Legends

The woman in the window ducked back into the room. A moment later the needle was plucked off the record. Two men stuck their heads out of the window. “What about the Ottoman?” an older man with a flamboyant mustache yelled down.

“The Armenian from the Slavic Alliance who lynched him and his lady friend within sight of the Kremlin is on your doorstep. His name is Samat Ugor-Zhilov. Your Chechen friends have been looking all over the world for him. There’s no rush to come get him—he’s not going anywhere on a shattered knee.”

Samat whimpered, “For the love of God, for the sake of my mother, you cannot leave me here.”

Martin could sense the excitement in the room above his head. Footsteps could be heard thundering down the stairs. “Start the motor,” he called to Stella. A current of pain shot through his game leg as he made his way around the car and climbed in next to the driver. “Let’s go,” he said. “Don’t run any red lights.”

Stella, biting her lip to keep from trembling, steered the Packard away from the curb and headed down the empty street. Martin turned in the seat to watch the Chechens drag Samat into the crematorium. Stella must have seen it in her rearview mirror. “Oh, Martin,” she said, “what will they do to him?”

“I suppose they will extract the gold teeth from his mouth with a pair of pliers and then put him in one of their cheapest coffins and nail the lid shut and light off the burning fiery furnace and cremate him alive.” He touched the back of her hand on the steering wheel. “Samat left behind him a trail of blood—the Ottoman and his lady friend, your father, my Chinese friend Minh, the scavengers locked in cages on an island in the Aral Sea who died miserably when Samat used them as guinea pigs to test biowarfare viruses that he eventually gave to Saddam Hussein. The list is long.”

Using hand gestures, Martin directed Stella back into the heart of Brooklyn. When they reached Eastern Parkway he had her pull over to the curb. He retrieved the paper bag from the trunk and, taking her arm, drew her to a bench on one side of the parkway. “There’s a million dollars in bearer shares left in the bag,” Martin explained, handing it to her. “Go to ground in a motel on the Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel for the night. Tomorrow drive to Philadelphia and go to the biggest bank you can find and cash these in and open an account in your name. Then drive to Jonestown in Pennsylvania. Not Johnstown. Jonestown. Find a small house, something with white clapboard and storm windows and a wrap around porch at the edge of town and a view across the corn fields. It needs to have a yard where we can raise chickens. There’s a monastery not far away over the rise—you want to be able to hear its carillon bells from the house.”

“How do you know about Jonestown and the monastery?”

“Lincoln Dittmann and I both come from Jonestown. Funny part is we didn’t know each other back then. My family moved to Brooklyn when I was eight but Lincoln was brought up in Pennsylvania. I’d almost forgotten about Jonestown. He reminded me.”

“Who’s Lincoln Dittmann?”

“Someone I came across in another incarnation.”

“What do I do when I find the house?”

“Buy it.”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“I have some loose ends to take care of. I’ll turn up in Jonestown when I’ve finished.”

“How will you find me?”

“Jonestown is a small town. I’ll ask for the gorgeous dish with a permanent squint in her eyes and a ghost of a smile on her lips.”

Stella relished the coolness of the night air. The headlights streaking past led her to imagine that she and Martin were stranded on an island of stillness in a world of perpetual motion. “Do you really remember what happened to you in Moscow?” she asked.

He smiled. “No. A curtain screened off the fragment of my life that I lived under the legend Jozef Kafkor. But what I’ve lost won’t change anything for us. The part of Martin Odum’s life that I want to remember begins here.”

1997: LINCOLN DITTMANN CONNECTS THE DOTS

^“U.S. GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE ANNEX. HARVEY CLEVELAND speaking. How can I help you?”

“Do you recognize my voice, Felix?”

“Tell you the truth, no. Am I supposed to?”

“Does a hangar under the Pulaski Skyway ring a bell? A crazy Texan named Leroy was about to shoot you. You jumped a mile when you heard his wrist bone splinter.”

Felix Kiick could be heard chuckling into the phone. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Lincoln Dittmann. How’d you get this number? It’s supposed to be an unlisted hotline.”

“How are you, Felix?”

“Hang on—I’m going to scramble this call.” There was a burst of static, then Felix’s voice came on line again, loud and clear. “I’m almost but not quite retired. Six weeks, three days, four and a half hours to go and I’m out of here. What about you?”

“I’m more or less okay.”

“Which is it—more or less?”

“More, actually.”

“Your memory coming back?”

“Nothing’s wrong with my memory, Felix. You’re confusing me with Martin Odum.”