was to tell her daughter the truth, but in this case it didn’t seem advisable—Rosa, a child with a history of abandonment, was very fond of Zarah.
It was only when the girl was fast asleep that Effi finally opened the letter from John. Written on the previous Tuesday, it was disappointingly short, and said little of what he’d been doing. There were touches of the usual self-deprecating humour—it couldn’t have been written by anyone else—but there was something not quite right about it. About him. He wasn’t in a good place, Effi thought. He needed to come home. They both needed him to.
Russell stood in the shadows of the covered porch, staring at Kozniku’s darkened office. It was a depressingly clear night, stars twinkling in the overhead corridor of sky, an out of sight moon washing the roofs across the street with milky light.
It was almost midnight. In the last quarter-hour two prowling cats had stopped to check him out, offered plaintive meows, before padding away across the cobblestones, but the only signs of human life had been the dousing of bedroom lights.
Earlier that day Russell had visited the office, and told the voluptuous Luciana that he urgently needed to see Signor Kozniku. As he had hoped, she’d told him her boss was still away, and would be for several more days. Russell had looked suitably chagrined, vowed to return, and taken his leave.
Luciana had presumably left at the usual hour, and by this time was probably enjoying a post-coital cigarette with Artucci. Russell had a fleeting mental picture of them, and wished he hadn’t.
What was the matter with him?
It had been a bad week. He had spent most of it pursuing leadsthat went nowhere, asking questions of people who had no answers, no matter how emphatically they claimed they had. He had spent far too many hours sitting in the Piazza del Unità, being shat on by pigeons and watching the wretched little locomotive clank up and down the promenade with its trio of wagons. And he had endured another lengthy briefing from Youklis on his imminent trip to Belgrade. They had someone they wanted him to contact—one of Mihajlović’s former favourites, no less—with an eye to recruitment. When Russell had suggested that a man like that would be under surveillance, the CIA man had actually looked surprised, as if something so utterly obvious hadn’t occurred to him. He had swiftly recovered himself. The potential gain was worth the potential risk, Youklis had decided out loud, as if the man he was risking was somewhere out of earshot. And when Russell had pointed that out, all he’d received were a smirk and a shrug that translated as ‘you’re expendable’.
Well, fuck them, he thought. He would go to Belgrade, and maybe—maybe—take a careful look at the man in question, but all other bets were off. And so here he was, loitering outside Kozniku’s office with felonious intent, knowing full well that such action would piss the Americans off no end.
It was foolish, and he knew it, but like Shchepkin had said, journalists and spies had the same objectives. So why not use the same sleazy methods, particularly on scum like Kozniku?
He took a deep breath, and hurried across the street. Forcing the front door was out of the question, but there was another entrance off the ginnel which burrowed between Kozniku’s building and its neighbour. Here, where the shadows were deepest, he hoped to find a way in.
The door was locked, and seemed more than a match for his shoulder. There were no windows overlooking the passage, so he risked using his flashlight, first on the keyhole and then on the footof the door. The news was good in both cases—the key was in the lock, and the gap beneath the door looked big enough to take it. He took the folded newspaper from his inside pocket, flattened it out, and slid it through the gap. A gentle prod with the two-inch nail he had brought with him pushed the key out on to the paper, which he carefully
It was only when the girl was fast asleep that Effi finally opened the letter from John. Written on the previous Tuesday, it was disappointingly short, and said little of what he’d been doing. There were touches of the usual self-deprecating humour—it couldn’t have been written by anyone else—but there was something not quite right about it. About him. He wasn’t in a good place, Effi thought. He needed to come home. They both needed him to.
Russell stood in the shadows of the covered porch, staring at Kozniku’s darkened office. It was a depressingly clear night, stars twinkling in the overhead corridor of sky, an out of sight moon washing the roofs across the street with milky light.
It was almost midnight. In the last quarter-hour two prowling cats had stopped to check him out, offered plaintive meows, before padding away across the cobblestones, but the only signs of human life had been the dousing of bedroom lights.
Earlier that day Russell had visited the office, and told the voluptuous Luciana that he urgently needed to see Signor Kozniku. As he had hoped, she’d told him her boss was still away, and would be for several more days. Russell had looked suitably chagrined, vowed to return, and taken his leave.
Luciana had presumably left at the usual hour, and by this time was probably enjoying a post-coital cigarette with Artucci. Russell had a fleeting mental picture of them, and wished he hadn’t.
What was the matter with him?
It had been a bad week. He had spent most of it pursuing leadsthat went nowhere, asking questions of people who had no answers, no matter how emphatically they claimed they had. He had spent far too many hours sitting in the Piazza del Unità, being shat on by pigeons and watching the wretched little locomotive clank up and down the promenade with its trio of wagons. And he had endured another lengthy briefing from Youklis on his imminent trip to Belgrade. They had someone they wanted him to contact—one of Mihajlović’s former favourites, no less—with an eye to recruitment. When Russell had suggested that a man like that would be under surveillance, the CIA man had actually looked surprised, as if something so utterly obvious hadn’t occurred to him. He had swiftly recovered himself. The potential gain was worth the potential risk, Youklis had decided out loud, as if the man he was risking was somewhere out of earshot. And when Russell had pointed that out, all he’d received were a smirk and a shrug that translated as ‘you’re expendable’.
Well, fuck them, he thought. He would go to Belgrade, and maybe—maybe—take a careful look at the man in question, but all other bets were off. And so here he was, loitering outside Kozniku’s office with felonious intent, knowing full well that such action would piss the Americans off no end.
It was foolish, and he knew it, but like Shchepkin had said, journalists and spies had the same objectives. So why not use the same sleazy methods, particularly on scum like Kozniku?
He took a deep breath, and hurried across the street. Forcing the front door was out of the question, but there was another entrance off the ginnel which burrowed between Kozniku’s building and its neighbour. Here, where the shadows were deepest, he hoped to find a way in.
The door was locked, and seemed more than a match for his shoulder. There were no windows overlooking the passage, so he risked using his flashlight, first on the keyhole and then on the footof the door. The news was good in both cases—the key was in the lock, and the gap beneath the door looked big enough to take it. He took the folded newspaper from his inside pocket, flattened it out, and slid it through the gap. A gentle prod with the two-inch nail he had brought with him pushed the key out on to the paper, which he carefully
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