The Children's War (151 page)

“You only need one person of standing from a nonallied country to say he saw Peter at one of those functions. Just one. Then his existence and story are undeniable.”

“Hmm. It would be a nice extra touch.” Ryszard wondered if it would be worth the extra work. Tracking the receptions—reasonably easy; getting the surveillance photos—probably not a problem, he could invent a plausible reason. Identifying the people in the negatives would be tedious but not particularly taxing. But finding someone who remembered Peter, a nameless, faceless servant in a foreign country?

“If you get a reception during the period when this photo was taken”—Kasia held the one where Peter was an obvious wreck—“then he might have been more memorable.”

“Yeah. But Karl might not have loaned him out at that time.”

“Leased,” Kasia corrected.

“So?”

“Money, dear. Do you think he’d be ashamed of his handiwork?”

“No. He’s quite proud of it.”

“And with money involved?”

“You’re right. I doubt he bothered to keep Peter under wraps just because he looked battered.”

“Also, Peter is rather distinctive, at least for that class, and with the criminal stripes on his arm, he may have aroused curiosity.”

“Yeah, that criminal link is a problem.” Ryszard was distracted by that thought.

“But it’s just arbitrary! He wasn’t any more criminal than . . .” Kasia was going to say “you or me” and realized just how stupid that would be.

“The Americans have a real problem with criminality. They take the label seriously whether it’s deserved or not. In news articles they use the word
prisoner
as if they were not humans, as if they’re a different species.”

“Or subhuman?”

Ryszard laughed. “They do that with prostitutes as well. Rarely do they refer to them as women. ‘A prostitute was murdered,’ they’ll report, as if her
job defined her existence. Part of their piety and drug-war siege mentality, I’d say.”

“How was his criminality handled on his original visit?”

“He tiptoed around it. Didn’t actually mention he was classified as ‘criminal.’ Just kept mentioning the facts of his case, rather than the labeling. But if Karl mentions that label—well, the American public is likely to think Peter deserved whatever he got.”

“They’re not that naive, are they?”

“Some are. They seem to think that once you’re found guilty in any legal system, then whatever happens to you is your own fault.”

“Obviously the result of never having lived with a mad government.”

“Obviously,” Ryszard agreed. And what assumptions did
they
make having
always
lived with insanity as the norm?

“Well, if Karl wants to mention it, maybe you should point out how bad it would look that he harbored a criminal in his house. Would that work?”

“It just might.” Ryszard grinned. “Anyway, Karl is such an arse, he won’t even think to mention it if I don’t tell him to.”

“Good, now back to my eyewitness idea.”

“I think it’s great. I’ll see what I can dig up.” Ryszard got up and went over to his wife and kissed her.
“Moja kochana Kasiu,
do you know how empty my life would be without you?”

“I can only guess.”

19

I
T WAS THE FOURTH NIGHT IN A ROW
that it had happened. Awake and disturbed, he lay there. No nightmares, nothing horrible; yet it was so disconcerting and uncomfortable. He lay perfectly still on his side, turned away from Barbara. She was asleep but pressed up against him so that he could feel every curve of her body against his back. He was hard, erect, on fire with desire. He had been dreaming about sex, but couldn’t even remember with whom. Just sex with some woman, any woman it would seem. The warmth of Barbara’s body, the softness of her hand as it lay casually draped over him, all of it was driving him wild with need.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he reached downward. Maybe he could at least relieve some of the physical tension. If he didn’t, the resultant lowerabdominal pain would add insult to the injury of his frustration. Damn Zosia! Did she want him to sleep with Barbara? How long did Zosia think he could tolerate having a beautiful young woman who was madly in love with him in the same bed with him night after night? What in God’s name had Zosia been thinking when she had imposed this exile on him? Or did she just not care?

His hand moved slowly, up and down. His breath came in more labored gasps as he felt the unbearable tension building. He began to stroke a bit faster, struggling to minimize his movements without unduly distracting himself from the pleasure.

“Are you awake? What are you doing?” Barbara mumbled.

That slowed him down a bit. What he would give for just an iota of privacy in his life! “Nothing,” he answered through gritted teeth, hoping she’d get the hint to leave him alone to get on with it before he lost the threads of his fantasy.

Her hand slipped forward across his stomach, under the waistband, and down to join his hand. She stroked the veins on the back of his hand, twined her fingers in his.

“Barbara . . .”

“Let me do it.”

“I don’t—”

“As a friend. Just massaging you, massaging away your tension. Don’t do anything, just relax.” Delicately she began to caress him. He started to pull her hand away, but then he stopped. What harm would it do? It felt so good to be so gently touched.

“Turn a bit.”

