The Time Roads

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.”