“No, I do.And thank you.But it must have something else init, to make it so...”
“A gajo does not understand.Intent of person who makes it, theneed of person who takes—that is ingredient.That is thesomething else.”
“Okay.Well, Sasha really needs it, and I...”Christ, here hewas, about to fall all over himself again, like a teenagerconfessing a first crush.“And I really love him, so that should dothe trick, shouldn't it?Or can't a gajomake it at all?”
Gunarishrugged.“Maybe.Maybe not.”
“Anyway, he can try.”
“Arvah.Come on.I give.”
Back inthe spotless kitchen, Laurie sat on the stool his host indicated.It was a tall one in the corner, and he wondered if Gunari took upposition here to direct his chefs during opening hours.“This isgood of you,” he said, and suddenly interrupted himself with a hugeyawn.“Oh, God.I'm sorry.”
Gunariclosed a cupboard door.He carefully added what looked like bayleaves to the collection of powders and herbs he'd set out on achopping board, then looked up and grinned.“If Sandru don't sleep,polone don't sleep either, right?”
Lauriesmiled ruefully in return.Getting here had been hard, but findingwhat he needed had been so much easier than he’d thought.He’d beenprepared to fight for it.Now that Gunari was about to bag thegoods and hand them over, his defences were coming down.“That’sright.”He yawned again, this time managing to cover his mouth.“I’m wiped out.He has nightmares, poor bastard.”
“Prikasa,” Gunari said thoughtfully.“No surprise.He was on streets for long time, yes?”
“Yes.Too bloody long.”
“Because of his father.”
“That’s right.”Laurie sat up, struggling against a wash ofexhaustion.Maybe the darozhahad an effectbefore it was even boiled, the fragrant dust of its dried herbsfilling the sunny air.“Do you know Sasha’s story, Gunari?About...About Stefan?”
“Some.I know what he told Mama Luna.”
“And afterwards?Are you still in touch with anyone fromBirchwood, anyone who might know...”
A silence fell in the kitchen.Gunari stopped chopping leavesand looked up.“Why don't you ask me, polone?”he said quietly.“Ask what isreally on your mind.”
Not somuch on it as in it.Limited and locked up in one small box, behindthe darozha and all Laurie's conscious intentions in cominghere—the reason why he had crossed London and sought out this man.Laurie's brain was compartmentalised.He knew that.It was one ofhis gifts, the thing that enabled him to switch so completely fromone role to the next.As long as it was voluntary, it wasfine.
He hadno recollection of creating this box at all.“I don't suppose,” hebegan, then swallowed a dry patch in his throat and tried again.“Ikeep thinking I see him.Stefan Petrica, that is.But he's lockedup, isn't he?He was deported, and he'd have been arrested themoment he was back on Romanian soil.”The silence continued, andLaurie added, more for his own sake than Gunari's—a prayer, a charmagainst evil—“As you say, I haven't been sleeping.Probably I'mseeing things.”
“You think Stefan Petrica in Bucharest?Who told?”
Lauriestared at him.“Interpol,” he said helplessly, as if thatorganisation had one mouth, one truth.“The agent who dealt withthe case—John Kucharski.”
“And no word from Interpol since?No warning?”
“No.”Laurie got down from the stool.Behind it was a window,large and frail.He looked around the kitchen, but there was noshelter anywhere, not really.“Gunari.Why would I need to bewarned?”
“That agent—Kucharski?”
“Yes.”
“Dead.Killed in raid before Petrica case came to court.Without him, not enough testimony to convict.Proceedings begin,but soon fall apart—they let Stefan go.”
“They let him go?”Laurie ran a hand through his hair.He wastrying to connect the short worddeadwith John Kucharski, with aweary, kindly man only a few years older than himself,battle-scarred and competent.He gave the effort up.There was onlythe window behind him—all the windows in the Guidance Counciloffice, all the howling empty spaces in the city desert Sasha hadto cross in order to get home.In order to get a sandwich from thedeli across the road...“Excuse me a second,” he said with distantpoliteness, as if he and Gunari had been enjoying cocktails on abalcony somewhere.He pulled out his phone.Sasha would take hiscall anywhere, wouldn't he?In a meeting, in the midst of the mostdelicate negotiations...
For oncethe line went straight to voicemail.Laurie listened to the messagefor a few seconds, then hung up.What the hell would he say?Heremembered that Sash was in Pentonville prison today, translatingfor convicted illegals.He ought to be safe enough there, inside,if Stefan bloody Petrica was out...Laurie's head spun, and hegrabbed the edge of the table for support.“I don't understand,” herasped.“If Stefan was released—if he is in London, if I have beenseeing the bastard—why hasn't he come after us?”
Again Gunari shrugged.It was an odd gesture, a trace ofamusement in it, as if the troubles of the gajeworld washed off his Roma back like summer waves.He resumedhis work with the herbs.“Not Stefan's style.He waits, he stalks.Your boy gave evidence against him, against his own father—bad, inRoma culture.Very bad.Stefan might hunt him down like cat withlittle bird.”
“For fuck's sake.This is crazy.”Laurie shuddered, fighting tocontrol the reactive tide of nausea that could plague him aftershocks.He remembered waking up with Stefan’s hitman in his room,how that thug had played with him, tried to fuck him with a knifeto his throat before getting down to business.One last coldcomfort occurred to him.“Sasha would have noticed a stalker.He'sfar more streetwise than I am, far more observant—”
“But would he have told you, polone?”
