Book of the Dead: A Zombie Anthology (38 page)

“You won’t let me give you a child,” he said bitterly. “You had one by him.”

“You bastard!” She struck out, hitting him in the face. “Thanks for the memory.” She stood up in a rage and stormed across to the far side of the room, where she stood for a moment, then slumped down in a corner.

Her son, whom Hašek had not seen since just after the birth, when she left, taking the baby boy with her, had died at the age of eight in a heavy bomb attack on Hanover.

Varnov’s steel club thudded into the lieutenant’s head, and the man fel with a resounding crash, taking several wooden chairs with him.

They were in Belgrade now, where they’d found themselves driving through and past endless groups of aimlessly wandering children, until they found what they wanted: a vulnerable unit of fit men. A group of American soldiers, wearing uniforms under heavy, dark coats, were completing a deal with a smal party of Czechoslovakian rebels. The two groups froze on either side of the room with the pile of weapons in the middle, when Jensen broke the door down and Varnov and Hašek stepped through behind her. The American lieutenant pul ed an automatic pistol from inside his coat and shot several times, hitting Varnov and Hašek, before Varnov clubbed him to the floor. Using his machine gun, Hašek dispatched the Czech who advanced on him, experiencing a flicker of recognition at the insignia on the rebel soldier’s battledress. So, the man was a Czech, as Hašek himself had been, but it meant nothing; there was work to be done.

It was important to fire as little as possible, so as not to damage the vital organs, which was what they were after.

Al Hašek, Varnov, and Jensen had to fear was an incendiary or explosive attack, something that would ravage their bodies to such an extent that they would be unusable. Also, whereas a few bul et wounds were neither here nor there, to be subjected to constant automatic gunfire could theoretical y destroy them. So when the Czechs ran to the weapons and seized the flamethrowers on top of the pile, Jensen and Hašek hurried to disarm them. But they were not quick enough. A blond, spiky-haired Czech, no older than seventeen, operated his weapon, and Jensen, whom the youth was facing, awaited her annihilation by fire. But nothing happened. The other Czechs experienced the same problem. The Americans had sold them dud weapons. The youth grabbed a repeating rifle and aimed at the Americans. Again nothing happened.

The Americans, meanwhile, seeing their popularity dwindling, were crowding into the corner, trying to open a door that, as a precaution, the Czech leader had locked earlier.

Hašek and the Czech youth, armed now with a working machine gun, bore down on the frightened Americans, one of whom opened fire, unwisely choosing Hašek as his target. The bul ets passed uselessly through the dead man, and the Czech sprayed the men in the corner with gunfire. He was stopped by Varnov, who brought his club to bear on the backs of his knees, then, as he fel , on his kneecaps. The boy screamed, dropped his gun, and fainted.

While Hašek checked the Americans for any sign of life, Varnov held the Czechs, and Jensen systematical y slit their throats, thus preserving al their organs.

“Hašek,” Varnov said. Hašek looked up. “The boxes in the jeep.”

Hašek understood and left the room. Returning with the boxed preservation cylinders he found Varnov and Jensen already at work on the corpses. Two sets of surgical hardware lay open on the floor. Jensen replaced one instrument and took a smal hacksaw. Hašek watched as she cut through the Czech youth’s forehead and worked at his skul , being careful not to saw too quickly and damage the brain. Varnov was extricating a heart with maximum speed and mess: he had to keep wiping his scrawny hands on his coat to prevent the scalpel slipping in his grasp.

Hašek told them he was neither equipped nor experienced and would therefore sit out the operations. Neither replied, so he left the room. He went downstairs and sat in the jeep. There was no one around and no trace yet of any natural light in the sky. Belgrade’s solid gray buildings had survived the war very wel so far. Practical y al were stil standing. Varnov had parked the jeep between two imposing but essential y characterless examples, in juxtaposition to which Hašek seemed almost to come alive.

His hands molded around his remembered saxophone and his fingers warmed up on a few scales before slipping into Sonny Rol ins’s “St. Thomas.” He played this through, then slowed down the tempo and segued into “You Don’t Know What Love Is.” He’d played through six more tunes, with some lengthy improvisation, by the time Varnov and Jensen appeared, heavily laden with their boxes, at the entrance to the building. They came down the steps and walked over to the jeep.

