The Miernik Dossier - Charles McCarry [28]
After dinner, Kalash evicted an elderly Austrian from the best chair in the lobby by a simple device. He stood three feet away, absolutely erect in his desert clothes and his turban, and fixed the man, who was bald and rather fat, with a steady stare. Kalash possesses what I think could be called obsidian eyes—almost black and as opaque as volcanic stone. When his victim scurried away, the prince sat down and went immediately to sleep.
Collins went upstairs (I suppose to write his report; I am writing this at two in the morning while my roommate Kalash slumbers on, his thin legs protruding over the end of the bed). Miernik and I played a game of chess. Normally he beats me with little trouble. I defeated him in thee straight games, and when I had taken his queen for the fourth time, I suggested that we call it a night. Miernik nodded and crossed the room to the sleeping Kalash. He spoke his name, and Kalash opened his eyes, crossing over from deep sleep to complete wakefulness in the space of a second. “Why don’t you go to bed, Kalash?” Miernik asked. Kalash nodded and went upstairs.
Miernik looked around the room carefully. We were alone except for the hotel clerk, who was typing behind his counter at the other end of the lobby, and a couple of old women playing cards in a distant corner. Miernik sat down again and in his methodical way began to put the chess pieces back into their box. Then he folded his hands on the table between us and gazed at me in a way I have come to realize means nothing but trouble. The Black Forest clock over the reception desk had just cuckooed 11:30. Miernik cleared his throat. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
“There is something I want to discuss with you, Paul.”
11:31. “As you know,” he said, “I have a sister still in Poland. She is a student of art history, not a very profitable subject in a people’s democracy where everyone’s taste conforms to Comrade Khrushchev’s, but that is what she is studying. She’s six years younger than I am, so she is now twenty-three. I’ll show you her picture.”
He took a photograph from his wallet. It showed an astonishingly pretty blond girl, smiling into the lens with perfect white teeth. He grinned at my reaction. “That is Zofia Miernik,” he said. “She looks like our mother. I favor our father, which shows that God is merciful.”
“She certainly is very good-looking.”
“Yes. And very sweet and kind. I want you to prepare yourself, Paul, to grant me a great favor. I want you to help Zofia as you have helped me.”
11:32. I stared at him and he continued to give me his grimace of friendship, which manages to combine a tremulous fear of rejection with an almost canine look of trust.
“I have made certain arrangements. When we get to Vienna, I want you to continue onward by train or bus for a few miles to the east—across the Czech frontier, in fact.”
“Across the Czech frontier,” I said in a flat tone of voice. “I see.”
“You will see, Paul. Hear me out. In Bratislava, only a few minutes inside the border, you will find Zofia having a cup of tea at a certain coffeehouse. You will sit down where she can see you and order a beer, speaking German. The Czechs have the best beer in the world. On the table you will place a copy of this book.”
From the pocket of his jacket he produced a paperback copy of Schiller’s poetry. “If all is well, Zofia will take a book out of her purse and begin to read it. If you believe that all is well, that you have not been followed, you will read your book. When you have finished your beer, leave the coffeehouse, turn right, and walk to the fourth corner. Turn left into a small street—I’ll give you the name—and there you will see a man in a black Citroën. Get in and show him this book of Schiller. He will drive for a few minutes, and then Zofia will join you.”
I was overcome by a desire to laugh, and also by irritation. “Everything is eminently clear so far, Tadeusz,” I said. “What do I do after we’re all together in the black Citroën?”
“The man will drive you