Liberation Movements by Olen Steinhauer

smiles glassily as he lights it for me; then I feel him following me with his eyes as I find a seat by the window and smoke, staring at the planes taxiing on the tarmac.
    This, I recall, is where Libarid was. Maybe this exact spot.
    When the news came a week ago, I was on the telephone with Aron, who had called from the factory to continue our previous night’s argument about having children—he’s never been able to understand my refusal. Chief Brod opened his office door and leaned against the frame. In my ear, Aron was saying, “I’ve been patient with you; you know this. You can’t say I haven’t been patient.”
    Chief Brod is a simple man who wears his emotions on his sleeve, and when he stood in his doorway with his gray-threaded blond hair parted perfectly, like a schoolboy’s, in his face I knew this was something big; it was something tragic.
    “Let me call you back,” I told Aron.
    “This is original, cutting me off in the middle of—”
    But I’d hung up, and Imre and I followed Emil into his office.
    “It’s Libarid,” our chief said.
    “He’s in Istanbul,” I said. “Right?”
    “Bulgaria.”
    I grinned— grinned. “What’s he doing there?”
    “Yeah,” said Imre. “He got a girlfriend there?”
    Emil cleared his throat. “Brano called from Istanbul.”
    Both Imre and I made faces at that name.
    “Libarid’s dead,” Emil told us, then filled in the details—Armenian terrorists, an explosion—and I found myself repeating Armenia, Armenians in my head but making no sense of those words.
    Aron and I had dined with Libarid and his family now and then. He was a good man—a poor investigator but a decent person—and an Armenian. His wife, Zara, smiled a lot; she seemed content in a way I used to think was a little stupid. But she served wonderful food, delicious pieces of lamb with yogurt they called kalajosh and lahmajoon, a lamb-topped pizza. When we left Aron would always mention how contented Libarid seemed with his wife and child. I think he was jealous.
    And then Libarid was dead, part of a fireball in the Bulgarian sky.
    That was only a week ago. Now I’m joining the other passengers in a crowd around the dark stewardess who does her best to smile as she tries to force everyone into a straight line. It’s plainly impossible, so she gives up and takes ticket stubs from whoever offers first and sends us out the door, across the hot tarmac to the plane. The fat man with the red star is a few people ahead, and as we step out under the bright, bewildering sun I watch him put on sunglasses. His head, tilted to the side, eyes covered, looks vaguely mysterious.
    That’s when I wish I could have brought my gun.

Peter
     
    1968
     
    In the morning, Peter and Josef conferred with friends in the empty dormitory canteen. School had been closed indefinitely, but Jan had a key. Peter retold his story humbly—the nighttime fire, the Russian jeep, then running—and they nodded, all confirming his stupidity.
    “But why didn’t you stick with Toman and Ivana?” asked Gustav, an older, bearded student from the medical school. “Maybe you would’ve gotten away, too.”
    “The soldiers were my fault. I’d started the fire. So I had to lead them away from the others.”
    That earned him a collective nod of respect.
    He took a tram into the old town with Jan, and on the way Jan pointed out pockmarked walls—on a cinema, a bakery, a post office. They were in the back of the crowded tram, whispering. “Josef and I were at the radio station, the morning after you left. Radio Prague asked people to come, so we came. Lots of us came.” He smiled. “And of course the Russians came, too. It was a terrible fight, took hours. A few times I thought we’d actually make them turn around and leave, but then…” He shrugged. “Well, they got through to the station.”
    “How did you get away?”
    “The Russians are stupid. They’ve got no idea how to work the back streets.”
    “But