The Time Roads (22 page)

“Listen,” he whispered in German. “You will drop your bag at your feet. When I let go, you will take two steps forward, then stand perfectly still. Do not scream. Do not call out. Do not look around. Understand?”

He relaxed his grip slightly. She gave an abbreviated nod.

“Excellent. Now do it.”

The woman dropped her bag and stumbled forward two steps. Ó Deághaidh locked and bolted the door, then, keeping his attention divided between her and the handbag, he made a quick search. For the most part, it contained the usual miscellany—keys, pencils, a notebook filled with addresses, most of them in the university quarter. In a separate compartment, he found a small pistol—loaded. Interesting. He clicked off the safety and aimed it at the woman. “Turn around.”

She had jumped at the click, but she did as he ordered. In the dim light, her eyes were dark smudges in her pale face. The rest of her was like a shadow—black dress and black shawl, long black hair pulled back in a loose coil that had already come undone. Her gaze flicked from the gun to his face. She said nothing, but she clearly recognized him.

“Where is he?” Ó Deághaidh said. “The name on the door says Delchev. Where is Kiro Delchev? He lives here, no?”

No answer except a flicker of tension at her mouth. Then, “Not any longer.”

“Did you kill him?”

She drew a quick, audible breath. That one pricked the truth.

“You did murder him,” he went on. “You and your friends. The same ones who betrayed me—”

A soft knock sounded at the door behind him. Immediately, the woman darted around Ó Deághaidh. Before she could turn the bolt, Ó Deághaidh shoved her against the wall and pressed his arm against her throat. Both of them were breathing fast.

Again a knock, more insistent. “Madame? Madame Professor?”

It was an elderly woman’s voice, scratchy and faint. One of the neighbors. Ó Deághaidh pushed the gun under the woman’s ribs. “You will speak calmly to her,” he whispered. “You will reassure her that all is well.”

“Or you will murder me?”

“Or I will murder her. Do it.”

He stepped back and gestured toward the door.

The woman massaged her throat. She looked as though she wanted to refuse. Ó Deághaidh gestured toward the door again, and mouthed the word
now
. Reluctantly, she undid the bolt and opened the door a few inches. “Madame Petrovi
ć
. Can I help you tonight?”

She spoke in a quick, strained voice—hardly in her natural tone—but the other woman evidently did not notice. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Madame Delchev,” she said. “It was only that I heard such a thump, and it made me afraid for you, especially with you alone now. And you look so pale.”

Madame Delchev gave a wan smile. “It was nothing, Madame Petrovi
ć
. I stumbled over the rug, and it gave me a scare. If you will excuse me, I think I will go lie down now. I have a terrible headache.”

She closed the door firmly and leaned against it, her eyes closed. Ó Deághaidh waited until he heard another door close, then seized Madame Delchev’s wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. She struggled, but he was stronger. “Do not make this difficult,” he said, taking the cord from his coat pocket. “Remember your neighbor.”

Quickly, he tied her wrists and gagged her with the cloth, then bundled her through another door, into what turned out to be the bedroom. He dumped her onto the bed and bound her hand and foot to the bedpost with the remaining cord. Remembering her boot sheath, he made a quick impersonal search of her clothes. He found the boot sheath, but it was empty. There were no other weapons.

Madame Delchev had stopped struggling, but her breath came fast. He lit a lamp and studied his prisoner. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks patched with red. She returned his gaze steadily. Wary, afraid even, but not entirely subdued by fear.

“You understand the necessity,” he said to her.

Her eyes narrowed. He hesitated, turned away, dissatisfied with himself.

A thorough search of the apartment did not take him long. There were just four other small rooms—a front parlor, which overlooked the street below where he had watched. A tiny kitchen with its cabinets filled with clay pots and dishes, tins of coffee beans, and bundles of fresh spices. A corridor led to a small bathroom with a hip bath and water basin.

The last room was a small study overflowing with bookcases. Two desks faced each other in the center of the room, and a Turkish-style rug covered most of the floor. Here and there amongst the shelves, he noted a space occupied by a handmade puppet, or the brass pocketed figurine of two lovers, or some other knickknack clearly chosen for its beauty or its whimsy. There was a faint scent of wood polish and leather and ink.