They drove northwest a little way to Zemun, where Varnov had planned to rendezvous with Larry, an American dealer. Larry, whose surname, if one existed, was known to nobody, did not discriminate on grounds of nationality: he’d accept anyone’s organs, even an American’s, provided he had buyers lined up. Especial y an American’s, in actual fact, since he often liked to pitch his sales talk with the proud boast that this was not just any old kidney, this was an
American
kidney he was sel ing. Consequently, many of his buyers were American.

The electronical y control ed gate swung open and Varnov stepped through, closely fol owed by Jensen and Hašek. Larry was waiting for them at the door, with his wool en plaid shirt and large, overhanging bel y. They filed in and down a number of corridors.

The room they ended up in seemed to be the nerve center of Larry’s operations. It was also his living room. A television set in the corner was tuned to American footbal . On the floor by the battered armchair facing the set were three cans of American beer and a dirty polystyrene food container. On the other side of the room was ranged a bank of monitors and computer terminals. One screen displayed up-to-the-minute details of relative currency changes throughout the world. Another gave the correct time in al major capital cities. Several preservation boxes stood waiting on a wooden bench.

“Wel , come on, fel ers,” Larry said, picking his teeth. “Let’s see what you got.”

Larry examined the contents of the cylinders and announced he would take three kidneys, two livers, two sets of lungs, one set of testicles, and a brain.

“I hope it’s an American brain,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Jensen lied, holding up the cylinder containing the blond Czech youth’s brain. Al the Americans had received bul et wounds in the head.

“And the testicles, too?” asked Larry.

“Yes, American also,” said Varnov, truthful y.

Larry explained he couldn’t take the risk on the remaining viscera, since he could not predict how soon he would find more buyers. He paid them, in dol ars, and returned to his chair to watch footbal and crack open a beer before they had even left the room.

Back in the jeep, Varnov distributed the money. Hašek noticed his share was slightly less and assumed this was accounted for by his nonparticipation in the eviscerations. He accepted the money—a large sum and more than sufficient for his purposes—without mentioning the discrepancy.

They returned to Belgrade, Varnov and Jensen to try to unload the unsold organs on another dealer and then to visit Petrovic, a Yugoslav, to see about subscription to a new satel ite television and communications system; and Hašek, though the other two did not know it, to seek out Midgley, a corrupt British envoy to the Yugoslav government. There was no shortage of corrupt officials, but Midgley was the one to whom Hašek had an introduction.

During the short journey Hašek just had time to wrap his fingers around “I Found a New Baby.”

Varnov drove at breakneck speed. He had expected Larry to take the lot off them, so was now in a hurry to find another approachable dealer before the end of the night. He wanted to be back inside the frontier before daybreak to minimize the risk of further attack.

It was so easy, laughably easy. The jeep screeched to a halt before a large fortified building and Varnov leapt out, saying this particular dealer might take the stuff, but then again, they’d never dealt with him before, so there was no guarantee. Hašek said he would try a dealer he knew of in the next street and report back. Varnov and Jensen, presumably having heard but not acknowledging his comment, disappeared into the building.

He walked east on the Bulevar Revolucije for two hundred meters, then turned up the Milana Rakica. Three blocks up he turned left and spoke into an intercom.

“So what do you need these visas for?” asked Midgley authoritatively, ushering Hašek through into a leatherbound-book-lined study at the rear of the apartment.

“Very civilized,” Hašek said, looking around.

“I try,” Midgley replied, looking pleased, “to maintain standards. Drink…?” He looked at Hašek.

“Oh no, of course not. Excuse me.”

“I’l have a drink. Scotch and water. I developed a taste for it in Berlin.”

“Oh real y?” Midgley nervously poured Scotch from a decanter and iced water from a jug. “And when were you in Berlin?”

“Eight years ago. I knew an American woman there. We drank a lot of Scotch. She moved away…

Now, about the visas?”

“Of course.” Midgley passed Hašek the tumbler of Scotch. He took the drink and waited for the other man to turn away, but he didn’t, so Hašek tipped the contents of the glass down his throat in one go. Apparently slightly unnerved, Midgley turned and crossed to a desk. He opened a drawer, rummaged around inside, and found a pair of half-moon spectacles, which he put on, then continued his search.

