Yalta Boulevard (19 page)

“Something to drink?” asked Ludwig as he opened the cabinet door to reveal rows of bottles. “Brandy to warm you up? It’s a fully stocked bar.”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“How about some water?” As he spoke, he took out a plastic pitcher and began to pour a glass.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“It’s not drugged, Brano. Here—” Ludwig drank half the glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then placed it on the coffee table and settled into the sofa. “See? I feel fine. That’s mountain spring water, pure and simple.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Well, then. Want to change out of that?”

Brano looked down at his soaked clothes. “My clothes are supposed to be in transit.”

“No worries.” Ludwig nodded at the fat man. “Get that robe, will you?”

He brought a thick yellow robe from the bathroom and handed it to Brano, who stood, then hesitated. “Here?”

Ludwig grinned. “We’re not queer, Brano.”

So he undressed and put on the robe, watched carefully by both men.

“I suppose we should get to it, shouldn’t we?”

Brano sat down again. “If you’d like.”

Ludwig examined his nails, which were clean, like his long face and close-cropped hair. “Let’s establish some facts first. You have entered Austrian territory of your own free will. You don’t have a visa, and there is no record of your entry. Bureaucratically, my friend, you do not exist.”

Brano’s hands were on his knees, squeezing through the robe.

“We’re going to talk. How long our conversation lasts is up to you. You can cooperate or not. That’s your prerogative. But it will have a bearing on how long we keep you here.”

“I understand,” said Brano.

“Good. Good. Tell me, then, why you have entered Austria.”

Decades ago, when Brano Sev began his tenure at Yalta, then-Major Cerny put him through a mock interrogation that would prepare him for this kind of situation. As he left his apartment one evening, two men jumped out of a bread truck, placed a burlap sack over his head, and took him to an old farmhouse. They told him to squat and hold out his arms, as if he were preparing to launch into flight. He was ordered not to move. After a while, his arms became heavy and sank, and they smacked his elbows with truncheons. When exhaustion overcame him and he started to doze, they lifted him by his armpits and dragged him outside—his numb legs could no longer move—and threw him in a lake, then dragged him back again. After a day of this, he was placed in a chair, a bright light shining in his face, and asked questions.

What is your mission?

I cannot answer that
.

Who are your superiors?

I cannot answer that
.

What is your name?

Brano Oleksy Sev
.

And your mother’s name?

I cannot answer that
.

How about your girlfriend, Brano Sev? You’ve got a girlfriend, don’t you?

I cannot answer that
.

You’re not queer, are you?

I cannot answer that
.

Come on, Brano. This is just between us. You can at least deny it, can’t you?

I cannot answer that
.

Look, I’m just trying to help you. If I tell those boys outside that you’re a shirt-lifter, you know what they’re going to do, don’t you? They’re going to beat the shit out of you. So are you queer or not?

“I cannot answer that,” he told the Austrian.

Ludwig winked at the fat man with the bag. “Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

Brano had met Ludwig’s kind often over the years. Well fed, confident, with a sense of something they thought was style. They played nice men because they believed themselves to be nice men who were in the unfortunate position of having to commit certain acts that, in themselves, were not nice.

The effect was accentuated by the fact that this man was Austrian—a race not known for its casual demeanor.

But for now, there were no prison cells, no truncheons, no electrical wires—this was unexpected. Just a living room, smiles, and questions. And that made it all the more difficult. Brano wanted to understand what was going on, and with understanding would come the acceptance he needed. He tried to hide his consternation as Ludwig leaned forward and smiled.

“Let’s start with what we know about you, Brano. You’re half a century old, and in that time you’ve had your successes. After the war you even had some fame—your picture appeared in
The Spark
now and then when you uncovered another ‘fascist’”—he marked the quotes with the long fingers of his left hand—“hiding in the hills. You have a good record. But the question I wondered about for a while was, Why is a man as accomplished as this working in a factory now?”

Brano blinked at him.

“Well, I wouldn’t ask a question like that unless I thought I had the answer, would I?” He touched his chin. “You’re not a young man, Brano, but you think like one. You’re an idealist. Perhaps you even believe that tripe your General Secretary Tomiak Pankov likes to mutter about international peace. When you did your job, you did it well, and you stayed clean. You were even approached—twice that we know of—to turn to the side of right; each time you refused unequivocally, even when the price was good. You
are
clean, Brano, in your own way. And because of that, someone finally gave you the shaft. But even before that, you were never allowed to progress.”

Brano opened his mouth, paused, then said, “That’s not exactly true. I moved up in rank.”

Ludwig grinned. “That’s just uniform decoration, Brano! Look at the facts. You were sent on short trips to a lot of places. Tel Aviv, Athens, Belgrade, Moscow. But other than one instance, you weren’t trusted to do any long-term work. And we both know that one exception: Free Berlin.”

“You mean West Berlin?”

“As you like, Brano. West Berlin. But even there, you weren’t a
rezident;
you weren’t controlling anyone. You were controlled. Because, in the end, you’re not corrupt enough to be trusted by your Ministry. And so, after one year, they brought you back. And that was that, until …” He crossed his legs and gripped a knee. “Until six, seven months ago, in July, when you visited Vienna. A month-and-a-half stay. That’s it. Though your tenure was supposed to be a lot longer.”

“I was here as a temporary cultural attaché,” he said. “I didn’t need to stay long.”

