That brought the conversation to a halt. It was already quiet in the room. It got a lot quieter. Pak looked at me, dismayed. "I can't believe I said that. Give me a minute." He shook his head. "No, I'll need more than a minute." He pulled smoke deep into his lungs and closed his eyes. "What are the odds of smoking as much as I do and being so damned healthy? I thought these things were supposed to kill me."
Suddenly, Pak put out the cigarette and pushed the ashtray aside. "Did I do something before I joined the Ministry? Who can remember?" He moved his chair closer to the table. "Listen to me. Sohn was more dedicated than anyone you'll ever meet. He didn't believe everything they handed out. He had to be convinced, and if he had doubts, they had to be put to rest. He argued with the lecturers, he argued with the trainers, he argued with the political cadres until they turned red in the face and nearly fell over. No one touched him, though; reports against him would go flying up the chain, but no one touched him because no one doubted that once he was convinced, he would be like steel. He had no use for ideology, thought it was a waste of time. What mattered was results. When he was in charge of a team, he didn't spend time worrying about our righteousness. He wanted us to do the job and come home safe. He was always waiting for us at the dock." Pak stopped. "That tells you all you need to know about Sohn. All and everything and nothing, because I could never figure him out. None of us could."
"That was then. This is now. What did he have to do with Pakistan?"
"Who said anything about Pakistan?" Pak's voice could get a cozy lilt to it sometimes. People who didn't know him thought he was getting chummy, taking them into his confidence. I knew better.
"I never drop anything. It's all over this case. The woman was killed in Pakistan. Our foreigner is mixed up with missiles, my brother was mixed up with missiles, and Pakistan grows missiles like Mt. Paektu grows blueberries. I think there is more going on than we know."
"Thank you, Inspector." Pak smiled. "My faith in you is restored. I think you can assume there is more going on everywhere than we can know, or want to know, or dare to know. Better to be a bug on a cabbage leaf-don't worry about what's happening on the next head of cabbage. You gave some thought to the lady?"
"I did. I think she may be part of the reason Sohn was killed." This wasn't what I thought sixty seconds ago, but something Pak had said rocketed this idea out of the darkness. "The woman herself wasn't important. It was that she was working for Sohn."
"What?"
"Sohn told me that. He didn't tell me what she was doing, and it may not even be that significant. But I think her death spooked Sohn. He was afraid that someone had discovered he was watching their operations in Pakistan."
"Who?"
"Think about it."
Pak thought about it. "Your brother," he said.
"You know what I think? I think you may have asked the right question. Did Sohn see something he wasn't supposed to? Did he stumble onto a meeting that wasn't supposed to happen?"
Pak stared at me, looking inside my head.
"Something the matter?" I asked, but I already knew. My brother was the matter.
"I think you're halfway there, Inspector," Pak said finally. "It isn't just what Sohn saw, but what he knew; and more important, who he was. A lot of people might have seen the same thing, but it wouldn't have made a difference because they wouldn't know what they were looking at."
"Which means…"
"Which means it must have been someone who recognized him, someone who knew him. That's not a big universe, when you think about it. The number of our people abroad at any one time is small. The number in Geneva is even smaller. Either the person Sohn saw wasn't supposed to be there, or he wasn't supposed to be meeting with whomever Sohn saw him with."
M. Beret had shown me a picture of my brother with the man from Sri Lanka; the same man had sat with his knees practically touching mine on the train, on his way to another meeting with my brother, maybe in Bern. They must have decided to do it outside Geneva, because they didn't like what had just happened in the city. It hadn't been in their plans, murdering a party official. "What if the meeting Sohn witnessed was approved, but no one was supposed to know about it?" I didn't believe that, but it was a theory that had to be crossed off.
Pak shook his head. "Not likely. For that they'd only have to bring him home and tell him to keep his mouth shut. No reason to break his neck."
"Missiles. What did Sohn have to do with missiles?"
"Always roaming with a restless mind." Pak pulled out another cigarette, looked at it for a moment, then put it back in the pack.
"Heart. The line is 'roaming with a restless heart.'"
"You should know; you're the poetic one, Inspector. Care to write a poem about missiles someday? Sohn thought they were a waste of resources. Not at first he didn't. At first he was part of a program to get plans and components. He ran it."
"When?"
"Let's leave it at that."
"The man is dead; I'm interested in who killed him, especially because my own neck seems to be on the line. I'm not sure I buy the story I was handed. Besides, I thought you liked him."
"Sohn said that people would die this winter and we'd be better off without them. Or did you forget that?"
No, I hadn't forgotten.
"My mother died last night. She was thin, like a piece of paper, O. What do you think Sohn would have said to me?" He grabbed his hair in his hands and pulled until it looked like he would rip it from his head. "Worse, much worse, what would I have said to him?" Pak put his head on the table and wept. There was nothing I could do.
Chapter Two
What I had learned about the young woman murdered in Pakistan fit on a tiny piece of paper, what you might call a short list. That list was in front of me, on my desk. It bothered me that it wasn't longer. I wanted to know what happened to her. It wasn't germane to anything, but it was the start of a chain of events that had almost left me with a big hole in my head. That sort of thing piques my curiosity.
The young woman had been murdered. The murder had taken place in Pakistan. She liked music, was infatuated with Rachmaninoff. That was it; end of list. Everything else was conjecture. She might be mixed up with missiles, and she might have crossed paths with Israeli intelligence. I still didn't know how she died, but if I found out that her neck had been broken, it wouldn't surprise me. French cigarettes somewhere in the picture, too-that wouldn't have surprised me, either. I'd told Pak that her murder wasn't important, that it hadn't meant anything. Maybe so, but I hated to leave it at that. I stared at the list for a few minutes; that didn't fill in any blanks.
Early Wednesday morning Pak was called in to explain why no reporting on the case had come from his unit yet. He was gone for almost four hours. As soon as he reached the front gate, just after noon in a pelting rain, he called me from the gate phone.
"Get over to my office this instant," he said. "Have a pencil and paper; be ready to take down everything I tell you, without a single interruption." He slammed the phone down so hard I could hear it all the way to the second floor.
I was sitting with paper and pencil when Pak walked in. He threw a file onto his cabinet and tossed his coat onto a chair.
"The Minister is angry. He told me he was angry, that's how I know. He did it in an angry voice, with an angry look on his face, in case I missed the point or harbored any doubts. You might say he chewed me out. And do you know why?"
"Tell me when I'm supposed to start putting pencil to paper, would you?"
"Sure, I'll also tell you what else you can do with the pencil."
"The Minister was not happy, that's where you left off. What was the problem?"
"The problem? The problem is that a certain case that was supposed to stay very low profile has become high profile. A certain European city where we are always supposed to blend in with the landscape has decided it doesn't want to have anything to do with us anymore."