He did, rolling onto his back so she could reach him more easily. She rested her head on his chest and positioned herself so she could use both hands. Her fingertips danced over his skin, located scars from electrical burns, from cutting cords, from any number of brutal tortures; she memorized their locations and thereafter deftly avoided touching the fragile skin with its painful memories. He began to relax as he recognized her caution, and he took her at her word and closed his eyes, not even thinking of reciprocating or of kissing her or of doing anything except accepting her attentions. He wasn’t doing anything, he assured himself, wasn’t being unfaithful, and it felt so nice. It felt really, really nice. So relaxing, so . . . Again the tension built, more intense this time on account of the delay and on account of her alien touch. He wanted her, wanted to pull her on top of him, kiss her passionately, thrust himself deep inside of her, ah . . .

When his brain started functioning again, he wondered momentarily who “she” had been. Was it Zosia he had wanted or Barbara? Or maybe nobody in particular? He lay on the bed, covered in sweat, trying to keep the sticky puddle on his stomach and chest from dripping down his sides. He felt too happy and relieved to even think of being embarrassed but did laugh to himself at the thought of what he must look like.

Barbara slipped out of the bed and returned with a washcloth and washed him, making a special effort to avoid hurting him. His scars weren’t all that sensitive, but it was sweet that she was so careful, and he grinned at her idiotically. When she was done, she left to wring out the cloth, then she returned to the bed, kissed him on the forehead, and curled up next to him, throwing her arm across his chest.

“Where in the world did you learn to do that?”

“Oh, girl talk. Intuition,” she answered obscurely.

He pulled the covers up over the two of them, relaxed as she held him, did not even mind as her hand slipped downward and rested, holding him gently, almost possessively. He wondered if she had expected him to reciprocate, but her soft breathing indicated that she was only interested at the moment in sleeping, and he fell into a dreamless and peaceful sleep in her arms.

20

A
LEX SCANNED THE OUTLINE
of what Ryszard planned for his next release. It was all going wonderfully. That pompous Vogel arse droning away at the American public, telling them they had been duped, implying they were stupid and naive, explaining that the entire Halifax story was a hoax generated by inferior exiletypes. Heh! Just as things had begun to settle down, the Vogel presentation had hit the air. Alex could hear his son’s dripping cynicism behind each and every one of Karl’s words. It was marvelous and it all sounded so incredibly patriotic. Karl would think he was doing wonderfully. Even his bosses would praise him. Until . . .

Alex listened carefully to the recording he had made of Karl’s presentation on American television. It had been difficult to find a full airing of it, and even then they had so carefully jacked up the translator’s voice that Karl was almost inaudible behind him. Alex wanted to hear the German so he could work out what Karl was really saying. The translation was appalling: ungrammatical, uncolloquial, stiff, and even occasionally wrong. It was a nice touch. Alex wondered who had arranged it.

“What’s this request to get in touch with this diplomat?” Anna interrupted him.

“Shh!”

“Oh, shush yourself. Put that thing on hold and answer me!” Anna snapped.

“It’s ‘pause,’ ” Alex corrected as he pushed the appropriate button. He had noticed that Anna was becoming more and more—what was the word for it?— aggressive? Pushy? Emancipated? It was annoying.

“Pause-shmause. What’s this about?”

“Ryszard has tracked down a real person who met Peter at a diplomatic function in Berlin. He’s from some African country or kingdom or whatever. Anyway, he’s currently here in the NAU, and there’s actually a photograph of him conversing with Peter.”

“Conversing?”

“Well, he seems to have stopped at his drinks tray for longer than it takes to
say ‘another one of these’—through three consecutive photos, in fact. So we’re hoping he remembers Peter and can verify his story or at least his existence.”

“What was Peter doing attending a diplomatic function?”

“Weren’t you listening! He was serving!” Alex laughed.

“Serving? Who’d remember a servant?”

“Well, here’s a copy of one of the photos. What do you think?”

Anna studied the photograph. “Oh, God, he looks like hell. Maybe the other fellow will remember him. I guess the picture will help jog his memory.”

“No doubt. Unfortunately, he’s more likely to find forgetting convenient. They get money from the Reich.”

“Are they allies?”

“No, but he’s unlikely to want to upset them. We need a way to convince him it’s in his best interest.”

“Does he get money from us?” Anna suggested.

“From the NAU—yes. From us, no.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Yes, but the point is, the NAU authorities have no interest in putting pressure on him.”

“Wouldn’t they want the truth to come out?”

Alex snorted his derision. “Yeah, sure. Anyway, I have a much better lead. Remember that woman on the late-night show? She’s from the same country and is famous.”

“I never heard of her.”

“Others have. Anyway, I’m sure she gets invited to their embassy parties. She almost certainly knows this guy, so I’m going to ask her to talk with him. She’s coming over later this week.” Alex turned his attention back to viewing the tape.

“Oh.” Anna raised her eyebrows. She stood silently for a moment, then said coldly, “I guess I should prepare some hors d’oeuvres or something. Shrunken heads perhaps.”

Alex glanced up from the videotape machine, confused by Anna’s unusual archness, but she had already left the room.

“So, you want to speak with me,” Arieka stated between draws off her cigarette. She leaned back in the chair and surveyed her hosts coolly. They had all sat down at the dining table rather than on the sofa as if they were expecting to conduct business. Arieka noticed how the man held on to a file as if anxious to show it to her. “And why do I want to talk to you?”

