The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  “Will you stop!”

  My tone made her freeze. Then she shrugged and walked away from me, past her bed and onto the sofa in her living room. She lit up a cigarette and said, “Let me guess: you’re in love . . .”

  “I have a sexually transmitted disease.”

  She considered that for a moment, puffing away on her cigarette.

  “The fatal kind?” she finally asked.

  “Chlamydia.”

  “Just that?”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “For what?”

  “I might have infected you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because . . . I just doubt it. Anyway, chlamydia is not the end of civilization as we know it.”

  “I’m aware of that. Still . . .”

  “Ah yes. Guilt, guilt, and more guilt. It’s nothing, Harry.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I’ve had chlamydia myself. Courtesy of my husband. He gave it to me around a week before he was killed. Picked it up from some Sorbonne hottie he was fucking. I was rather aggrieved at the time—mainly because it hurt like hell every time I peed. In fact, on the night he and Judit were killed, our fight started with me telling him I now understood why he wasn’t that interested in sex with me . . . courtesy of his little girlfriend. He became outraged that I would mention this in front of Judit. He stormed out with her. And that’s the last time I ever saw them alive . . .”

  She poured herself a whisky and sipped it.

  “So, to tell the truth,” she said, “chlamydia is no big deal for me.”

  “That’s a terrible story,” I said.

  “All stories are fundamentally terrible,” she said. “But you’re not just worried about a sexually transmitted disease, Harry. It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “I’m in a lot of trouble,” I said, and the entire story came pouring out. When I finished she was stubbing out her second cigarette.

  “This Monsieur Sezer . . . you think he set you up?”

  “Think? I’m sure of it.”

  “So he murdered Omar?”

  “Sezer would never grubby his hands like that. But he does have this resident thug who probably does all his dirty work for him.”

  “Any thoughts on why he wanted Omar dead?”

  “Everyone hated Omar.”

  “You especially.”

  “I didn’t want him dead.”

  “True. But you did intimate you wanted him out of your life. Now he’s out of your life. The problem is, Sezer is now in your life . . .”

  “Not just that—he’s having me tailed everywhere.”

  “I think he wants you to think that.”

  “If he knows where I eat lunch, if he knows I come here every three days . . .”

  “True, maybe he has a couple of flunkies who have tailed you. But all the time? That’s a bit labor-intensive, don’t you think? He’s relying on his powers of intimidation to keep you in place. Anyway, if he wanted you dead . . . you’d probably be dead by now.”

  “It’s Yanna’s husband who will probably beat me to death with a hammer if Sezer gives him the go-ahead.”

  “But Sezer evidently wants you alive . . .”

  “For the time being.”

  “How badly was Yanna beaten?”

  I gave her the full picture. Her face tightened as I explained the extent of the injuries inflicted on Yanna.

  “Bastards,” she said. “That’s what they did to my mother.”

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “The secret police . . . when they came to kill my father, they also beat the shit out of my mother. Actually beat her around the face.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “May 11, 1957. I was seven years old. My father was a newspaper editor—a one-time Party member who turned very anti-Communist after the 1956 Uprising was crushed by Russian tanks. Since martial law was declared, he had gone underground and was publishing a samizdat newspaper—very anti-Kadar and his regime—which was being run from a variety of safe houses around Budapest. Father was never at home—he was essentially on the run all the time—but I remember these men in suits or leather jackets frequently waking us up in the middle of the night, and sometimes ransacking the apartment and even pulling me from bed to see if Father was hiding underneath it.

  “This went on for months. I kept asking Mother, ‘Why are these men after Papa? When do I get to see Papa again?’ Mother simply told me to be patient . . . that we would be reunited with Papa soon . . . but that I should stop asking questions about his whereabouts and that, if anyone at school asked me where he was, I was to say that I had absolutely no idea.

