got rid of the case file and doctored the others so that no one would be able to prove that your father, Jerzy Michalec, had been a Gestapo agent.”

  He took a drag, blinking as smoke got into his eyes, then waved the smoke away. “Go on.”

  “But to ensure there were no accusations coming out of the woodwork, you proceeded to murder each person who was directly connected to that case.”

  “Obviously not everyone,” said Gorski. His tone had cooled. “You’re still alive.”

  “You tried but killed my wife by mistake.”

  Gorski blinked a few times. “I didn’t kill anyone, Brod. And why do you think she was killed by mistake?”

  I stared at him a moment, as the slow cogs of my brain refitted. I’d been staring at one thing for too long. Of course Lena was a target— Michalec had kidnapped her. She was a witness. They’d hoped we would be in the car together, or maybe hers was also wired with explosives. “But you didn’t take her file. Why?”

  Gorski rubbed his nostrils, wondering how much he should say. He glanced at Gisele Sully and winked to comfort her. He said, “There was no file on Lena Brod.”

  “Of course there was. It was just misplaced.”

  He shook his head. “Her name’s not even in the reference lists. She’s only mentioned in your file, as your wife. Maybe you can explain that?”

  I couldn’t. I’d last seen her Militia file in 1948, just after the Michalec investigation. I’d never had a reason to look for it again.

  But he was trying to distract me from what I’d come to do. I raised the pistol so that it pointed at his head. He swallowed. When I spoke, my throat was choked. “You killed my wife, or you ordered her murder. You and your father.”

  “If you believe that so strongly, then why haven’t you shot me yet?”

  “Because I want your father. You, Rosta Gorski, are nothing.”

  I’d judged correctly — my words stung him.

  “Where is Jerzy?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Gorski.

  “It does. Tell me.”

  “Or you’ll shoot me? Come on, Brod. You shoot me, and you’ll be dead before you reach the square. Same with your journalist friend. And you’ll never know where my father is.”

  Behind me, Gisele coughed.

  “You can’t walk me out of here,” Gorski continued. “You can’t do anything. You may be suicidal, but you’re not going to risk this woman’s life as well.”

  It was a good try, but it wasn’t true. I could put a bullet in his head, then walk out alone through the service stairwell. No matter what happened to me, Gisele would simply stay in her chair until the soldiers arrived, then explain, in French, how I’d used her to get inside.

  The desire for murder was strong, but I couldn’t simply kill this man at his desk. I turned back to Gisele and said in my stiff English, “You stay here. When they come, you tell. Tell everything what I did. In French is okay.” She nodded, terrified. I added, “Don’t worry,” but that did nothing to allay her fear.

  I walked around the desk to Gorski, who was finally showing a bit of fear. “You won’t,” he said, as much to convince himself as convince me.

  With as much speed as my old body could muster, I moved behind him and wrapped my arm around his neck so he had trouble breathing. I, too, had trouble breathing. My pulse banged in my ears, then came that electric hum. I placed the barrel against his temple. His hands leapt up to my arm, but my grip was strong.

  Close to his ear, I whispered, “I’m going to kill your father. Understand? When you see him, tell him that. Tell him that Emil Brod is going to murder him, and that’s the only reason I’ve left his worthless son alive.”

  I said all this because I meant it.

  Then I lowered the pistol from his temple, took aim, and shot him through the thigh.

  His body convulsed. Both he and Gisele Sully screamed at the same moment. I let go of his neck, ears humming, and watched him tumble to the floor. Blood pumped from the hole in his pants and spilled over the marble.

  I made sure not to step in the blood. I was levelheaded enough to remember that. I walked, shivering, over to Sully and leaned close to her. She recoiled. Her face was pale, in shock. I whispered, “I used you to get here, but you don’t know what we said. You know nothing. Remember that. It’s for your own safety.”

  Her head jerked in a kind of agreement.

  The corridor was empty, but I heard shouts from the stairwell. I ran the opposite way, slipping the gun into my coat. I glanced back as I reached the door to the service stairs. Soldiers were just arriving to save their revolutionary friend.

  TWENTY

  •

  They brought Gavra back to the conference room and left him alone with a container of army rations. He ate it quickly—the last food he’d had was on the flight from America—but could understand why the Pankovs complained about having to eat the foul stuff. Afterward, he started to pace the length of the room and work through the immensity of what he’d been told.

  But he couldn’t, because it still didn’t make sense. He’d been kidnapped from the Hotel Metropol in an elaborate scheme meant to place him here in order to execute the Pankovs—that in itself made no sense. With a building full of armed soldiers, they didn’t need a gunman. Why Gavra?

  He posed the question to Michalec two hours later when the old man unlocked the door and came in looking flushed and weak, slipping a cigarette between his dry lips.

  “Why me?”

  Michalec lit the cigarette and waved away scented smoke. “Why not you, Gavra?”

