Traffyck (30 page)

“Mariya, what is it?”

“I’m fine, Janos. I wanted to make sure you called when you arrived.”

“I tried several times overnight from the train, but there was never a town within cell service long enough. The train was on time, but the ride was rough.”

“I thought you should know about Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza. He was on television last evening saying things about you. Svetlana Kovaleva called to tell you to watch. I have it recorded. I can play it if you want to listen.”

“Can you sum up what he said?”

“It’s a sermon. He repeats himself, going back to the beginning for effect. He says there is an ex-Kiev militiaman working against the Moscow Patriarchate of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church. He builds on this, and eventually, as if reluctantly, reveals your name. He begs forgiveness for doing this, yet goes on to say you were raised Catholic, studied for the priesthood, but for some reason dropped out. He implies you may be involved in something illegal. It’s all speculation. He keeps repeating
could it be
this and
might it be
that. Here. I wrote some: ‘Could it be some Catholics desire a split of the Orthodox churches in Ukraine? Might they employ agents schooled in their priesthood?’ After these charges, he speaks of a secret organization working for the Vatican … and finally he mentions missing children!”

“Me, the Vatican, and missing children?”

“Because he defends the Moscow Patriarchate, he’ll have the Russian Mafia after you! I know about these things, Janos. I worked in clubs run by syndicates.”

As Janos listened to Mariya, he watched the others exiting the gate from the track. Many spoke animatedly, to anyone who would listen, of the rough ride. Others said they should have taken the express instead of the overnight. After the arrivals had passed and the gate was clear, he studied the entire terminal to see if anyone was watching.

“Janos, perhaps you should skip your meeting—”

“I will be careful, Mariya. Being careful is my job.”

“Janos? … phone … breaking up. Please … do what you must … return to me.”

“I will, Mariya.”

After he hung up, Janos realized that during the time they had spent together, despite the intimacies they had shared, he and Mariya had not once spoken of love. This seemed appropriate for two dangerous people. By not saying it, they became even closer. Janos consulted a Kharkiv tourist map in the station, saw that Shevchenko Gardens was only three kilometers distant as the crow flies, and walked out into the cool dawn morning. Janos had not brought his GPS, and one had to be careful with maps put up for tourists. Instead of north being upward on this map, the tiny north arrow pointed to the right. In Kiev, locals joked the changes in spelling from Soviet days and maps having north pointing every which way were part of a plot to increase spending. Tourists, thinking they could easily do a walking tour, became lost, thus building appetite and thirst and the need for cab or metro rides. An unprepared tourist might even require a hat and sunblock to protect oneself from UV rays, all while clicking away on cameras, which would need batteries that were very expensive in tourist shops.

Janos bypassed waiting cabs and the metro pickup and walked briskly down the side of the railroad entrance road toward the central city. He carried only a duffel bag containing a change of clothing, a cap, other basic essentials, and his weapon, which bumped against his leg. Because of new security measures on public transportation, he could not carry a pistol. If he were a government official, he would have been able to check a weapon and pick it up at the destination. But private investigators had been denied this privilege in recent months. Instead of his pistol, the bag contained a half-meter-long oak club he had carefully sewn into the bottom of the bag when the weapons ban on public transportation had gone into effect.

Janos found his way past Blagoveschensky Cathedral and into the Central Market. During his walk, the sun came out and he put on his sunglasses. He mounted the small bicyclist’s mirror Mariya had given him to the frame of his sunglasses. By glancing up and to the left, he quickly got used to checking behind without turning around. He could adjust the view with slight movements of his head. So far, no one followed.

At the market, he found a stall that had opened early while most were still draped with tarpaulins. The stall offered strong coffee, pastry, and sausage. When he asked the woman running the stall if there was somewhere he could charge his phone, she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head as if she understood neither Ukrainian nor Russian. Perhaps she was deaf.

After eating, Janos continued walking toward city center. It was still early with very few pedestrians on the streets. He passed the Drama Theater, closed restaurants, and the Opera House. At Shevchenko Gardens, he stayed on the far side of the wide street and walked past. It was still early, and Shevchenko stood alone in the park staring off into the distance.

The tiny mirror was marvelous, and Janos decided he would purchase one of his own when he returned to Kiev. He turned up a wide square heading toward an old Lenin statue and eventually came to Hotel Kharkiv. He found a side entrance, took off his mirror, and came into the lobby through the elevator hall, yawning and smiling. He walked confidently to a tea stand, purchased a glass of tea, and proceeded to an alcove where he found an electrical outlet behind a chair. He plugged in this phone charger and sat where he could watch the entrance. It was comfortable and cool; the sounds of voices and footfalls in the lobby were relaxing. He smiled and nodded toward the concierge, who brought him a morning newspaper and asked if he needed anything. He said he had just awakened and simply needed his morning tea and fulfillment of the traditional “sit down” before continuing his long journey. The concierge bowed and returned to his kiosk. Outside the main entrance, the morning sun rose higher and pedestrians passed. The day in Kharkiv had begun. It was zero seven hundred, one hour before his Pied Piper meeting. The Gypsy scarf was in his bag; he would put it on when he returned to Shevchenko Gardens.