  “Then, one Friday, Mother said, ‘I have a nice surprise. We’re going away for the weekend.’ But she wouldn’t tell me where exactly we were heading. So we got into our little car and drove off after dark. Hours later—I had no idea how long we’d been on the road, as I’d fallen asleep in the back—we turned off down a dirt road and eventually stopped at this tiny cottage in the woods. There, inside the cottage, was Papa. I ran into his arms and wouldn’t let go of him . . . even when Mother, who was crying with happiness to see him, tried to hug him. Papa was mine . . . until I got tired and they put me to bed on the lumpy sofa in the front room. I remembered waking once or twice in the middle of the night when I heard groans from the bedroom—not knowing what they were doing at the time—but then falling back to sleep again . . . until, suddenly, there was this loud pounding at the door. The next thing I knew, there were loud voices and Mother came running out of the bedroom and I turned around and saw Papa trying to scramble out of the bedroom window. Then the front door burst open, and several policemen and two men in suits came marching in. One of the cops went running into the bedroom and pulled Papa back from the window and started beating him with his stick. My mother began to scream—and a plainclothes officer grabbed her while his colleague repeatedly punched her in the face. Now I started to scream, but the other cop held me down while his colleague dragged my father outside. The officer who was beating Mother stopped, and pushed her onto the sofa. Her face was a bloody pulp and she was evidently unconscious. Now he started shouting orders and dashed to join the cop who pulled Papa outside, then ducked back in once to grab a chair. His colleague—certain that Mother wasn’t moving—ran out as well. There was more shouting—then the cop holding me lifted me up and frog-marched me outside.

  “First light was in the sky—and what I saw there I will never forget. My father—his hands behind his back, a rope around his neck that had been suspended from a tree—was being forced to climb on top of a chair placed right under the tree. When he refused, one of the plainclothes cops grabbed him in the crotch and squeezed so hard that Papa doubled over and the two men forced him on the chair, and I was crying and trying to turn away, and the same officer who’d grabbed Papa in the crotch shouted to the cop holding me, ‘Make her watch.’ So he grabbed my ponytail and forced me to see the other plainclothes guy kick the chair, and Papa wriggling and jerking and coughing up blood as . . .”

  Margit stopped and sipped her whisky.

  “It must have taken him a good two minutes to die. And do you know what one of the plainclothes officers—they were Secret Police—told me? ‘Now you know what we do to traitors.’ ”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “I never knew . . .”

  “Because I never told you.”

  “How the fuck could they have done that to you . . . a little girl . . .?”

  “Because they were bastards. And because they could do this. They had the power. They made the rules. They could force a seven-year-old girl to watch her father being lynched.”

  “What happened after?”

  “They bundled me into a car and took me off to a State orphanage. A hellhole. I was there for three weeks. Refused to leave my bed, except to go to the bathroom. Refused to speak to anyone. I remember they sent doctors to see me. I said n
othing. They were always talking in whispers to the nurses and the orphanage people, saying things like, ‘She’s traumatized . . . She’s in shock . . . She has to be fed.’ But I refused to eat. So they eventually tied me down to a bed and stuck needles in my arms and fed me that way.

  “After three weeks, one of the matrons of the orphanage came in and said, ‘Your mother’s here. You’re leaving.’ I didn’t feel elation. I didn’t cry with happiness. I felt nothing but numbness.

  “Mother was waiting for me in the director’s office. Her face had only half-healed. One eye was half closed, the other . . . she was never able to use that eye again. She came over and put her arms around me, but there was no strength to her hug, no comfort. Something had been killed in her. She was accompanied by two men in suits. When I saw them I immediately recoiled—and hid behind my mother—because I was certain they were the same sort of men who had killed my father. Even they were embarrassed by my fear of them, and one of them whispered to my mother who then whispered to me, ‘They want you to know they will do you no harm.’

  “But I still refused to come up and face everyone until Mother crouched down beside me and said, ‘We have been given permission to leave Hungary. These men will drive us to the Austrian border, and there we will be met by other men who will bring us to a city called Vienna. And we will start a new life there.’

