Liberation Movements by Olen Steinhauer Page B

drying his eyes. “Nothing happened at the border.”
    “You really are good,” said Poborsky. “I’ve looked at your record. Up until two months ago, you were a fine student. You studied your…music? You avoided marches. You didn’t even take part in socialist rallies.”
    “Politics aren’t my concern.”
    “Good, good. Because, between you and me, I hate zealots, no matter what side they’re on. They shout so much it hurts my poor ears.” He smiled. “You know, I’m told all the time that everything is political. Man, our socialist teachers explain, is a political animal, and, in fact, the personal is the political. But between you and me, I’ve never believed that. The political, in fact, is really only the personal dressed up in more flamboyant clothes. There is no political man, only men, whose politics grow from their personal traumas. You follow me?”
    Peter didn’t answer, but Poborsky nodded as if he had. “I see you do.”
    Peter knew where all this was leading, but he wanted the captain to spell it out. “Why are you telling me this?”
    “Because I think your route in life is still to be charted. Because I think you are made for better things than musicology.”
    Peter finished his coffee and set down the empty cup. The officer took a slip of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table. There was a phone number written on it.
    “Take it,” he said.
    Peter folded the paper into his jacket pocket. “Can I go now?”
    “Who’s keeping you?” Comrade Poborsky leaned forward and whispered, “There’s another world out there. Just call that number when you’re ready.”
    “For recruitment?”
    “Recruitment or information. Whatever you feel is within your power.”
    Peter walked out of the Obecní Dům.

Gavra
     
     
    The metro brought him to the First District militia station, to homicide. Unlike many buildings that had been torn down and reconstructed in the socialist mold, this station retained its form from before the war. Habsburg flourishes decorated the high, narrow window frames and, along the third floor, cracked maidens gazed protectively down at the street. The cracks continued inside, twisting along the buckling walls, painted over every few months in pale green.
    Brano Sev had kept a desk there, on and off, for the past thirty years. As his apprentice, Gavra shared it. At the three other desks sat Katja and Imre, whom he greeted. The third desk was banally empty, and for an instant Gavra wondered if he’d be given Libarid’s desk. He was tired of pulling up a spare chair beside Brano.
    The thought made him want to hit himself.
    Katja and Imre—his feet propped on his desk as he spoke on the telephone—nodded back at him but didn’t say a word. There was a palpable gloom over the office. Brano didn’t look up at him, but that wasn’t unusual, because the old man came into this business at the end of the war, when state security agents learned how to let people hate them. He created distance with everyone, because he believed that it served him better this way.
    Katja had never made a secret of hating Brano, and Imre, in his quiet way, felt the same. Even Chief Emil Brod, despite the obligations of his job and their long shared history, was never warm with Brano Sev, as he was with the rest of them. Brano Sev was a peculiar man.
    Gavra paused at Katja’s desk. “How’s it coming so far?”
    She tugged some blond hair behind her ear as her phone began to ring. “I’m going to check with the Hotel Metropol today. We only just got the names from the passenger manifest.”
    She sounded tense, and she was squeezing a pen tightly. The phone continued to ring. “You going to answer that?”
    She looked at the phone, then shook her head. “I know who it is.”
    “What’s wrong?” he asked in a lowered voice.
    “Nothing. Look, I wanted you to come along to the hotel, but the Com rade says you’re going to be occupied.”
    “Take Imre,” he whispered.
    Katja