“I wrote in Romanian, of course.But simple words translatewell.The lesson of mahala is this only—tolose all is to find a kind of peace.I built a city fire of brokenfurniture, the bones of poor men’s homes.Do you recall, mybrown-eyed son, how the ghetto wind snatched off the woodsmoke—howit fled in rags, and burned down the small fire I’d built for youto ash?”
The words were like woodsmoke themselves.Petrica’s voice hadchanged.Even in English, he could call the ghetto wind into thisplace, evoke the scents and crackle of the fire.The desolation...The fire had burned in a concrete yard.“Yes, I recall,” Sashasaid.“I remember when you wrote that.The first time you read itout to your friends, as well.One of them had brought an undercoverjournalist from a literary magazine—Cultura siCuvântul,wasn’t it?That was thebeginning.”
Petrica chuckled harshly.“The beginning of obscurity.Ah, thewell-heeled Bucharesters loved my songs over the breakfast table,didn’t they?An ex-con singing their city’s death-knell while theyate theirmamaligaand toast.”
“But it never brought you anything.You couldn’t even use yourreal name.Then, you didn’t really build the fire for me, did you?You built it because you’d just had a batch of assault riflesdelivered in a truckload of furniture.You were burning off thepackaging and registration papers.The poor men’s bones wereincidental.”
Laurie tensed.Sasha was doing a much better job of keepingPetrica talking than he could have managed himself, but Petrica hadturned the Makarov around again so that its black snout waspointing towards them.He seemed to find something funny in hisson’s ruthless piercing of the poetic mist, however, and he onlynodded, rocking forward once more in his chair.“Ah.FiftyKalashnikovs, that was, with a ready market in Tajikistan.Yourmemoryisgood,Alexandru.That was fourteen years ago.”
“And as for your brown-eyed son, you got pissed on rotgutliquor that night and tried to sell him off along with the guns.Iremember too much, don’t I?”
“Much too much.”Petrica’s expression altered in the dim light,as if in an echo of tenderness.“I always knew you were a living,walking record of all my worst misdeeds.The Tajiki conflict’s overnow.I have to find my underground wars elsewhere.There’s neverany shortage of those, God be praised—Syria and Egypt need me now,and I have three dozen M4 carbines boxed and waiting here.I buriedthem during my last visit, when the Afghani black market was sogood.You’ll remember that too, won’t you, son?”
“For all the good it’ll do me.”
“For all the good.We understand each other.Come, now,Alexandru—I hunted you, sent men to scare you, keep you silent.ButI only gave Luca his final orders when you started fucking thisgajo brat.I let you have a good long run.”
Sasha looked around the room.It could have been any of theBucharest warrens where his father and his gang had taken refugeover the years.The ghetto wind snatchedoff the woodsmoke...Petrica, sitting therein his makeshift throne, could have been any version of his youngerself—a tortured, noble figure if you didn’t look too close,chanting Romani verse to his cronies over the fire, the rotgutbottle going round.
If you didn’t look close.If you didn’t remember.Sashacouldn’t dig out one good recollection of him, not from his life’sdeepest mud—not even a dream of learning how to swim.The lastflicker of affection in him snuffed out and died.“You gave me agoodrun?”
“Ah, now you sound pure Roma.Ice blocks cracking in thefire...Yes, a run, boy—I could have had you killed at anytime.”
“I ran onto the streets.”Sasha tried to steady his voice.Hefound Laurie’s hand with his in the shelter of their coats andwrapped his fingers round it, grabbed it hard as death.A wild ragewas rising in him.“Your long fucking run...It put me into acontainer ship at Dover with a bunch of frozen corpses.It droppedme into a city where there was nothing for me, not one scrap ofsafety and shelter.I was sixteen years old.You might as well havebeen the first man I sold myself to so I could buy food.You mightas well have raped me yourself.”
Sasha ran out of breath.The last of it burned in his throat.To spit the words into this monster’s face at last was worth alifetime of therapy, but the outpouring had scoured him, taken thelast of his strength.Laurie was propping him now.Stefan wasallowing this.Sasha knew why.He would often let his victims clingto one another in their last few moments.He’d have called himselfcompassionate, but Sasha knew the kindness was only meant toheighten the anguish of loss.Of leaving a world where theotherlived—other heart,other half, other soul.“Laurie,” he whispered.“Forgiveme.”
“Christ, sweetheart—for what?”
“For bringing you here.He’s going to finish usnow.”
The manin the shadows stood up.He was staring into the darkness beyondthe door.Laurie couldn’t pay him attention any more.This was amoment between predator and prey: Stefan was oblivious too, whollyfocussed on the scene at his feet.Gently he clicked the safety offthe gun.
The darkness in the doorway took on form.The shadow manfolded back his hood.He held out a hand, his gesture calming butfull of command:stopthere.He nodded in recognition, then spokesoftly.“Hello, Elizabeth.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Laurietwisted round.Petrica had jolted bolt upright and was staring atthe new arrival, his fist gone slack round the gun, a hollowvacancy opening up in his eyes as if even he, the maker of ghosts,could have his blood curdled to stillness by this spectre from thepast.The candle-flames fluttered in the new breeze from the door,and Sasha, still clinging to Laurie, saw shadow-birds dance up anddown on the walls.The woman in the doorway could have been ajogger who’d got lost in the Birchwood dusk, or a casually dressedoffice worker, except for the gun in her hands.Except that she wasmaking Sasha think of learning to swim in cool water...
Shetrained the gun on Petrica.She spared Laurie and Sasha a glance,then looked away sharply, as if she couldn’t bear more.“Idelivered your package,” she said.“The CEO was there, just on hisway out—I put it right into his hands.You shouldn’t have left mebehind, Laurie.”
No.Laurie knew that.She’d been on the run from Petrica for years.Even better than Sasha, she’d have known the woodland paths totake, the sounds which meant danger, the song of owls in the wrongseason.He couldn’t speak.Sasha was open-mouthed in his arms.“Whois she, Laurie?”
Theremight come a time when Laurie could tell him, if he didn’t work itout for himself.Had Sasha even known his mother’s name?Theremight be a time, in the aftermath of this confrontation, when thebalance of life and death had been settled, when Sasha could nolonger tip the scales in a reflex of shock or love...“Hush,”Laurie whispered to him.Elizabeth was covering the wholeroom—Petrica, Gunari, Nico—with her double-handed grip on the gun,but already Petrica was getting over his paralysis, and her controlcouldn’t last.Her eyes were wide and lost, a small tremortwitching one arm.
Stefanchuckled.“You still have that pop-gun I gave you, mydear?”
“It’s big enough to pop your head off, you son of a bitch.Shutup.”
Theshadow man stepped forward.“Elizabeth,” he said again.“Staycalm.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s John Kucharski.I’m an Interpol agent, and I’ve beenlooking for you for a long time.”Stefan gave a kind of choked roarand tried to swing round, but Elizabeth jerked the gun’s snout athim.“Keep still, Stefan,” Kucharski went on.“I’m almost sorry, ifyou can believe that.I know you trusted me, but...Listen,Elizabeth.I need to come over there and take over fromyou.”
“Don’t move.Don’t think about touching me.”
“There’s too much involved for you here.Let mehelp.”