Anna sniffed as Alex explained, “As I said to you on the phone, it’s about Peter Halifax. I believe you were friends?”

“I met him. I’m here. What about him?” Arieka’s eyes scanned the tiny flat. A few photographs on the wall near the sofa, some small carved wooden boxes scattered about, a black shawl with a pattern of bright roses woven into the cloth, currently used as a small tablecloth; otherwise everything looked as though it
had been acquired in Manhattan. Naturally, they would have come nearly empty-handed.

“You saw the videotape?” Alex asked. Call me Alex, he had said when she had greeted him at the door with a questioning stutter.

“Yes, a bit of it. And some stills in a magazine.” Arieka felt suddenly sad. “I knew he’d go back. I told him not to.”

“After the show.”

“Yes, we went to my apartment.” Arieka noticed how the woman stiffened. She had hardly said a word since her heavily accented greeting, just offered Arieka a drink and some cheese and crackers.

Anna got up from the table. “I have an appointment.” Grabbing her purse, she left the apartment.

“She thinks I slept with him?” Arieka asked after the door had snapped shut.

“Perhaps.”

“And she disapproves.”

“Quite probably.”

“She does not approve of a white man with a black woman?”

“More likely”—Alex decided to drop all pretense of coyness—“she does not approve of her son-in-law with any woman other than her daughter.”

“Her son-in-law?” Arieka repeated. Then as she began to piece together the facts, a look of realization came over her face.“So that was your grandchild on the tape?”

“Yes. It gets lost in the translation, but it’s my name the interrogator invokes.”

“Sheval . . . ?”

“Yeah, Przewalewski. My daughter’s child and Peter’s adopted daughter.”

“Adopted! Oh, that explains the age. I am so sorry!” Arieka moaned. It was to Alex’s ears one of the few reactions he had heard about Joanna’s death that sounded genuinely sympathetic.

“So am I,” he said simply.

“So he wasn’t lying . . .” Arieka sounded distant.

“When?”

“How did you know he went to my apartment afterwards?”

“We called the hotel after the show. They told us he said he’d be out.”

“Oh, yeah, he wanted to call you—his handler, he said—directly but then he guessed you’d all be asleep, so he left a message at the front desk. Then we went over to my place and had drinks.”

“And?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not to me,” Alex replied truthfully.

“We talked a lot. Played my guitar. He had me teach him some songs from my childhood. God, I could hardly remember the words, and my voice is not the best, but he wrote down what I sang and then sang it back to me. I guess he liked the alien words and rhythms. And we drank, smoked cigarettes—I gather he was not a nonsmoker, despite appearances to the contrary.”

“He is now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Joanna—that’s the girl on the videotape—she asked him to quit.”

“Oh. And he did?” Arieka remembered how much he had enjoyed smoking, how he had savored each cigarette.

“I think he’d have done anything for that little girl,” Alex answered ruefully. “He really wanted to be a father to her.” He frowned at a memory, then said, “So that was it? Nothing else?”

Arieka smiled. “I wouldn’t tell
you
if we did. But, you can tell his wife he didn’t. He said he would like to, but he couldn’t. I thought he was just putting me off; that maybe he was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” Alex asked despite himself.

“You know, from the scars.”

“Oh, and how did you know about those?”

“He told me,” Arieka answered with a bit of surprise. “He said his clothes hid a lot of unpleasant history. Anyway, I guess that wasn’t the reason after all. Well, I digress.”

Alex nodded his agreement. He pulled out the photocopy of the photograph, pointed to the relevant section of the photo, and then produced a magnified copy of that section. Only two people were in the magnification—Peter holding a tray and an African diplomat in a long robe and wearing a hat with multicolored bands. “Do you know him?” Alex pointed at the diplomat.

Arieka held the photocopy and stared at it a long time. She knew the diplomat quite well, in fact, but that was not what she was looking at. It was Peter, he was unmistakable; yet he looked so different! She looked at the black eyes, the bruised and beaten face, and heard his voice in her mind as he joked about his years as a slave. They had all laughed, had not wanted to hear anything but humor, had turned away from the possibility that there had been genuine pain. She heard the gunfire in her village, remembered her father dragging her by the hand as they ran for cover, remembered how in the city she had disowned it all and in America it was the stuff of anecdotes and colorful stories. “Yeah, I know him,” she said finally. “What can I do for you?”

Alex explained what they needed, and Arieka nodded her head. “He’s hot for me, so I’ll have no problem getting him to do my bidding, foreign aid or no foreign aid.”

Alex thanked her, and when they parted, he kissed her warmly on each cheek, figuring that since she was not an American, he did not have to stick with the cold American custom of shaking hands.

Arieka was on the street before she recalled that Alex had used the present tense:
he is now
. So he was alive! Her heart leapt with happiness for her friend. Somehow, miraculously, he was alive.