“Maybe they were involved in Samat’s opium cartel,” Martin ventured.
The colonel shrugged. “There may be a connection between the dead Chechens and Samat, though I doubt it had anything to do with the opium operation. Islam is not welcomed in this frontier region of Lithuania, either by the Catholics or the Orthodox. No, the only thing that could have brought Chechens here is a mission—though with them being drowned, it is impossible to speculate what it could have been. You would not have an idea?”
Martin shook his head. “It’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”
The following morning Martin treated himself to a good breakfast in Hrodna’s only hotel and then strolled carefully (his cracked ribs hurt if he walked too fast) along the main street, past the bulletin board posted with the regional newspaper open to photographs of the riot at Zuzovka, to the town’s central post office. He queued at the window with the emblem of a telephone over it, and wrote the number on the ledger when the clerk didn’t understand his rudimentary Russian.
“What country uses code nine seven two?” she asked.
“Israel.”
“And what city in Israel uses the area code two?”
“Jerusalem.”
The clerk noted “Jerusalem, Israel” on her work sheet and dialed the number. She motioned for Martin to pick up the telephone in the nearest booth. He heard a man’s voice on the line protesting, “This must be a mistake—I don’t know anyone in Belarus.”
“Benny, it’s me, Martin.”
“What the Christ are you doing in Belarus?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
“Even the short version’s too long to tell you on the phone. Listen, Benny, that night I spent at your house you told me about the Oligarkh living in an isolated dacha in a village a half hour from Moscow along the Moscow-Petersburg highway. You wouldn’t by any chance remember the name of the village?”
“You want to hold on, I’ll check my computer.”
Martin watched the people lining up at the other windows, some for stamps, some to pay electric or water bills, some to cash pension checks. None of them looked out of place, which didn’t mean much; anyone who wanted to keep tabs on him would use local help.
Benny came back on line. “The name of the village is Prigorodnaia.”
“Maybe you ought to spell that.”
Benny did, phonetically.
“Prigorodnaia. Thanks, Benny.”
“I guess you’re welcome. Though come to think of it, I’m not positive.”
1994: LINCOLN DITTMANN SETS THE RECORD STRAIGHT
BERNICE TREFFLER KNEW SOMETHING WAS OUT OF JOINT THE moment Martin Odum strolled into the room—a grin meant to be both sardonic and seductive played on his lips, as if a session with a Company shrink came under the heading of indoor sport and she was fair game. He appeared taller, more assured, less agitated, completely in control of emotions that he could identify. His body language was new to her—his head was angled suggestively, his shoulders relaxed, one hand jingled the loose change in a trouser pocket. He walked with only the faintest trace of a limp. She could have sworn that his hair was combed differently, though she would have had to pull a photograph of Martin from the file folder to be sure, which is something she didn’t want to do in front of him. Instead of sitting across the desk from her, as he usually did, he flopped gracefully into a chair next to the low table near the window, his legs extended and crossed casually at the ankles, and nodded at another chair, inviting her to join him, sure she would. When she did, she noticed him undressing her with his eyes as she came across the carpet; she saw him inspecting her thigh when she crossed her legs. She set the small tape recorder down and edged the microphone closer to Martin. He fixed his gaze on her eyes and she found herself toying with the joint on the fourth finger of her left hand where the gold ring used to be before the divorce.
“You’re wearing perfume,” he noted. “What is it?”
When she didn’t respond, he tried another tack. “Is Treffler your married name?”
“No. I work under my maiden name.”
“You don’t wear a wedding band but I could tell you’re married.”
Her gaze fell away from his. “What gave me away?”
“You sure you want to know?” he asked, clearly taunting her.
Why was Martin Odum coming on to her? she wondered. What had changed since the session the previous month? Leaning forward, aware that in this new incarnation he wouldn’t miss the slight swell of her breasts above the scalloped blouse, she flipped a switch on the tape recorder. “Mind if I check your voice level again?”
“Be my guest.” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back into them, thoroughly enjoying how uncomfortable he had managed to make her. “A woman, a dog, a walnut tree,” he recited, pronouncing “dog” dawg, “the more you beat ’em, the better they be.”
“That another line from Walt … from Walter Whitman?”
He laughed softly. “It’s a ditty the boys used to sing around the campfire while they were waiting to cross the Rapahannock.”
Suddenly it hit her. “You’re not Martin Odum!”
“And you’re not as thick as Martin says.”
“You’re the one who claims to have been at the battle of Fredericksburg,” she breathed. “You’re Lincoln Dittmann.”
He only smiled.
“But why? What are you doing here?”
“Martin told you about my being at Fredericksburg but you didn’t believe him. You thought he was making the whole thing up.” Lincoln leaned forward, the humor gone from his eyes. “You went and hurt his feelings, Dr. Treffler. Shrinks are supposed to heal feelings, not hurt them. Martin sent me round to set the record straight.”
Dr. Treffler understood that she was setting out into uncharted territory. “Okay, convince me Lincoln Dittmann was at the battle of Fredericksburg. What else did the boys talk about while they were waiting to cross the river?”
Lincoln stared out the window, his eyes wide, unblinking, unfocused. “They talked about home remedies for diarrhea, which many considered the arch enemy, more dangerous than Johnny Reb. They traded recipes for moonshine. I recall one lieutenant from the 70th Ohio concocted something he labeled ‘Knock ’em stiff’—it consisted of bark juice, tar water, turpentine, brown sugar, lamp oil and alcohol. They argued whether, when they crossed the river and marched on Richmond and won the war, the slaves ought to be freed; so many were against, the few who were for were careful to keep their own counsel. They griped about having to pay $1.80 for a plug of tobacco. They griped about the Yankees who’d gone west to avoid the draft and claim free land while they were stuck on the Rapahannock fighting the Goddamn war. The griped about the factory-made shoddy—”
“Shoddy?”
“What we called shoddy was woolen yarn made from old clothing and then turned into material for uniforms that disintegrated under your fingers in a matter of weeks.”
“What was your rank?”
Lincoln turned back to focus on Dr. Treffler. “I wasn’t in the army.”
“If you weren’t in the army, what were you doing at Fredericksburg?”