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please?”
    The supervisor, a big man, reddened and rushed out.
    Adler sat at the desk. “What is it this time?”
    “A couple of questions.” Brano sat across from him. Gavra remained standing, hands crossed over his groin, like a heavy in an American noir film.
    Brano placed his hat in his lap. “Are you familiar with the Army of the Liberation of Armenia?”
    Adler shrugged. “I’ve heard some things. I’m still in touch with my friends on the other side. My old comrades are putting up a good stand in Stockholm.”
    “That’s already over,” said Brano.
    Adler knotted his brows but didn’t speak.
    Gavra said, “Last week, you made an international call to Norair Tigran in Istanbul. You told him about a particular Turkish Airlines flight, number 54, leaving from here, bound for there. You suggested he hijack it.”
    Adler rooted in his ear with a finger. “Did he hijack it?”
    “His colleagues hijacked it.”
    “I hadn’t heard.”
    “Because it hasn’t yet made our papers. Tonight’s edition.”
    “I see.”
    “Tigran is in prison.”
    “That’s too bad.”
    Gavra, despite himself, was impressed by this small, slumped man. He spoke as if the conversation were about lost dogs. Of course, Wilhelm Adler had been through a lot, and compared with the rest of his life, this interview was nothing.
    “What about the four men?” Gavra asked.
    He looked at Gavra. “What four men?”
    “The ones who did the job. When did you give them the explosives?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Gavra looked at Brano, and Brano nodded. So Gavra squatted beside the chair. He smiled up at Adler. “Have you ever been interrogated before?”
    Adler grinned. “Of course. The BND put me through it at Stammheim.”
    He patted the German’s knee. “No. I mean an interrogation.”
    Adler crossed his hands over his stomach. “That’s what I just said.”
    Brano walked to the windows overlooking the factory and lowered the blinds.
    Adler said, “I’m not a little boy, comrades. I fought for the workers’ state.”
    “Did you?” said Brano.
    “I’ve killed five leaders of imperial capitalism. Two politicians, a bank owner, a—”
    He stopped because Gavra had punched the side of his head. He gritted his teeth, blinking.
    Gavra’s knuckles tingled as he spoke. “I don’t care what you’ve done, comrade. I only care what you tell me now. Inside this little office anything can happen. To me, there’s no one in this whole factory except the three of us.”
    “But I don’t know anything!”
    Brano watched as Gavra clutched the German’s hair and threw his head on the desk. It bounced. Gavra squatted again. “Listen, comrade. Sixty-eight people are dead, and one of them was a colleague of mine. I was fond of him. You’re the one who dictated what flight would be blown up, and you’re the only one I have my hands on.”
    “Blown up?” he said, confused. “They weren’t supposed to blow it up.” He wasn’t able to see very well.
    “What were they supposed to do?” asked Brano.
    “Money—just money. And to free some comrades.”
    “How did you know Norair Tigran?”
    “A few years ago. West Berlin. A Marxist discussion group.”
    “Okay, then,” said Brano. “Why that plane? Why that day?”
    “A phone call.”
    Brano straightened.
    “What phone call?” said Gavra.
    “I get them sometimes, all right? My old comrades know where to find me. But this was from a local. I suppose it was one of your guys.”
    “Our guys?”
    “From the Ministry.”
    Gavra hesitated. “What did this person say?”
    He sniffed. “Just to call Norair. Tell him about the plane. That plane, that day. He knew they were trying to decide when to pull it off.”
    “Did he say who he was?” asked Brano.
    “Of course not.”
    “So why,” said Brano, “did you listen to him?”
    Adler seemed briefly confused; then a trace of contempt entered his voice. “Are you guys for real?”
    Gavra put a fist