Nothing here indicated wealth—just the opposite. The desks were old and worn. The rugs finely stitched but needing repair. This might be the office for any academic Ó Deághaidh had visited over the years. He scanned the bookshelves, noting the titles in
Š
tokavian, Frankish, German—even a few in Éireann. Most dealt with history and economics, but there were several about mathematics and natural philosophy, which intrigued him. He rifled through five or six, but found nothing that indicated any connection to Éire.

He turned his attention next to the desks and their contents. The first was mostly empty except for a few crumpled envelopes bearing Kiro Delchev’s name. So madame had cleaned out her husband’s papers. Interesting. He wondered how long ago the man had died, or was killed. Had the traitor known when he planted those tempting clues amongst the reports in Ó Deághaidh’s rooms? Once more he had the sense of contradictory signals, as though there might be two plots at work, and not always in cooperation with each other.

The next desk proved more fruitful. Three dozen letters, all addressed to Madame Doctor Valerija Delchev, filled the top drawer. Many came from government officials, others from universities abroad, and were written in languages and about topics as wide-ranging as the books on the walls. Reading through the letters, Ó Deághaidh realized his and Ó Breislin’s mistake. It was she who was the noted political scholar and adviser, not her husband.

Ó Deághaidh returned to the bedroom. Valerija Delchev lay still, eyes closed, body held in tense readiness. When he sat beside her, her eyes blinked open and she went still. Waiting. Watching.

He set the lamp on the bedside table, so that it illuminated her face. He had been mistaken about the color of her hair. It was not black, but a rich dark dusky brown, the same color as her eyes. Several strands had fallen over her face. Ó Deághaidh brushed them aside. She recoiled, and he drew his hand back, wishing he could recall the gesture.

“I will take away your gag,” he said. “And we shall talk. Quietly. Do you understand?”

She studied him a moment, nodded.

He removed the gag and tossed it aside. She worked her jaw, licked her lips, and grimaced.

“When did your husband die?” Ó Deághaidh said.

A tremor ran through the woman. “Ten months ago.”

“Killed?”

Another pause, as though she had to consider how to answer. Then, “An accident.”

“How deliberate an accident?”

No answer.

“Were you aware of his correspondence with people in Éire?”

A shake of her head. A nod.

“Are you saying you do not know? Or that those connections do not exist?”

She gave him no answer, just regarded him with those dark eyes. He had the impression of looking into a deep quiet pool of water. For a moment, the thought unsettled his resolve, but then he remembered the traitor in Éire, and the cave above Cetinje.

“Why did your friends attack me?” he asked. “Was it for the ransom? Or is it part of some political plot here, in Montenegro?”

No reaction except the pulse at her throat beat faster.

More confident now, he went on. “Let me speculate, then. Your husband was in contact with certain highly placed individuals in Éire’s government. They corresponded by coded letters, some sent by post, some by courier and delivered to the same letter drop where I left mine. When your husband died, or was killed, you notified those individuals and then continued the correspondence yourself. Or rather, you and your friends did. Am I right?”

“Why are you asking me these questions? How do I even know you are from Éire?”

“Because that individual told you I would come here. A warning.”

All the tension drained from her face, and she regarded him with a puzzled expression. “No. There was no warning. No letter at all. I thought—” She broke off. “No, I cannot say anything more.”

He studied her a moment. There were secrets here, obviously, but they were not the ones he expected. He took out his knife and cut her bonds. (She flinched at first, until she saw what he was about.) Then he laid her gun within her reach and waited.

She picked up the gun and regarded him curiously. “You want me to trust you.”

He shrugged. “I think we could help each other.”

“I do not want your help.”

“Even though you badly need it?”

Her mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “So you say.”

“Very well.” Ó Deághaidh tucked his knife in its sheath and stood up.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To find someone else who can and will answer to my questions.”

He made a cautious departure from the apartment. Madame Petrovi
ć
did not open her door, and none of the other tenants marked his descent down the stairs. Outside, he took up his post in the same alleyway across the street. From here, he had a good view of the windows into Valerija Delchev’s front parlor. A warm drizzle had begun to fall. He pulled his cap low over his eyes and settled in for a long wait.

*   *   *

The windows of her apartment remained lit another half hour, judging by the church bells—long enough for the rain to die off and the newly risen half-moon to emerge from behind the clouds. Ó Deághaidh took out his knife and ran the edge lightly over his callused thumb, turning over his conversation with Valerija Delchev in his mind. Delchev dead. His widow involved with murderers. And yet, he would wager his life she was no murderer herself. He remembered that calm assessing gaze.

