Part 6 (1/2)

After the war, he again pa.s.sed from view as he returned to the secret life of the conspirator. Few facts were forthcoming on this period, though Comrade Captain Bolodin sought them with special fervor. At the point of death, an old Rumanian confessed that he had heard that Comrade Levitsky had arranged a.s.signment to the Otdyel Mezhunarodnoi Svyazi, the International Liaison Section of Comintern, where he could privately pursue his goal of world revolution and safely ignore Koba as he ransacked the revolution. Comintern, it was also stated, was really but an arm of the GRU, Red Army Intelligence, whose policies it pursued with an almost n.o.ble integrity. It was said that Levitsky carried a high, secret rank in the GRU. It was said that when the GRU lost favor to the NKVD, Levitsky's magic protection began to wither away, his freedom to say unkind things about Koba, his ability to shock at social gatherings with his imitation of Koba at the chessboard, all these disappeared. He was being watched. But they were, on the whole, mysterious years: no witnesses knew enough to tell Lenny more than he already knew.

The arrests began in 1934. Koba arrested him then, and again in 1935; he spent time in Siberia, six frozen months as a zek zek in one of the prison camps, before ”rehabilitation,” and returned from the East with his particularly forbidding dignity, which most interpreted as pessimism and which, most agreed, doomed him; his last days were spent in the Lux Hotel, waiting for something ... or waiting for Koba's final justice. Whether he was affiliated still with GRU was unknown. in one of the prison camps, before ”rehabilitation,” and returned from the East with his particularly forbidding dignity, which most interpreted as pessimism and which, most agreed, doomed him; his last days were spent in the Lux Hotel, waiting for something ... or waiting for Koba's final justice. Whether he was affiliated still with GRU was unknown.

These shreds of fact and bits of legend Lenny acc.u.mulated over a few weeks; for them all, the payment was the same: the bullet in the skull. And from them, he determined where he might be able to find what he needed most in his quest.

It was a steelpoint etching from a quick sketch done in 1901 in the Great Hall of the Casino at Karlsbad of the champion of the chess tournament. It has been printed within the pages of Deutsche Schach-zeitung Deutsche Schach-zeitung, the German chess magazine. It was a picture of a fierce young Jew, and the caption under had read, Der Teuful Selbst, E. I. Levitsky Der Teuful Selbst, E. I. Levitsky.

It took Lenny a week to find it in an antiquarian bookstore in the Gothic Quarter.

6.

THE AKIM AKIM.

LATE IN THE MORNING, A CALM FELL ON THE TIRED old scow. No breeze furled the flat sea; the sky was cloudless, but white and dull with oppressive radiance. It was a warm, almost tropical day. old scow. No breeze furled the flat sea; the sky was cloudless, but white and dull with oppressive radiance. It was a warm, almost tropical day.

Sylvia noticed it first.

”We seem to be dead in the water,” she observed, looking up from her copy of Signature Signature. ”I hope nothing is wrong.” She sat on a canvas chair on the Akim's Akim's small pa.s.senger deck beneath its battered bridge and single stack with her two fellow pa.s.sengers. small pa.s.senger deck beneath its battered bridge and single stack with her two fellow pa.s.sengers.

”Perhaps they wait for a clearance or something,” said Count Witte, the Polish correspondent.

”Can we be that close to Barcelona?”

”I don't know, dear girl,” he said.

”What do you make of it, Mr. Florry?” she asked.

It was another in the constant barrage of questions she had for him. She was a young Englishwoman of his own age and the middle cla.s.s, who had, if he understood correctly, come into some money, picked up a taint of fas.h.i.+onable leftist politics, and was now headed to Barcelona for adventuring. Though her questions were generally stupid, it pleased him to be asked them. She had so many!

Florry, also sitting on a deck chair, put down Tristram Shandy Tristram Shandy and said, ”With this lot of amateurs one can never tell. I suppose I ought to go check.” and said, ”With this lot of amateurs one can never tell. I suppose I ought to go check.”

”If you can make yourself understood,” said the count, an aristocratic old man in a yellow panama hat and monocle. ”These monkeys are hardly human.”

