Read Online Masaryk Station (John Russell) by David Downing - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Downing
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chosen, they took a table outside, ordered espressos, and stared at the lovely old buildings around them. ‘I shall hate America,’ Palychko said, almost wistfully.
‘Then why are you going?’ Russell asked unnecessarily.
Palychko took the question seriously. ‘There are too many Europeans who want me dead. Your bosses in Washington actually want me alive, at least until I’ve told them all that I know. But I shall still hate it.’
Two young boys stopped by their table, hands outstretched, and Russell was still reaching for his pocket when Palychko handed them a small wad of lira. They gave him disbelieving looks, and ran off across the piazza exchanging joyous shrieks.
‘How much did you give them?’ Russell asked.
Palychko shrugged. ‘No idea. After we crossed the border your Major Hanningham said I needed “pocket money”, and handed it over. But what do I need it for? You people won’t let me starve.’
Back at the hotel, they took to their rooms for naps, then met again for dinner like ordinary travelling acquaintances. Russell kept waiting for the war criminal to emerge from behind the mask, butPalychko seemed set on being friendly, to Russell, the waiters, the world. Only once did he hint at something else, scanning the room and remarking with a hint of surprise: ‘Italians look like Jews, don’t they?’ I suppose that’s why they protected them from the Germans.’ Seeing Russell’s face, he smiled again. ‘I shall have to do better in America, won’t I?
They said their goodnights around ten, but Russell needed more than an hour’s reading before he dropped off, and his sleep was both fitful and dream-laden. At least the sun was shining when he woke up, and with any luck enough Italian trains were running on Sundays to see him back in Trieste that day.
The first sign that things had gone awry was the lack of response when he knocked on Palychko’s door. The second was the door not being locked, the third the sight that greeted him when he stepped inside.
The Ukrainian was laid out naked on his bed, a mass of congealed blood where his genitals had been. These were stuffed in his blood-ringed mouth, where the tongue used to be. This was lying on his stomach.
Which helped explain why Russell hadn’t heard anything.
Four Cyrillic letters had been incised in Palychko’s forehead—after death, if the lack of smudging was any guide. The language was Ukrainian, but the characters which ended the word were the same in Russian, D and A in English. He would have to look the others up, but JUDA—the Russian for Judas—seemed a pretty good bet. The Jews and the communists hadn’t caught up with Palychko, but his old buddies had.
At least the blood was almost dry—the perpetrator or perpetrators would be long gone. They hadn’t only known where to find him, but also how to reach his room without sounding an alarm, whichsuggested careful surveillance and planning. Someone had spilled the beans—could it have been Shchepkin? It was possible, but the Russian had a purely selfish interest in Russell’s survival, and he couldn’t have known they’d be in separate rooms. Russell could always ask him of course, but he’d never been able to tell when Shchepkin was lying.
The important question was what to do now. An immediate check-out seemed the most appealing prospect, but he knew his American superiors wouldn’t commend him for it. On the contrary. They had been using this hotel for several years, and wouldn’t want it compromised. More importantly, any sort of police involvement would open a very deep can of worms. He had to get the body out of there, and since he couldn’t carry it out into the countryside on his shoulders, he would need help. Boris would have to earn whatever it was the Americans were paying him.
He gave Palychko one last look. If anyone deserved to die like that, this man probably did, but pity welled up nevertheless. Russell stepped out into the corridor, locked
‘Then why are you going?’ Russell asked unnecessarily.
Palychko took the question seriously. ‘There are too many Europeans who want me dead. Your bosses in Washington actually want me alive, at least until I’ve told them all that I know. But I shall still hate it.’
Two young boys stopped by their table, hands outstretched, and Russell was still reaching for his pocket when Palychko handed them a small wad of lira. They gave him disbelieving looks, and ran off across the piazza exchanging joyous shrieks.
‘How much did you give them?’ Russell asked.
Palychko shrugged. ‘No idea. After we crossed the border your Major Hanningham said I needed “pocket money”, and handed it over. But what do I need it for? You people won’t let me starve.’
Back at the hotel, they took to their rooms for naps, then met again for dinner like ordinary travelling acquaintances. Russell kept waiting for the war criminal to emerge from behind the mask, butPalychko seemed set on being friendly, to Russell, the waiters, the world. Only once did he hint at something else, scanning the room and remarking with a hint of surprise: ‘Italians look like Jews, don’t they?’ I suppose that’s why they protected them from the Germans.’ Seeing Russell’s face, he smiled again. ‘I shall have to do better in America, won’t I?
They said their goodnights around ten, but Russell needed more than an hour’s reading before he dropped off, and his sleep was both fitful and dream-laden. At least the sun was shining when he woke up, and with any luck enough Italian trains were running on Sundays to see him back in Trieste that day.
The first sign that things had gone awry was the lack of response when he knocked on Palychko’s door. The second was the door not being locked, the third the sight that greeted him when he stepped inside.
The Ukrainian was laid out naked on his bed, a mass of congealed blood where his genitals had been. These were stuffed in his blood-ringed mouth, where the tongue used to be. This was lying on his stomach.
Which helped explain why Russell hadn’t heard anything.
Four Cyrillic letters had been incised in Palychko’s forehead—after death, if the lack of smudging was any guide. The language was Ukrainian, but the characters which ended the word were the same in Russian, D and A in English. He would have to look the others up, but JUDA—the Russian for Judas—seemed a pretty good bet. The Jews and the communists hadn’t caught up with Palychko, but his old buddies had.
At least the blood was almost dry—the perpetrator or perpetrators would be long gone. They hadn’t only known where to find him, but also how to reach his room without sounding an alarm, whichsuggested careful surveillance and planning. Someone had spilled the beans—could it have been Shchepkin? It was possible, but the Russian had a purely selfish interest in Russell’s survival, and he couldn’t have known they’d be in separate rooms. Russell could always ask him of course, but he’d never been able to tell when Shchepkin was lying.
The important question was what to do now. An immediate check-out seemed the most appealing prospect, but he knew his American superiors wouldn’t commend him for it. On the contrary. They had been using this hotel for several years, and wouldn’t want it compromised. More importantly, any sort of police involvement would open a very deep can of worms. He had to get the body out of there, and since he couldn’t carry it out into the countryside on his shoulders, he would need help. Boris would have to earn whatever it was the Americans were paying him.
He gave Palychko one last look. If anyone deserved to die like that, this man probably did, but pity welled up nevertheless. Russell stepped out into the corridor, locked
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