  “Because I’m nobody. You don’t even know me.”

  “Sure I do,” said Michalec. He took a chair, grunting as he settled his bones. “You’re Gavra Noukas, born in a little town outside Satu Mare, but you’re estranged from your family. You don’t talk to them.

  I don’t know why, I just know it’s true. You joined the Ministry in 1973, and by the next year you were picked by then-Colonel Brano Oleksy Sev to succeed him in his post as First District Militia liaison for the Ministry for State Security, focused on the homicide department. You apprenticed with him for two years before being left on your own. You share an apartment with your good friend Karel Wol-lenchak, who is a line worker at the Galicia Textile Works. Not the best worker in the world, but not bad for a socialist economy.”

  Gavra stared into Michalec’s clear blue eyes, going over each word he’d just heard. Then it hit him. “It’s because you can’t find Brano.”

  Michalec cocked his head. “What?”

  “Brano Sev. He was on the list. You were going to kill him, but he’s eluded you.” He nodded, very sure now. “You’re more scared of him than anyone else on that list. He’s someone who could truly expose you.”

  The ol
d man tapped some ash off his cigarette. “I think I’d worry less about your old mentor and more about your present situation.”

  Gavra started to see it now. “But that explains my situation, doesn’t it?”

  Michalec took a drag and looked at him but didn’t answer.

  “How, though?” Gavra started thinking aloud. “You can’t find Brano and kill him; you need another way to get at him. Through me. You bring me here, get me to kill the Pankovs, and… and what?” His mind was working more quickly now. “How does me killing the Pankovs silence Brano Sev?”

  Gavra closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose, concentrating.

  “No, it won’t silence Brano. But it will connect him to the murder. He was my mentor. And if you can prove that he was behind my trip to America, you can show that I’ve been working under his orders. That I killed Lebed Putonski for him. Then it would be simple to make it seem that I killed the Pankovs under Brano’s orders.” Gavra released his nose and looked at the old man. “You’re trying to frame Brano for their murder, so you won’t be responsible.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Michalec, though he didn’t seem so. He seemed bored by the discussion. “You have a fine imagination, but you’ve worked for too long in the Militia office. You think like a cop.” He shook his head. “Why would I want to frame Brano for the murder of the Pankovs? I’d like to do it myself. I’d be a national hero.”

  “Again.”

  He raised his brows. “What?”

  “You’d be a national hero again, just as you were for a few years after the war.”

  Michalec laughed. It was an honest laugh, devoid of bitterness. He wiped his eyes. “Trust me, Gavra. Being a war hero isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve had enough of public life. I just want to watch my family prosper, then I want to die easily.”

  Gavra didn’t believe that, but in the end I think it was one of the few truthful things Jerzy Michalec said that week. Gavra said, “Maybe I do think like a cop. But you, Comrade Michalec, think like a Ministry official. You know that?”

  Michalec seemed to find that funny. “You think so? Well, I guess it makes sense.”

  “How long?”

  “What?”

  “How long were you in the Ministry?”

  Michalec considered his answer, then shrugged. “A few years in the sixties and seventies, just some minor surveillance work. But if you’re feeling ambitious, you can forget it. As of yesterday, there is no record of my brief tenure with the Ministry for State Security. Nothing.”

  Gavra was feeling ambitious, but in a different way. He went back over his thoughts. “I may have gotten some details wrong, but I’m on the right track. You are trying to frame Brano. But it won’t work, because I’ll never kill the Pankovs.”

  “You might,” said Michalec. “We’ve got your friend, you know. Karel.”

  “You’re bluffing. He’s safe.”

  Again, Michalec laughed, but quietly. “Bluffing was the plan. Honestly, it was. But I just got an interesting phone call. Some of our guys found Karel running around the Metropol, searching for you. He made no secret of it; he asked everyone he found, even our guys.” He shook his head. “That man is very attached to you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Don’t worry, he’s fine. Karel thinks he’s coming to see you.” Michalec paused. “He will, won’t he? He will live to see you?”

  “That’s up to you, I suppose.”

  “No, Gavra. It’s up to you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  •

  I worried about Gisele Sully. If she followed my instructions and spoke only in French, then she would be safe. No one would assume she’d understood anything during those minutes before I shot Rosta Gorski. No one would assume I’d told her anything. But I didn’t trust that she would keep her mouth shut, and that terrified me.

  If she made it, though, the cassette in her pocket might bring something positive out of all this mess.

  I also worried about myself. Sixty-four years is only as old as the life you live, and for too long I’d spent my days in a chair behind a desk. My heart slapped the inside of my chest as I galloped down the steel service steps; my lungs burned. But I reached the Citroen before anyone decided to start looking on other floors for me. I nodded at the soldier who’d let us in, and he said, “Where’s the lovely Frenchie?”

  “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.