The Time Roads

“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 Petrovic. 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 Petrovic. 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 Štokavian, 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.