Hašek hoped the Scotch and water had taken an undamaged route into his gut. Had it seeped out through a wound anywhere, he would be unable to feel the dampness and so would drip unawares on the Englishman’s floor. It wasn’t that he cared to avoid offending propriety; he just didn’t want to telegraph his weaknesses to this man.

“A return transit visa, is it?” Midgley asked. A swathe of thick, black, greased hair had fal en down over his forehead. He tried to smooth it back into place.

“I only need to see her for two minutes.”

“The trouble is,” Midgley began, “they are in great demand and very short supply. It’s mothers, you see, wanting for some morbid reason to come down and look for their dead children. Here in Belgrade, mainly. I don’t know if you’ve noticed how few children there are in Tirana. They’re mostly retained in Belgrade.”

“I don’t see the sense in that, when Belgrade is far more dangerous than Tirana.”

“No, wel , Mr. Hašek, that’s real y not your province, is it, rational thought and reasoning? So I real y shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.”

Midgley was clearly hiding something, but as he had so rightly pointed out, it didn’t concern Hašek. The visas did.

“Look, Midgley, I want the visas and I want them now. I have the money you require.” He took out a wad of bil s. “I cannot wait any longer.” He threw the money onto the desk. Midgley picked it up, flicked through the notes, and nodded.

“Yes, wel , al ow me just to make things look official.” He took a rubber stamp, inked it, and pressed it on the smal squares of paper on his blotter. In a hurry now to conclude the business, he handed the papers to Hašek. The Czech took them and turned to go. He paused with his hand on the door handle, as if something had occurred to him.

“I don’t suppose,” he began, facing Midgley again, “you possess such a thing as a saxophone?”

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s for me. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

The clerk peered through large, round glasses like goggles, at the paper coming out of the machine.

“Hel a Elizabeth Barton,” he read out loud. “Do you have your ID?”

“I already showed it you,” she said impatiently.

“Your ID,” said the impassive clerk.

She searched in her pockets and final y produced the right card.

“Thank you,” he said. “You may take these.” He handed her the replicated visas and a detailed note from Hašek.

She left the replication unit and marched briskly down Franklin Strasse to Ernst-Reuter-Platz, where she boarded a U-bahn train to Hal esches Tor. She studied the visas. They authorized her to cross over the Wal to East Berlin and thence to travel through East Germany, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary to Yugoslavia. The return journey was not to begin later than twenty-four hours after the outward trip.

Referring to her map, she saw that she would probably pass through Cheb in Czechoslovakia, very close to the borders with East and West Germany, where Hašek, then a member of the Czech Jazz Section, had triggered the start of the war by escaping to the West. Czech guards fired after him, missed, and got two West German guards, whose col eagues retaliated. The rest was history, with Eastwood sanctioning the deployment and use of stockpiled chemical weapons, and Britain, France, Austria, and West Germany lining up behind him.

Barton’s train crossed under the Wal and trundled through the ghost stations on its way to Friedrichstrasse, where she would make the official crossing.

As her train rattled across the bridge over the Danube, in its final approach to the Beograd-Dunav Station, the strange feeling that had hung over her al the way from Germany sank down, becoming increasingly palpable. In Belgrade, she was not going to find quite what she had been expecting.

Apart from this, she had been suffering from asthma since descending from the Moravian Heights, and it got worse the farther south she came. She cursed her stupidity in not having her insufflator with her at al times—she hadn’t thought of it as she rushed, without going home first, from the replication unit to the Wal to start her journey. As wel as the presumed effect of the spores and dust, which Trefzger had mentioned, her asthma was further aggravated by the anxiety she felt.

She got up and went to the bathroom to see if a drink of water would improve her condition. It didn’t. She looked at herself in the broken mirror and searched for the beauty she had been told was there. Yes, it was, but only to someone who saw her face and remembered what it had looked like before. They could kid themselves that the ravages of war and stress left only temporary scars. She could kid herself, in her less pessimistic moments. She swept her long hair back, tugging her fingers through the knots.