“Missed you, too,” he said before he knew what he would say. In the strained silence, he imagined her tongue flicking over the chip in her front tooth.
She cleared her throat. “What do you say we get the business part of the conversation out of the way first. Yes, there was an autopsy. For obvious reasons, it was done by a CIA doctor. The FBI man who Kastner dealt with when he needed something sent it to me, along with a covering letter. In it he said the police found no evidence of a break-in. The doctor who performed the autopsy concluded that Kastner’d died of a heart attack.”
Martin was thinking out loud. “Maybe you should get a second opinion.”
“Too late for another autopsy.”
“What does that mean, too late?”
“When nobody claimed Kastner’s body, the CIA had him cremated. All they gave me was his ashes. I walked halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge and screamed out the punch line from one of those old anti-Soviet jokes that Kastner particularly liked—’Be careful what you struggle for because you may get it’—and scattered the ashes in the river.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hate when you say Uh-huh because I’m never sure what you mean by it.”
“I don’t mean anything. I’m just buying time for my brain to work things out. Did you get to talk to Xing in the Chinese restaurant?”
“Yes. He was very suspicious until I convinced him I was a friend of yours. He was annoyed you hadn’t come back for the funeral of the Chinese girl your bees killed.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said you were busy detecting and he seemed to settle for that. The girl—”
“Her name was Minh.”
“Minh died in great pain, Martin. The police who investigated it decided her death was an accident.”
Martin offered up a short laugh. “The honey exploded by accident.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Did you find out what she was wearing when the bees attacked her?”
“The Daily News story said she was wearing a white jumpsuit with the sleeves and legs rolled up. A pith helmet with mosquito netting attached to it was found near her body.” A police cruiser with a screaming siren tore past Martin, drowning out all conversation. When it quieted down Martin could hear Stella saying, “Oh, I see.”
“What do you see?”
“The rolled up sleeves and legs—it was your jump suit, wasn’t it? Do you think … could it be that someone … oh, dear.” Stella lowered her voice. “I’m frightened, Martin.”
“Me, too, I’m frightened. Seems as if I’m always frightened.”
“Did your trip work out for you?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Not right now.”
“Want me to fly over and meet up with you? Two heads are better than one, remember. Two hearts, also.” He could almost hear the slight gasp of embarrassment. “No strings attached, Martin, it goes without saying.”
“Why do things that go without saying get said?”
“To avoid confusion. Hey, you want to hear a good Russian joke?”
“Save it for when we meet again.”
“I’ll settle for that.”
“For what?”
She said it very quietly. “For our meeting again.”
Another police car could be heard coming down Golders Green, its siren wailing. Martin said quickly, “Bye.”
“Yeah. Bye. Take care of yourself.”
“Uh-huh.”
The police car was almost abreast of Martin and Stella had to shout to be heard. “There you go again.”
Martin found a pub at the top of Golders Green and slid into a booth at the back. The waitress, a skinny young thing with one ear and one nostril and one eyebrow pierced and her navel visible below her short T-shirt, came around with the menu printed in chalk on a small blackboard. Martin ordered the special of the day and a half-pint of lager. He was sipping the lager and waiting for the special when there was a commotion in the front of the pub. People abandoned the bar and their tables to gather under the television on an overhead shelf. The screen was not facing the back of the pub so Martin couldn’t make out what was being said. When the waitress came around with the pot pie and chips, he asked her what was happening.
“People’ve been murdered in a warehouse stone’s throw from ’ere. Most exciting thing that’s ‘appened on Golders Green in a month of Sundays, don’t you know. That’s what all them police sirens was about.”
Martin went around to the front of the pub and caught the end of the news item. “A warehouse, located immediately behind the train station, was the grisly scene of the multiple murders,” the male anchor said. “According to municipal records, the warehouse was being used as a depot for prostheses being shipped by a humanitarian group called Soft Shoulder to war ravaged countries.” The female anchor chimed in: “We’re now being told that three bodies were removed from the warehouse. They were identified as a Mr. Taletbek Rabbani, aged eighty-eight, an Afghan refugee who directed the humanitarian operation and who bled to death from a knife wound to his neck while tied to an overhead pipe; his associate, an Egyptian known only as Rachid, who was killed by a single shot to the head; and a secretary, Mrs. Doris Rainfield, who was also shot to death. A fourth woman is missing and police fear she may have been kidnapped by the team of hit men when they fled the scene of the crime. She was identified as Mrs. Froth, and was said to be the wife of the well known snooker player Nigel Froth.”
Returning to his table, Martin found he’d lost all appetite for the pot pie. He raised a finger and caught the waitress’s eye and called, “Whiskey, neat. Make that a double.”
He was nursing the whiskey and his bruised emotions when he suddenly remembered what it was about the three men in orange jumpsuits at the warehouse that had troubled him. Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? They had all been clean shaven. The upper halves of their faces had been ruddy, as if they’d spent most of their waking hours outdoors. But the lower halves had been the color of sidewalk—one of the men had razor nicks on his skin—which suggested that they had only recently shaved off thick beards in order to make it more difficult to identify them as Muslims.
Martin closed his eyes and summoned up an image of Taletbek Rabbani suspended from an overhead pipe while an assassin stabbed him in the neck. Trying to pick up Samat’s trail, the Chechens, beardless in London, had come back to haunt the old one-legged Tajik warrior sooner than he’d imagined.
1994: THE ONLY FODDER WAS CANNON FODDER
“WHEN WE LEFT OFF LAST WEEK, MARTIN,” DR. TREFFLER WAS saying, “you were commenting on the fact”—her eyes flicked down to the notes in her loose-leaf notebook—“that you are able to do some things well the first time you try.”
The Company psychiatrist, wearing a tight skirt cut above the knee, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. As her thigh flashed into view, Martin turned his head away. He understood that everything she did had a purpose; the business with the legs was her way of harvesting information about his sex drive, assuming he had a sex drive. He wondered what another psychiatrist would make of Dr. Treffler’s way of taking notes, filling the loose-leaf pages from top to bottom and edge to edge with a runty scrawl, the letters all leaning into some nonexistent emotional blizzard. Solzhenitsyn had written Ivan Denisovich that way, but he’d been coming off eight years in Stalin’s gulag. What was her excuse? What did it mean when you didn’t like margins?