Liberation Movements by Olen Steinhauer Read Free Book Online Page A

“Wilhelm?”
    “When did he call?” Brano asked.
    Talip translated the answer: “Last Wednesday.”
    “Why was he part of this? He’s not Armenian.”
    “He understand solidarity.”
    “And he told you to make this a suicide mission?”
    Norair Tigran showed his teeth a moment, trying to clear his throat. He spoke, and Talip said: “It was not suicide mission. He say he don’t know what happen.”
    “What else did Wilhelm say?”
    “Nothing. Only it must should be that day, that flight. Number five-four.”
    “Why would you listen to him?”
    Even through the mask of blood the young Armenian seemed annoyed. He spoke directly to Brano in English. “Because we’re new at this, okay? Wilhelm is a veteran. We knew what we wanted to do, but we didn’t know when. He told me that this would be the one.”
    “But why this plane? Why did he say?”
    “He said…” Norair Tigran cocked his head. “He said it would be the best.”
    “But why ?”
    “Just that he knew. But Wilhelm—” Norair grunted something like a laugh. “Wilhelm was wrong about this one.”
    During the interview, Gavra asked no questions. He wanted to, and Brano would have allowed it, but no words came to him. On the flight back home, he said, “It’s disappointing. In that room I didn’t have the presence of mind to come up with a single question.”
    Brano told him not to worry. “This case is hardly a case for us. The Turkish police are well equipped to handle the investigation of the hijacking. But since the hijackers boarded in the Capital, we should try to reconstruct what they did in our country and pass that information on to the Turks. We begin with Wilhelm Adler.”
    Gavra gazed at the seat in front of him. “There’s something more here. I’m sure of it.”
    “Let’s talk to Adler,” Brano said. “No one will expect extradition to Turkey, but he should be able to shed some light on this.”
    “Tonight?” Gavra asked as a stewardess collected their empty coffee cups.
    “Tomorrow. Our people are keeping an eye on him; he won’t get away.”
    “What about Ludvík Mas?”
    Brano scratched his ear. “Ludvík Mas is none of our concern. He works in an office no one looks into, because it’s best no one does.”
    “Do you mean Room 305?”
    Brano gave him a blank expression. “That office does not exist.” He folded his tray table shut. “And what does not exist should not be thought about.”
     
     
    Brano dropped him off at his Fourth District sixth-floor walk-up a little after four in the afternoon. The pitted field surrounding his apartment block was full of out-of-commission Trabants rusting under the sun. It was Thursday, but even on a workday the familiar trio of young men by the door was sharing a plastic bottle of cheap palinka. A couple of years before, Mujo, the hairiest of the group, got hold of a smuggled record by an American rock band, the Velvet Underground. His life began sliding downhill that very day.
    “You’ve been traveling?” said Mujo. “You got some sun.”
    “Sun and water and lots of sex, Mujo.”
    The alcoholic told his friends, “Gavra here is a traveler. A man of the world. ” For some reason that made the other two laugh.
    “And don’t forget,” Gavra told them, “I also find volunteers for the state. Someone needs to dig our canals.”
    The men quieted, unsure whether this was a joke, as Gavra went inside and checked his mailbox, which was empty.
    His apartment was small and untidy. The living room was filled with stacks of records: Smak —a Yugoslav progressive rock band he was fond of—some Beatles, as well as an English singer, Elton John. A fine layer of dust covered everything, even the off-green walls. Gavra had become used to the grime over the years; he lived his life outside those walls.
    He grabbed a bottle of homemade palinka from the cabinet—a bottle, he remembered as he pulled out the cork, from Libarid’s wife’s family distillery. He found a fresh pack