But the question was not Valerija Delchev, it was her companions. Revolutionaries, most likely. He remembered the man in the cave, the way he stared so avidly at Ó Deághaidh. There had been patients in Aonach Sanitarium like that.

Shadows flitted past the windows several times as Madame Delchev paced around her parlor. Then, her lights blinked off. A few moments later, the apartment building’s front door opened. Ó Deághaidh tucked his knife into his belt, ready to follow.

Valerija Delchev paused on the steps, illuminated by the streetlamps. She wore a coat over her dress and had covered her head with a dark patterned scarf. No handbag, but he had to assume she carried the gun. From this distance, he could not make out her expression, but he could easily read the tension in her stance, the quick movement of her hand as she brushed away a strand of hair from her cheek. She scanned the streets in both directions, her gaze skipping over Ó Deághaidh’s hiding spot. Then she hurried down the steps and toward the left.

Ó Deághaidh counted to ten before he followed. By now true night had fallen. The streets were empty, gleaming wet from the fallen rain. He skirted the puddles and kept clear of the streetlamps. He almost didn’t need to. Valerija Delchev hurried along without a single glance behind her, heading straight toward the river. Soon she led Ó Deághaidh into a run-down district, where she entered a low rambling structure along the waterfront.

He waited a few moments, then eased the door open.

A solitary lamp hung from the ceiling in the entryway, casting its light in a dim circle. Ahead, a narrow hallway lined with doors stretched out in a straight line, to disappear into shadow. There was no sign of his quarry. Ó Deághaidh glided inside and closed the door softly.

It was a typical boardinghouse for those who could afford little. Its halls smelled of boiled cabbage and grease and tallow. Its rooms had thin walls and even thinner doors, and as he passed by he could hear a couple arguing in one room, the scratchy cries of a baby, and, farther on, the distinct sounds of lovemaking. At the far end of the building, a more substantial door opened onto a bare yard with a chicken coop. A fence with a gate enclosed the yard. Not far off, he heard the sound of water slapping against wood, and smelled the rank muddy scent of the river. There were footprints in the yard, but none of them looked fresh. She had not come this way.

Back inside, he followed the hallway as it wound through the building. By the third turn, he was convinced she had somehow escaped him, when a door to his right burst open and Valerija Delchev ran against him. By instinct, he caught hold of her.

She struggled, then stared in wild-eyed recognition. “You did it. You.”

“Did what? What is wrong?”

She wrenched free and ran. Ó Deághaidh hesitated only a moment, then cursing, he pushed the door open. No reaction from anyone inside. He hefted his knife in his hand and entered.

It was difficult to see much—the windows were papered over, dampening the moonlight, and there were no streetlamps visible from this direction. Even in the dimness, however, he could sense something wrong. As his sight adjusted, he made out a wooden chair overturned, glittering specks on the carpet, and the pale white of scattered papers. Moving cautiously, he took another few steps in. His foot encountered a soft, immovable mass.

Ó Deághaidh knelt and felt around carefully. A man lay on the bare floor. No pulse, and he’d been dead long enough that his skin had turned cold, but not long enough for the body to stiffen. Dried blood matted the hair on one side of the man’s head, and Ó Deághaidh felt where the skull had been crushed.

My poor friend,
Ó Deághaidh thought.
I was nearly with you, a few days ago.

His sympathy mixed with rising excitement. Even a dead man would have clues to offer.

He lit a candle from a coal in the fireplace and scanned the room. A cot had been shoved in one corner, next to a table with a washbasin and stacks of dirty cups and saucers. The rest of the room was given over to a laboratory of sorts, with desk and workbench and bookshelves. Someone—the murderer? a later intruder?—had swept all those shelves clean, forced open the desk, and flung its drawers onto the mess. Kneeling on the floor, he found two or three textbooks among the heaps of broken glass and twisted wires. He lifted them up, avoiding the glass, to discover a broken frame and a certificate of degree from Awveline University.
Yes,
he thought.
Yes, of course.
Here were the links he sought. More swiftly and certainly now, he sorted through the few remaining papers, all of them written in Éireann, all soaked in bitter-smelling fluid.