Boyd?â
Colonel Fosko wiped his lips with a cloth napkin, taking his time with the movement, making him wait.
âWe believe it was the Russians. Cannot prove it, naturally, but it looks like their handiwork. You know about the NKVD?â
âSoviet secret police?â
âYes. They usually handle this sort of thing. Rumour has it that Mr White killed one of their agents, and that they acted in revenge. Again, we have no firm evidence. Not even the agentâs body. We are equally stumped when it comes to the motive. You see, we had no idea Mr White was involved with the NKVD. The Americans assure us they are just as much in the dark as we are. All we know for certain is that his body turned up in our sector. Which is to say that itâs our problem.
My
problem, Pavel. If there is anything you can help us with, Pavel, we would be most grateful. I, personally, would be most grateful, Pavel. Most grateful indeed.â
He sat back and took a swallow of beer. His rings clinked on the glass when he set it down. In his left, the silver knife stuck out daintily from a half-closed fist. Pavel nodded wearily, and cut a bite from his second slice of gammon.
There was no earthly reason why he shouldnât just hand over his keys and tell the Colonel about the midget. Pass things over to the authorities. He had no doubt that Fosko would accept the gesture and drop any inquiry into why he should have hidden a corpse for fourwhole nights. There was hardly a chance, of course, that Boydâs killer would be brought to justice, not if he was a Russian operative, but at least Pavel could wash his hands of it, return to a quiet life dedicated to his books and the boy. In time, he would earn enough money to buy Boyd a gravestone and a space in the Catholic cemetery. A priest would speak and there would be closure; hookers in evening dresses paying their last respects, and a letter home to his mother whom Pavel had never met.
He made up his mind to speak, but cut himself another bite instead. Sat and chewed it with deliberate slowness. There was something about the fat man that made Pavel hold back; it was as though he begrudged him his ruddy good health. Stubbornly, half ashamed for his stubbornness, Pavel cast around for reasons to hold on to his secret. His eyes came to rest upon the woman. She sat stiff-backed, meat fork in hand, her eyes studiously avoiding his own. He took in her pallor, her cheekbones, the height of her brow. The smudge of moustache that framed her upper lip. Her face was impassive. It was foolish to expect that she would help him make up his mind.
âAre your kidneys troubling you, Mr Richter?â she asked him coolly.
âYes,â he answered, though he had forgotten them the moment he had taken in food. âI think I shall have to lie down.â
âDo you need help?â
âNo, thank you. Much obliged.â
The words sounded false to him, as though they were acting out a long-rehearsed scene. Pavel got up and made a show of hobbling towards the door.
âLet me know about any developments,â he called over to Fosko, still with the same giddy feeling of acting out a farce. The fat man parted his meaty lips into a smile.
âRest assured I will, Pavel. Rest assured I will.â
Pavel bowed stiffly from the waist and closed the door behind him with an acute sense of relief.
âTomorrow,â he told himself. âYou can always tell him tomorrow. It wonât make any difference.â
Anders found his crew back at Paulchenâs place. They sat in a circle and were having reheated cabbage soup and smoked fish for lunch. Wordlessly, Anders joined them, wedging himself onto the sofa between the Karlson twins. The fishâs meat had a green shine to it and tasted bitter, but he ate it anyway. When it was all gone, Paulchen produced a tin of sugared peaches as a special treat. He passed them out personally, and Anders noted that he gave an extra-large
Colonel Fosko wiped his lips with a cloth napkin, taking his time with the movement, making him wait.
âWe believe it was the Russians. Cannot prove it, naturally, but it looks like their handiwork. You know about the NKVD?â
âSoviet secret police?â
âYes. They usually handle this sort of thing. Rumour has it that Mr White killed one of their agents, and that they acted in revenge. Again, we have no firm evidence. Not even the agentâs body. We are equally stumped when it comes to the motive. You see, we had no idea Mr White was involved with the NKVD. The Americans assure us they are just as much in the dark as we are. All we know for certain is that his body turned up in our sector. Which is to say that itâs our problem.
My
problem, Pavel. If there is anything you can help us with, Pavel, we would be most grateful. I, personally, would be most grateful, Pavel. Most grateful indeed.â
He sat back and took a swallow of beer. His rings clinked on the glass when he set it down. In his left, the silver knife stuck out daintily from a half-closed fist. Pavel nodded wearily, and cut a bite from his second slice of gammon.
There was no earthly reason why he shouldnât just hand over his keys and tell the Colonel about the midget. Pass things over to the authorities. He had no doubt that Fosko would accept the gesture and drop any inquiry into why he should have hidden a corpse for fourwhole nights. There was hardly a chance, of course, that Boydâs killer would be brought to justice, not if he was a Russian operative, but at least Pavel could wash his hands of it, return to a quiet life dedicated to his books and the boy. In time, he would earn enough money to buy Boyd a gravestone and a space in the Catholic cemetery. A priest would speak and there would be closure; hookers in evening dresses paying their last respects, and a letter home to his mother whom Pavel had never met.
He made up his mind to speak, but cut himself another bite instead. Sat and chewed it with deliberate slowness. There was something about the fat man that made Pavel hold back; it was as though he begrudged him his ruddy good health. Stubbornly, half ashamed for his stubbornness, Pavel cast around for reasons to hold on to his secret. His eyes came to rest upon the woman. She sat stiff-backed, meat fork in hand, her eyes studiously avoiding his own. He took in her pallor, her cheekbones, the height of her brow. The smudge of moustache that framed her upper lip. Her face was impassive. It was foolish to expect that she would help him make up his mind.
âAre your kidneys troubling you, Mr Richter?â she asked him coolly.
âYes,â he answered, though he had forgotten them the moment he had taken in food. âI think I shall have to lie down.â
âDo you need help?â
âNo, thank you. Much obliged.â
The words sounded false to him, as though they were acting out a long-rehearsed scene. Pavel got up and made a show of hobbling towards the door.
âLet me know about any developments,â he called over to Fosko, still with the same giddy feeling of acting out a farce. The fat man parted his meaty lips into a smile.
âRest assured I will, Pavel. Rest assured I will.â
Pavel bowed stiffly from the waist and closed the door behind him with an acute sense of relief.
âTomorrow,â he told himself. âYou can always tell him tomorrow. It wonât make any difference.â
Anders found his crew back at Paulchenâs place. They sat in a circle and were having reheated cabbage soup and smoked fish for lunch. Wordlessly, Anders joined them, wedging himself onto the sofa between the Karlson twins. The fishâs meat had a green shine to it and tasted bitter, but he ate it anyway. When it was all gone, Paulchen produced a tin of sugared peaches as a special treat. He passed them out personally, and Anders noted that he gave an extra-large
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