  “Again, I said nothing. Except, ‘Those men who killed my father . . . will they hurt us again?”

  “One of the suits crouched down and spoke to me. ‘No, they will never hurt you again,’ he said. ‘But I can promise you they will pay terribly for what they did.’

  “As I found out from my mother some years later, those men with her at the orphanage were also from the Secret Police. My father’s death had been something of a big deal. One of the uniformed officers who had been on the scene when he was murdered had a crisis of conscience, and made contact with the Reuters correspondent in Budapest. The story went everywhere—especially the bit about me being forced to watch Papa’s execution. The fact that the cop who yanked my ponytail to make me keep my eyes open was the same one who ratted out his colleagues and went to the Western press . . . well, I suppose it shows that even the police sometimes have a conscience.”

  “What happened next?”

  “There was a small international cause célèbre. It was the height of the Cold War, and the press outside of Hungary jumped on the story—Communist savagery and all that. Anyway, the Kadar government was under a lot of pressure to ‘solve the problem.’ So they offered my mother and me free passage out of the country and a little money to start a new life in the West.”

  “And what happened to the two plainclothes officers?”

  “Their names were Bodo and Lovas. After we left Hungary they were put on a big public trial and sentenced to many years of hard labor. But through sources in the country, I found out that, after the trial, they were secretly transferred out to the intelligence division of the Hungarian Embassy in Bucharest . . . which, I suppose, was a prison sentence of sorts. Two years later, they were back working in Budapest in big jobs.”

  “And since then . . .?”

  “Dead.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  She nodded.

  “And the cop who ratted on his comrades?”

  “After he leaked everything to the Reuters man, he did what every true soldier would do who betrayed his cause. He went home and blew his head off. The ethical ones among us often pay a very high price.”

  Silence. She finished her cigarette. I topped up her whisky glass. She didn’t touch it. I tried to take her hand in mine. She pushed me away.

  “You expect me to accept your sympathy?” she asked.

  I ignored her anger—as I knew she would want me to—and instead asked, “How could you have ever gotten over something like that?”

  “You can’t—and I didn’t. But to those bastards, it was war. And when it’s war you can do whatever you want. And I don’t really want to say anything more about this, except . . . now you know why I hate any man who hits a woman in the face.”

  Then, “You are going to have to kill Yanna’s husband.”

  “Are you insane?” I said.

  “He will kill you.”

  “Only if Sezer tells him to. And if Sezer has me bumped off, the cops will immediately know that he was behind it—”

  “If the cops even care. You could ‘disappear’ and who would notice?”

  “I’m not killing Yanna’s husband,” I said. “I could never kill anyone.”

  “Everyone is capable of murder, Harry. You must remember that Yanna’s husband is a thug—and one whose pride has been damaged by the fact that you fucked his wife. Where he comes from, that’s up there with genocide and pedophilia in the catalog of human horrors. Sezer might hold him off for a while . . . but he is going to kill you. Be absolutely certain about that.”

  After leaving Margit’s apartment, I took the metro over to Les Halles and a sporting goods shop that I passed once in that subterranean shopping center, and was open late this evening. I stopped a clerk and said, “I know this probably sounds very American, but you wouldn’t happen to sell baseball bats by any chance?”

  “Straight ahead, then turn right,” he said.

  So much for me thinking I’d have to explain what a baseball bat is.

  Ten minutes later, I walked back into the metro at Les Halles, carrying a full-size Louisville Slugger. Yes, several passersby did stare at me—no doubt wondering what I was doing with such a threatening object in a metro—but I didn’t care. If Yanna’s husband—or any of his goon friends—did try to jump me, at least the baseball bat would give me a fighting chance (unless, of course, he used a gun).

