I picked up the Interpol notes on Kazakh bank robbery rings and read through them again, maybe for the fifth time. One sentence kept catching my eye. It said that some of the robberies had been aided by informants in the bank, usually women who were hired only a few months before, then disappeared. The rest of the report was mildly interesting. The list of countries where robberies had taken place included everywhere in Western Europe except Portugal and England. The only country where more than one bank had been robbed was Germany. The Germans had experienced three of these apparently related robberies, two at the same bank in Köln and one in Dresden, but that one—the latest—was more than four years ago. The overall spate of similar robberies had started in 1991; the pattern was one bank got hit every fourteen months. Two robbers had been caught but died mysteriously while undergoing questioning in a Berlin jail. Another, after the second robbery in Köln, got through the police roadblocks but was killed a day later when his stolen motorcycle went out of control and ended up in the Rhine. The most recent robbery had been in Sweden, five months ago, in the middle of a snowstorm.
That seemed like a pretty quick transition, from Sweden to Korea in only five months. I called SSD again. The operator said she would pass Han the message and he would call me back. The words were okay, but the tone of voice said not to call and bother her anymore. It took a few minutes, but finally the phone rang. When I answered, there were no clicks, just Han’s voice, good and clear.
“You know anything about a body with a knife in the back?” I figured I’d get straight to the point, skip the pleasantries.
“No.” A short silence, which can mean a lot of things. “What are knife handles made of, Inspector?” he asked, finally.
“I assume this is completely unrelated to my question.”
“Simple query, isn’t it? What kind of wood? I thought that was right up your alley, wood.”
If I wanted to know where he was going with this, the easiest thing seemed to be to answer the question. “A knife handle could be anything. It might not be wood.”
“Thank you for that. Your Ministry is known for offering alternative theories, Inspector. But let’s say it was wood. Can we do that?”
“Like I said, could be anything.”
“What if it were birch? Where would it have been made?”
“Birch? Probably not from around here. It could have been made in Russia, that’s the obvious candidate.”
“Recently?”
“Hard to tell. Besides, how would I know, over the phone? You’d have to look at the wood, maybe chew on it a little.”
“You kidding me?”
“Just slightly.”
“So, there is a way to tell how old it is. I mean, you’re saying it’s not impossible.”
“Few things are impossible, Han.”
“What if it wasn’t really a knife?”
“More like a bayonet, you mean.”
“What then?”
“Then it might depend on the marks on the blade. If the handle is
birch, somewhere up north is a good guess. Like I said, Russia, maybe. Then you would want to look at the marks on the blade, to see if they point in the same direction.”
“Birch trees don’t grow in rich people’s gardens where it’s warm?”
“They do, but rich people don’t cut down the birch trees in their gardens for lumber to make bayonet handles.”
“Could it be Japanese?”
“No. Almost certainly not. No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very.”
“Then why is there Japanese on the blade?”
“Because it’s Finnish.”
“What?”
“The Finns bought Japanese rifles in the 1920s, along with the bayonets. If the handles broke, they were replaced with birch.” I wasn’t making this up; I just happened to read it somewhere and it stuck in my memory. “The Red Army probably made off with a few of them when they were running from angry Finns. Now one of them has ended up in someone’s back. You want a guess, just idle speculation? It could have been put there by a Russian. Or someone who worked for the Russians. Someone born in Odessa, say.” I didn’t think Logonov was capable of murdering anyone, but I wanted Han to know I hadn’t forgotten about the Russian just because I had been warned off seeing him again.
“That’s the other thing your Ministry does, speculate on the basis of nothing. It’s not very smart.”
“Don’t tell me, you think it’s a sign of insecurity. If you’re finished, I have another question for you. Do you still have the bank lady’s file?”
“According to you, it’s not a file, only a cover page.”
“I changed my mind.”
There was a long silence. This was not always a bad sign. Some people think when they aren’t talking.
“Still with me, Han?”
“Inspector, if you need something, just ask, alright? I hate it the way you Ministry people tiptoe around.”
“That’s a wonderful image, the Minister on tiptoe. Nothing at all like you, asking straight out and flatfooted about knife handles. Tell me this. Does the file say when the lady entered the country?”
Another silence.
“You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Well, when did she enter the country?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“Isn’t there a copy of her entry visa?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I guess it must not be a file. Good-bye, Inspector, I’m busy.” The phone clicked twice, and the operator came on the line. The connection wasn’t as good; Han must have been calling from somewhere else.
“Anything more we can help you with, Inspector?” Same tone of voice, edgy, maybe condescending, though with all the SSD buzzes and clicks this time of day you couldn’t be sure.
“Yes, tell your technicians congratulations. They’ve almost fixed those clicks.”
“That’s it?”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about cell phones.”
“No.”
“How about silk stockings?”
The line went dead. I went out to find some cold noodles in a quiet restaurant where people didn’t fall over dead or end up with knives in their back, knives with birch-wood handles.
After lunch I strolled around a few back streets. For April, it was hot, but it was still better outside than sitting in the office staring at the
ceiling and pretending not to be thinking about a case I couldn’t even figure out if I was supposed to solve. If things were so quiet, something must be wrong. If no one was prepared to let me know which way to jump, then it was going to be a very long way down. I dodged a woman on a bicycle who pedaled as if she were daydreaming, and kept walking to nowhere in particular. Just as I turned a corner, I suddenly got that feeling—I was being watched. Someone had marked me, there was no doubt in my mind. Harmless glances, uninterested stares don’t register with me. This was no longer little warning flags flapping in front of my eyes. This was a skin-prickling, hackle-raising klaxon that somewhere, relatively near and directed specifically at me, was a pair of eyes brimful of death and destruction.