“Cultural attaché—these labels they come up with for
rezidents
are wonderful!” Ludwig slapped his thigh, then shook his head. “The day you left, a certain Bertrand Richter, another known spy, was found dead in the Volksgarten. You know anything about this?”

Brano blinked again.

“Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t. But spies don’t end up dead in Vienna for no reason. And he was one of your men. Certainly you’re concerned about what happened to Bertrand.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“And you don’t care?”

“It’s not my problem.”

“Well, it obviously was at the time, because you were stripped of your uniform and packed off to assemble tractor gauges.” Ludwig checked his watch again and rubbed his thighs. “We’ll get back to this, okay? Right now, I have some things to attend to, but in the meantime I have something for you to consider. A deal, if you will. See, I don’t expect something for nothing. Others have different opinions, but today you’re dealing with me, and I’m a realist. I can give you something if you give me something.”

Brano looked at his hands and waited.

“It’s no secret you made a blunder back in your hometown. You’re a murderer, Brano, and as soon as you set foot back in your country, you’re going to be arrested.”

Brano didn’t answer, because there had been no question.

“So you can talk to us, and we’ll not only give you asylum, we’ll set you up with a nice apartment in downtown Vienna. But if you don’t talk to us, we’ll put you on a plane back home. I’m sure your friends would be happy to meet you.”

Brano settled deeper into his chair.

Ludwig grinned. “Why don’t you think about it awhile? We’re in no hurry. While I’m gone, my men will be happy to listen if you feel like talking.” The fat man, beside Brano, nodded his agreement.

FEBRUARY TO MARCH 1967
•

Ludwig did
not return that night, nor the next day. Brano took a bath and then slept in a bedroom with boards nailed over the windows. The lock on the door worked only from the outside, and each morning the guard who unlocked it was different from the one who had locked it the previous night.

His guards seemed never to tire. They stood with their hands crossed over their groins and watched him. This was how it worked. Time was a formidable tool, and it could be used in many ways. In the morning, the fat guard opened a cardboard box filled with pastries and coffee, and Brano ate with him. The tall one arrived much later with dinner. On the third day, the fat guard opened a second box as well: Brano’s clothes, cleaned and pressed. No one spoke. Time and silence.

At first Ludwig’s offer had shocked him—not the fact that a deal had been offered (he’d suspected something in exchange for his cooperation), but the nature of the deal itself. In all his worries and predictions of the last week, it had never occurred to him that he would want to stay in the West, particularly in Vienna. It was a cold city, all charm removed by the flagrant displays of capital: the bankers, international corporations, the trite exploitation of their musical history. It was a city without a soul, and it was the scene of his greatest failure.

And why would he leave his country? He knew why others left: They were impatient. Socialism, like any egalitarian system, is not born whole. It moves slowly from the inequities of capitalism to the long restructuring of the dictatorship of the proletariat, before finally reaching the full glory of pure communism. Lenin made no secret of progress’s sluggishness. Those who left were individualists, or opportunists, who felt that the realization of true human equality was not worth a few years of discomfort. Brano felt differently. He did not mind the occasional breadlines, the glitches in production that filled the shoe stores with only one style of footwear, nor the periodic interruptions in hot water and electricity that individualists decried. Perhaps Ludwig was right; he was an idealist.

The opaque byzantine machinations of Yalta were also becoming clearer. If Cerny knew he would be picked up in Austria—and he had to suspect this—then printing his murder conviction in
The Spark
made sense, as did the Doctor’s failed promise. Cerny knew the Austrians would never believe Brano had left his home for ideological reasons. So he had given Brano a personal reason.

Brano, in the eyes of the Austrians, would be another Bogdan Stashin-ski, the KGB assassin who had defected in 1961, in Paris, after just two jobs. Simply because he couldn’t take it any longer.

But again, why? Soroka was far from his reach, and once again Brano was alone with the enemy. Ludwig’s threat to send him back home was merely that—a threat. So, here he would stay.

On the third night, Ludwig settled on the sofa and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Tell me, then. Why have you come to Austria?”

“I’ve been framed for a murder, and the only way out of it was to leave the country.”

“Of course. An ex-member of the Ministry for State Security is framed by a drunk peasant, and he can’t get himself out of the mess? You must think we’re idiots, Brano.”

“I can only tell you what I know.”

“Which is all we ask.”

Brano waited.

“All right. Your people run a lot of operations out of Vienna. Who doesn’t, these days? Neutral countries breed this kind of intrigue. Tell us about them.”

“I cannot.”

“Because you choose not to?”

“I simply cannot.”

“Okay,” said Ludwig. He got up again. “We’ll talk later.”

Ludwig was patient. He came and went many times, and in the periods between, Brano ate pastries with the fat guard, and sometimes they watched television—insipid programs with names like
Batman
and
Gespensterparty
.

The struggle, it seemed, was not against fear but boredom.

His guards were polite but well trained; they knew their duty. Their silence was meant to give Brano a sense of relief each time Ludwig returned and spoke. That relief would help Brano to eventually open up.

At least, that was how he understood the technique until the seventh time Ludwig returned to the house, three weeks into his stay.

He smiled like every other time, but now he had a small briefcase. He placed it on the coffee table. “You’re feeling well, Brano?”

“I feel all right.”

“Good, good.” Ludwig’s eyes wandered, lost for a second, then he sat down. “You’ll never guess what happened today, in India.”

“I probably won’t.”

Ludwig smiled. “Svetlana Alliluyeva walked into the United States embassy in Delhi and asked for asylum.”