The count had a point: the crew of the old steamer consisted largely of semicivilized Arabs, wily, barefoot primitives in burnooses and filthy whites who scuttled about her rusty chambers and funnels like athletes and spoke in gibberish. The officers were only slightly better: two smarmy Turks who always needed a shave and spoke in impenetrable plat.i.tudes in answer to any query. Tell them their hair was on fire or some fellow had stuck a knife between their shoulder blades and they'd have answered the same: All is well, all is well, and praise to Allah.

”I suppose I shall have to ask the b.l.o.o.d.y steward,” Florry said. ”At least he's European.”

”Good heavens,” said the count, ”if you consider that that chap European, Mr. Florry, you have extremely low standards.” He made a face as if he'd just swallowed a lemon, and followed it with a quick wink. chap European, Mr. Florry, you have extremely low standards.” He made a face as if he'd just swallowed a lemon, and followed it with a quick wink.

”Keep the pirates off Miss Lilliford, will you, count?” Florry called, leaving them.

He set out in search of the steward, but of course the old fellow was not always that easy to find. He was a seedy but kindly chap officially charged with attending to their needs on this short voyage from Ma.r.s.eilles to Barcelona and, more important, charged with helping the cook. He was not the sort of man who took duty seriously, however; he spent his time affixed to a secret flask of peppermint schnapps, for he wore the odor of the liquor about him like a scarf.

Florry climbed down through the hatchway and made his way into the oily interior of the craft. Twice, he stopped to let jabbering Arabs by. They salaamed obsequiously, but he could see the mockery in their bright eyes. He pressed on, and the temperature rose and the atmosphere seemed to thicken with moisture; it was actually steamy.

He finally found the old man in the galley, where he sat hunched in his filthy uniform, slicing onions into a large pot and weeping copiously. As Florry approached he realized Gruenwald had really been on a toot this morning, for he smelled like a peppermint factory. He also gleamed with sweat, for the temperature in this room was even more grotesque than in the pa.s.sageway. Florry mopped his face with a handkerchief, which came away transparent.

”I say, Mr. Gruenwald. The s.h.i.+p is no longer moving. Do you know why?”

”Hah?” replied old Gruenwald, scrunching up his face like a clown's. ”No can I quite hear.”

”We've stopped,” Florry shouted over the clamor of the engines. ”In the water. No propeller. No move. Understand?”

”Stopped? Wir halten, ja?” Wir halten, ja?”

”Yes. It's upsetting. Is anything wrong?”

”Ach. Nothing is. Is nothing. Nein Nein, is nothing.”

Old Herr Gruenwald leaped out of the galley-the Arab cook cursed him to Allah as he rose, but he paid no attention-and pulled Florry out through a hatchway onto a rusty lower deck-ah, fresh blast of salt air!-where he settled into the lee of a rotting lifeboat and bade Florry collapse beside him.

”Hah. You some schnapps want, ja, Englischman?”

”No, I think not. Awfully nice of you though,” Florry said. Take a swig of that? that? Revolting! Revolting!

”Ach. You should relax, no? Relax. Old Gruenwald, he take care.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his flask, swiftly unscrewed the lid, and took a swallow. His bony old Adam's apple flexed like a fist as it worked. He handed the flask to Florry. ”Go on. Is gut.” gut.”

Florry looked at the thing with great reluctance but in the end didn't want to seem an utter prig, and so took a swift gulp. It was awful. He coughed gaspingly and handed it back.

”Good, nein?” nein?”

”Delicious,” Florry said.

”We stop because the Fascists sometime bomb docks in daylight. We stop here until five, ja. Then we go in in dark. So? Is okay?”

”Yes, I see.” Florry looked out across the flat, still water.

”Not so long to wait, eh, Herr Florry?”

”Not if safety's the issue. I'd hate to think of what a bomb would do to this old tub.”

”Boom! No more tub, ja?” The old man laughed merrily, took another swig from his flask. ”The Queen Mary, nein Queen Mary, nein, eh, Herr Florry?” he said conspiratorially, gesturing down to the paint-flecked, rust-pitted deck.

”Nor, I trust, the Lusitania.” Lusitania.”

The old man laughed.

”I had a brother killed in the Unterseeboots. Ja Unterseeboots. Ja. 1917.”

”I'm sorry to hear that.”

”Ach. No matter. He vas b.a.s.t.a.r.d, anyhow. Hah!”

Florry nodded sweetly, seeming to pay attention, and then said, ”Come on, now, old fellow. The true reason. Don't let's play games.”

Gruenwald professed indignation and shock at the accusation.