I never made a careful study of it, but I’ve looked at a few books about survival behavior. At one point in my career, it seemed a wise thing to do. The theory is that an animal—or a person—marked as prey can sense an intense look that pierces the invisible force surrounding everything living. The heart jumps, chemicals pour into the bloodstream, muscles tense. If it’s a deer, then the deer is ready to run, run for its life, crazy with fear, breathless to escape. I never altogether bought the theory; how could there be anything physical about looking? It sounded like death rays. Yet I knew the physical reaction was real enough. Theory or not, somehow when I was being watched, I sensed it.
With my heart pounding, I stopped to tie my shoe; it usually works better than bounding away like a frightened roe deer. When I stood up again, I walked slowly in the opposite direction. There was no one around who seemed to be paying attention, not even anyone who seemed conspicuously inattentive. I wandered aimlessly for about twenty minutes, long enough to be sure the lion, or the wolf, or whatever it was, had dropped away. Being followed doesn’t bother me, but I never like knowing I’m someone’s prey. At least now I knew where things stood. I was in someone’s sights. Whether that was because I was getting too close or not close enough remained to be seen. It was becoming vital to know which, but I hadn’t figured out yet exactly
how to test the waters without getting swept away. I thought about it as I walked, but every conclusion suggested its opposite. Maybe it was the weather. It’s hard to be decisive when the air is so clear that you can see the buds on an old tree’s highest branches turning to the sun.
It could have been just coincidence, or a subconscious compass at work, but my wandering ended up at the top of the stairs leading to Club Blue. As long as I was there, I figured, I might as well go down and chat. The bartender was bound to know something useful. Whether he would volunteer it was another matter. Besides, it was hot and I was thirsty. The place was quiet when I sat down at the bar. No music playing. I looked around, then got up and poured myself a glass of beer.
“You shouldn’t be stealing drinks, Inspector. It can be reported.” I looked around and there was the bartender, holding something that looked like a crowbar.
“Funny thing for a bartender to use,” I said. “You need that to open those little bottles of olives? I can do it for you with these.” I wiggled my fingers.
He smacked the crowbar hard against his palm. “It comes in handy for lots of things.”
“That’s fine. Where’s the manager, the guy with the sharp trousers?”
The bartender hit his palm again with the crowbar. “He’s not around. I haven’t seen him today at all. So I guess you’ll be leaving.”
“No, I think I’ll have another glass of beer.” I walked behind the bar. That put something between the crowbar and me. “Your manager on vacation, is he? He forgot to put up that license we talked about.”
“Yeah, he forgot. Probably has a lot on his mind.” He laughed. “You know what I mean?”
“How long has he been gone?”
The bartender shrugged. “He comes and goes. I don’t keep track. That’s the job of your people, isn’t it, keeping track of us citizens?”
“You like it in those old apartments? The ones by the bank?”
“So, you been watching me? I’m flattered, Inspector, really I am.”
“Good. Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t walk in front of buses.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Never.”
“What do you want here?”
“Want?”
“You know what I mean. You brought in that stocking the other day. I got nothing to do with that stuff.”
“You should have bought two pair, it would have been cheaper.”
“Ease up, will you?”
“You tell me what I need to know, I’ll think about it. And put down that crowbar before I stuff it down your throat.” It clattered to the floor, which surprised the hell out of me. I thought at least we’d argue about it a little. “Now, walk over here, sit down on one of those bar stools, and put your hands on the bar, both of them. Everything nice and slow.”
He did as I said. When he lifted one of his hands to scratch his cheek, I grabbed his wrist, just like I had the first time, and gave it a twist. He yelped. “Hey!”
“Hey, nothing. I told you to put your hands on the bar. I meant it. Once you answer my questions, you can pick your nose with all ten fingers for all I care. I’m asking you again, where is your manager, and don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“He walked out of here with a couple of guys.”
“Okay, he walked out of here. When?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“What time?”
“Afternoon, I don’t know, maybe four o’clock.”
“You know what I’m going to ask next?”
“Who were the guys.”
“Very good. Maybe you’ve been interrogated before. Maybe it’s in your file. Maybe you don’t want another report in your file because it would mean you’d have to leave Pyongyang and move out to the country. Very dull, out in the country.”
“Say, why don’t you let me answer the question?”
“Alright, who were the guys?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do.” I slapped him across the face, not very hard, but his head snapped back and for a moment he looked as if he might fall off the bar stool. He seemed surprised, but not half as surprised as I was. The pressure from the case must be getting to me even worse than it was getting to Min. I rarely get physical during an interrogation. A lot of inspectors do, but I don’t. It isn’t very effective; too many people just shut up after being hit, and then you either have to raise the ante or back off. I didn’t know why I slapped him; I hoped it wasn’t because he looked so scared. “And keep your hands on the bar.”
“If I tell you who they are, they’ll kill me.”
“Tough luck for you,” I said. “A couple of Kazakh boys, weren’t they?”
“I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no.”
That made me mad, and I thought about it for half a second before I remembered reading somewhere that if you bottled up tension it was bad for you. I slapped him again, harder this time. A lot of tension drained off. But this time he was more ready, so he didn’t lose his balance. “Did they threaten him?”