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lying to himself. More police and media descended, and he was caught in another senseless fight. Along with scores of others, he was arrested and thrown into a packed police van. Guilty, grieving, he said nothing as the van drove off into the night.

Five
    Bratislava’s central police station still had the utilitarian furnishings and grim aura of its Communist past. Gray and harshly lit, by eleven P.M . it stank of sweat and resentment as it strained to accommodate the hordes of arrested agitators. After finally being booked, Blase was shoved into a tank cell crammed with angry men. Many had superficial burns and wounds on heads, arms, and legs, not yet treated. Doctors called in by the police were dealing with the worst cases first.
    The heat in the tank was oppressive. There was no air-conditioning to relieve the hot night or the charged emotions. Everyone sat on hard benches or stood pressed together, still full of the adrenaline of the riot as they debated Viera Jozef’s death. Some were incensed at her stupidity, while others were awed by what they considered an act of honor, of personal sacrifice. For all, her death had elevated their effort to stop globalization above the Neanderthal street fight that governments and the mainstream press presented to the rest of the world. The movement had somehow been sanctified, at least for a time.
    Seething with grief and guilt, Blase searched through the milling crush, ignoring the stares at his mauled tuxedo, until he found Johann Jozef, Viera’s brother. Johann was sitting on a bench, his back curved over, his face buried deep in his hands.
    The bench was full, but as Blase angrily zeroed in on Johann, the older man sitting beside Johann took one look at his expression and scuttled away.
    Blase dropped in next to Johann. “How could you let her do it?” he raged in Slovak, each word louder than the last. “Damn you, Johann!”
    Johann jerked up. Burly and in his late twenties, not quite six feet, he radiated shock and grief from his posture to his grimy face.
    â€œBecause I damn well didn’t know what she was damn well planning!” He groaned, and his lips peeled back in a grimace of pain. “We got separated. I shouted at her to stop, but I was too far away. Oh, God.”
    â€œYou’re her brother,” Blase hammered, incensed. “You should’ve known! You planned the demonstration together. She must’ve said something. It was obvious she’d been practicing exactly how to pull it off.”
    Johann fired back, “Why didn’t you know? She told me she’d be at your place last night. Dinner at the Korzo, then your apartment afterward. A celebration of today, she said. You’re the one she would’ve told!”
    Blase saw Viera again in his mind the last time they were together, alive and high-spirited. He felt her slim arms around his neck, smelled the natural perfume that seemed to infuse her skin. He could hear her voice clearly as she passionately recounted some new globalization evil—more jobs lost, more children starving, more natural resources sold off by corrupt governments and then turned into profit by greedy corporations.
    She had liked him, and he had liked her, and the sex was explosive. Still, the truth was, that was all it had been—friendship, attraction, great sex. The casual cynicism of the relationship trivialized the parts that had been good.
    â€œShe canceled our date,” he said woodenly. “I didn’t see her at all yesterday or today.”
    A fresh wave of guilt engulfed him. He turned away from Johann. He no longer wanted to fight him. Viera had been dodging him all week, probably—he realized now—to hide her plans. Busy himself, he had hardly noticed. A fatal error.
    Johann was staring at his clothes. “You’re wearing a tuxedo! Like them. That’s why you got so cozy with Viera! You’re a fucking spy!” He lunged for