  As I walked out of the metro at Château d’Eau—baseball bat in hand—several people actually crossed the road when they saw me coming toward them. I took a different route to work, dodging the rue de Paradis, cutting down some small back alleys, and always carrying the bat up against my chest, while spinning around every twenty paces to see who was following me.

  I reached work. I bolted the door behind me. I drank coffee all night and kept my eyes glued to the screen. An image kept filling my head: the seven-year-old Margit being frog-marched out by the cop. No wonder she tried to cut her throat after the death of Zoltan and Judit. How much tragedy can one person bear? How do you get up in the morning and negotiate the day, knowing that you have twice lost—in horrible circumstances—the people closest to you?

  My admiration for her had increased sevenfold. But so too had my unease with her cut-and-dried solutions to things: You must kill Yanna’s husband.

  No, I must dodge Yanna’s husband and somehow hope the police work out who really killed Omar and get my passport back and . . .

  Vanish.

  Because now—after Sezer’s threats and Margit’s warnings about the inevitable—I knew that I had few choices open to me.

  But I couldn’t just disappear right now. Not with my movements being so closely observed, and with my passport in the pocket of Inspector Coutard.

  Say the cops followed me here tonight? How would I explain that one? ’Fess up—“All right, I do have a job”—and hope whatever they found downstairs wasn’t so gruesome that . . .?

  You can work out that one once they’ve arrested you. And maybe getting arrested is the safest option going right now.

  But if they arrest you, they can pin everything on you. And they will. Better to tough it out, get the passport returned, and skip town.

  You could buy false documents . . . and be elsewhere tomorrow.

  And be on the run for the rest of my life? And never see my daughter again? And always be looking over my shoulder? And . . .

  You’ll never see your daughter again. And you’ll always be looking over your shoulder . . . unless you kill Yanna’s husband.

  You’re talking melodrama. If you flee to the States . . .

  You’ll still never rest eas
y. Get rid of him.

  Shut up.

  You know you can do it.

  Says you. Look what happened when Omar was silenced. His dirty little secret—with which he attempted to blackmail me—was still whispered into the ear of Yanna’s husband. So if I kill Yanna’s husband, then I also might as well kill Sezer and Mr. Tough Guy and Mr. Beard . . . since they all could still get me . . . all could want me dead.

  When 6:00 AM came, my brain felt fried. My all-night anxiety had left me feeling as if I had overdosed on Dexedrine or some other form of high-octane speed. As I walked down the stairs to the front door, the entire grubby concrete hallway seemed to blur and take on a certain strange liquidity, as if it could form another shape or dimension around me. I hoisted the bat, holding it against me the way a soldier on inspection might keep his rifle crossed against his chest. At the pâtisserie, the Algerian guy behind the counter gave me a scared look when he saw the weapon.

  “It’s just a precaution,” I told him. “Just self-defense in case they try to get me.”

  “Monsieur, do you want your pains au chocolat, comme d’habitude?” he asked.

  “You see them, you tell them I used to be a pinch hitter on my high school baseball team, so I really know how to swing one of these—”

  “Monsieur, please. There is no need to . . .”

  That’s when I realized I was brandishing the bat and also talking in English.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, switching back into French. “Very overtired. Very . . .”

  “No problem, sir,” he said, handing me the usual bag with the pains au chocolat.

  “Don’t know what’s wrong. Don’t—”

  “Two euros, sir,” he said, still proffering the bag.

  I threw five on the counter and took the bag and headed off.

  “Don’t you want the change?”

  “I want sleep.”

  Did I sound spooked, maybe a little insane? Absolutely. But I knew that things would all look a lot better after eight hours of sleep.

  Actually, things wouldn’t look better at all.

  I turned the corner into the rue de Paradis. I reached my doorway. I punched in the code and went up to my room. I passed the toilet. It was still sealed off with police tape, forcing me to always use the toilet on the upper floor. I opened my door, leaned the bat against a wall, undressed, climbed beneath the sheets, and—