After Janos called from the train station, Mariya was unable to return to bed. She looked out at the militia car in the parking lot, sipped cold water from a bottle in the refrigerator, turned the television on and off, checking for news, and, several times, opened the cabinet where Janos had put his pistol and shoulder holster. She could smell the leather of the holster, and back in the bedroom she could smell Janos on the bed sheets and the pillows. At sunrise, she was already dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, wishing there were something she could do. She became more determined to do something … anything. She trusted Janos, but when he returned she would demand he take her wherever he went.

When Janos called from Hotel Kharkiv, Mariya felt much better.

“I wish I had gone with you.”

“It is better you are there. The militia would have followed. Please, Mariya, you must stay until I return. I have already gone past the meeting place. It is in the open. Many people will be about. After the meeting, I will return on the five-hour express leaving this afternoon. I will be back today before midnight. Promise you will stay there.”

“Why should I promise?”

“Because I hear in your voice a desire to run through a wall.”

“I won’t run through a wall.”

“And you won’t walk through a door and get into your race car?”

“It has been some time since I made promises, Janos.”

“I will return before midnight,” said Janos, in his soft voice.

The Shevchenko Gardens were empty. The only activity was a vagrant who had apparently slept behind the monument. The vagrant awakened when Janos walked past, coughing and grumbling as he threw aside the old blanket and cardboard box remnants he had used on his stone bed. It was hard to tell the age of the vagrant, but he was definitely not the Pied Piper. As the vagrant stumbled away toward bushes in the distance, Janos could see by the darkening of his tattered trousers that he failed to make it to the bushes in time.

The morning sun was higher, and a light breeze from the northwest brought the cool fragrance of the park to the monument. Janos put on his sunglasses, along with the miniature rearview mirror, and sat on a bench near the monument facing the park and gardens. He opened his duffel bag and took out the silk scarf Mariya had picked out. It was red, white, and green, the colors of the Hungarian flag. The scarf felt soft and feminine, and he wondered if a gay man might try to pick him up. The time was exactly zero eight hundred. Janos could see in his miniature mirror that the vagrant was out of the bushes and had headed up the boulevard and dropped onto a bench like a sack of mail being thrown from a train. In his mirror, he also saw that traffic on the boulevard was light, only a bus and a few cars cruising past. If a vehicle stopped, he would be able to see it in his mirror.

Out in the park on the lawn, about a hundred meters distant, a thin man wearing a red windbreaker and a red beret ran up and down playing with a miniature white poodle. Soon the man with the poodle moved closer, throwing a small rubber ball the poodle retrieved again and again. The poodle’s movements were frenetic, and so were the man’s, his shoulders twitching, his head jerking side to side as he followed the zigzag progress of the dog across the lawn.

The man was very thin, his neck and head seemingly stretched taut between the windbreaker and the beret. He wore sunglasses, which made it impossible for Janos to tell whether the man was watching him. The man was hyperactive like the cocaine or intravenous amphetamine users he came across occasionally in Kiev.

The man called to the dog in Russian. “Come, Mish! Mish!” The name was Russian for
mouse
. Janos could tell from the high pitch of the voice that this was Comrade Piper.

When the man was within a few meters, he unfurled a purple and orange scarf from his pocket as if he were a magician, wrapped the scarf about his thin neck, and rolled the ball toward Janos. Janos stood, grabbed the ball from the ground, and threw it far out into the field, where Mish scurried after it.

“Good throw,” said the man in Russian.

Janos took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. “Give me your name!”

“I am the Pied Piper,” he said, walking toward Janos. He said it as if he were singing the song, lowered his sunglasses for a moment, and studied Janos with bloodshot eyes. He obviously did not wish to shake hands.

Janos placed his duffel bag on the grass, pulled the envelope containing the two thousand euros from his pocket, stepped close, and raised his voice. “I had better get my money’s worth, Comrade Piper! I am not here for games!”

Comrade Piper took the envelope, investigated the contents, and put it in an inside pocket of his windbreaker. Mish was back, panting at their feet, and Comrade Piper kicked the ball away. The entire conversation was accompanied by the frenetic dog retrieving the kicked ball and by Comrade Piper’s twitching, hyperactive movements.

“You are not fat,” said Comrade Piper.

“Fat?”

“With a name like Gypsy, and a friend like Shved, I thought—”