‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But maybe they’ve learnt their lesson. I don’t think they’re used to people fighting back.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘Do you have a telephone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, ring us on this number,’-he passed across a printed card-‘if they turn up again. We can be there in ten minutes.’
Which would probably be five too late, she thought, walking on to Rosa’s school. Always assuming her would-be abductors allowed her to make the call.
They could stay at Zarah’s tonight, and tomorrow she would … well, what?
She would try and talk to Tulpanov on the telephone. It would be easier to just turn up at his office, but she wasn’t setting foot inside the Soviet sector again until she had some answers. Surely someone had made a mistake. Kidnapping scientists to work in Soviet laboratories made some sort of evil sense, but abducting actors to work on Soviet films? That was ridiculous.
It turned out that Pyotr Druzhnykov actually did have a lot of interesting information to pass on. Russell had never really appreciated the way in which the Red Army lived off the land, much in the manner of a medieval horde. And apparently this hadn’t changed when advance turned into occupation-these days eastern Europe’s farmers weren’t only feeding their conquerors but also filling the millions of parcels which the latter sent back to their families. In fact the whole occupation had become a giant business opportunity for people denied one at home. An anthropologist would have been fascinated.
None of this interested Dempsey or Farquhar-Smith, who were still glued to their grail of battle orders, weapon deliveries and military timetables. Somewhat predictably, stripping Druzhnykov’s life down to its daily routine revealed potato supply bottlenecks, not the strength and whereabouts of tank divisions.
The good news, as Russell learned when Dempsey dropped him off on Thursday evening, was that the American had arranged transport for his family-a first flight leaving Tempelhof for Munich at 9 A.M. on Friday week, and a second that afternoon to the old RAF base at Aviano, some forty miles north of Venice. ‘You’ll have to meet them there,’ he told Russell, after handing him all the details. ‘Don’t say we don’t look after you.’
Russell walked back to the hostel feeling better than he had for weeks-even the prospect of meeting Artucci brought a smile to his face. Marko was reading a newspaper behind his desk, his children draped across the stairs as usual. There had been no more suspicious visitors since his return from Belgrade, which might or might not be a good sign-either the bad guys had gone away, or now they knew where he was. The layer of dust on his threshold, which he always took care to step over, was happily devoid of footmarks, and nothing inside had been moved.
He stepped out on to the balcony and savoured the scents from the gardens below, remembering his and Effi’s first time in Venice, back in 1934, when they’d only been lovers for six months. One of the happiest weeks of his life.
It would be different now, almost fifteen years later, with Rosa there, too. But they were different, too. And maybe it would be just as wonderful. He could hardly wait.
But tonight, a date with Artucci. He washed, changed, and went out for supper on the Via Nuova before making his way up the hill. The Italian was sitting in his usual seat, the waitress apparently AWOL.
Artucci needed only the merest prompting to relive the evening in question. The Croats had come to Luciana’s house-he, alas, had been out on business-and taken her at gunpoint-at gunpoint! — to Kozniku’s office. Before disappearing the priest had promised them papers, and the Croats had grown tired of waiting. ‘She just hand them over when they hear someone move in next room-a burglar, she think, though robbing priest is bad, even priest like Kozniku. He back, you know. He tell Luciana in Fiume on business, but she not believe.’
‘Does he have any priestly duties?’ Russell wondered out loud.
‘The chasing of little boys,’ Artucci suggested with a grin. ‘They all do this.’
Russell smiled. ‘So what happened next? That night, I mean.’
‘Oh, the man run down street with Croat chasing. Just for fun, I think. Why they care if Kozniku robbed?’
‘But they got their papers?’
‘Oh yes. I expect they’re in Yugoslavia now, finding new women to make frighten.’
So, Russell thought, either Kozniku hadn’t yet heard of the Croats’ arrest, or he hadn’t shared that news with Luciana. He himself hadn’t been recognised, either by her or the Croats. Which was all to the good-his American employers wouldn’t have been pleased if he’d messed up their relationship with Draganovic.
After digging around inside one cheek with a toothpick, Artucci brought a straggly string of chicken skin out into the light, and examined it carefully before popping it back in his mouth. ‘So what other service I do you?’
‘Nothing new. Anything to do with Kozniku and his clients, like before?’
‘Why you want this?’ the Italian asked him earnestly, in the manner of someone keen to solve a riddle.
‘I already told you that. For the story I’m writing.’
‘Yes, yes. So you say American people have big interest in Nazi and Ustashe who escape to South America. Why they care?’
‘Let’s just say they didn’t fight the war so that people like that could get off scot-free.’
‘No? I think they fight because government say they must.’
Russell shrugged. The little bastard had a point.
After seeing Rosa to school the next morning, Effi reluctantly made for her own apartment. Telling Zarah about her visitors would be more trouble than it was worth, and she needed a private conversation, so home it had to be. Walking the last few yards down Carmer Strasse, one hand gripping the gun in her bag, she felt like a semi-hysterical heroine from a Goebbels melodrama, badly in need of stormtrooper rescue.
But there was no jeep parked outside, and no enemies lurking in the stairwell. The flat was as she’d left it, complete with bullet-scarred carpet.
The telephone worked, which was something of a mercy. Lines within the western sectors had become less erratic of late, but the number of mysterious clicks and breaks during calls to the Soviet sector had seemed to increase. Not this morning, though. Effi had no trouble reaching the DEFA office, nor the number which someone there gave her. It took four calls in all, but she finally had Tulpanov’s number.
The great man’s secretary was reluctant to connect her, particularly where ‘a private matter’ was concerned, but eventually she caved in, moved perhaps by feelings of female solidarity.
‘Have you changed your mind?’ the Russian asked without preamble.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I need to talk to you about something else.’
He didn’t hang up, which was a start. She went over what had happened the previous afternoon, and asked if there was anything he could do. He wasn’t a man to be threatened, so she made no mention of the press-he would think of that himself.
‘I’ll look into it,’ he said, after a few moments’ silence. The line went dead.
Effi hung up the earpiece, and wondered what else she could do. Nothing, she decided-if Tulpanov couldn’t fix things, then she didn’t know who could. Except maybe Russell. If all else failed, she and Rosa would somehow get to Trieste. In John’s last letter, he had asked her to consider a visit when the school term ended.
She took up position by the window overlooking the street, and sat there for what seemed like hours, until she felt she could draw it from memory. ‘This is silly,’ she eventually murmured to herself. She had to do something. Tearing herself away from the window, she tipped an upright chair under the apartment door handle, and settled down on the sofa with the first few storylines for the ‘The Islanders’ series. They were good, she thought. Not great, but there was definitely scope for something worthwhile.