TWENTY-TWO

The hydrofoil was sleek and enclosed, the forward compartment holding half a dozen rows of no more than five seats per row on each side of the aisle, the curving Perspex windows giving a panoramic view of both banks of the Danube as the engines fired to life and moved the boat out carefully from the dock. The old city fell away quickly and within moments the only signs of habitation were the elevated fishing and hunting shacks along either side of the river; then these also fell behind and only forest lined the shores.

Kate looked at her Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft schedule, saw that it would take about five hours to travel down the Danube to Budapest, and said to O’Rourke, “Maybe we should have flown directly.”

The priest turned in his seat. He was dressed in jeans, a denim shirt, and a well-broken-in leather bomber jacket. “Directly to Bucharest?”

Kate shook her head. “I still don’t think they would let me in the country. But we could have flown directly to Budapest.”

“Yes, but the Gypsies wouldn’t meet with us before tonight.” He turned back to watch the south shore as the hydrofoil accelerated to thirty-five knots and rose on its forward fins. The ride was perfectly smooth. “At least this way we get to see the sights.”

The warm sunlight fell across their row of seats and Kate half-dozed as the hydrofoil carried them northeast around the curve of the Danube near Bratislava, then southeast until a young woman announced over the intercom that the shore to their right now belonged to Hungary, with Czechoslovakia still on the left. The forest along the river seemed more advanced into autumn here, with many of the trees bare. As they turned south, the sky began to cloud up and the warm band of sunlight across Kate first dimmed and then disappeared. Warm air began to blow out of the ship’s ventilators to make up for the sudden chill outside.

O’Rourke had thought to have the hotel pack a lunch for them, and they opened the sealed containers and munched on salad and roast beef as the Danube hooked south into Hungary proper. Just as they had finished their lunch, O’Rourke said, “This area is known as the Danube Bend. It’s been important since Roman times … the Romans actually had summer homes along here. It was the border of the Empire for centuries.”

Kate glanced at the forested riverbanks and could easily imagine the northeast shore being the edge of the known world. The cold wind spiraled leaves onto the gray and choppy surface of the Danube.

“There,” said O’Rourke, pointing to their right. “That’s Visegrad. The Hungarian kings built that citadel in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. King Matthias occupied it during the height of the fifteenth-century Renaissance.”

Kate barely glanced to her right. She saw the ancient fortification on the hill and a broad wall running down to an even older-looking tower near the riverbank.

“That’s where our friend Vlad Dracula was imprisoned from 1462 to 1474,” said the priest. “King Matthias had him under house arrest for most of the last years of his life.”

Kate swiveled in her seat to watch the old wall and tower fall behind on the right. She continued staring even after the fortifications were out of sight. Finally she turned back to her companion. “So you don’t think I’m completely crazy to be interested in the Dracula family? Tell me the truth, O’Rourke.”

“I don’t think you’re completely crazy,” he said. “Not completely.”

Kate simulated a smile. “Tell me something,” she said.

“Sure.”

“Why do you know so much about so many things? Were you always this smart?”

The priest laughed—an easy, sincere sound that Kate realized she loved to hear—and scratched his short beard. “Ahh, Kate … if you only knew.” He looked out the window a moment. “I grew up in a small town in central Illinois,” he said at last. “And several of my childhood friends were really smart.”

“If these small-town buddies include Senator Harlen and that writer, they must’ve been,” said Kate.

O’Rourke smiled. “I could tell you a few things about Harlen, but yeah, you’re right, our little group had some pretty smart kids in it. I had a friend named Duane who … well, that’s another story. Anyway, I was the dummy of the group.”

Kate made a face.

“No, seriously,” said the priest. “I realize now that I had a learning disability—probably a mild case of dyslexia—but the result was that I flunked fourth grade, was left behind all my buddies, and felt like a moron for years. Teachers treated me that way, too.” He folded his arms, his gaze turned inward at some private memory. He smiled. “Well, my family didn’t have enough money to get me into college, but after ’Nam—after the Veterans’ Hospital I should say—I was able to use the G.I. Bill to go to Bradley University, and then to seminary. I guess I’ve been reading ever since, sort of to make up for those early years.”

“And why the seminary?” Kate asked softly. “Why the priesthood?”

There was a long silence. “It’s hard to explain,” O’Rourke said at last. “To this day I don’t know if I believe in God.”

Kate blinked in surprise.

“But I know that evil exists,” continued the priest. “I learned that early on. And it seemed to me that someone … some group … should do its best to stop that evil.” He grinned again. “I guess a lot us Irish think that way. That’s why we become cops or priests or gangsters.”

“Gangsters?” said Kate.

He shrugged. “If you can’t beat them, join them.”

A woman’s voice announced over the intercom that they were approaching Budapest. Kate watched as the farms and villas began appearing, to be superseded by larger buildings and then the city itself. The hydrofoil throttled back and came off its forward planes; they began to bounce along in the wakes of barges and other river traffic.

Budapest had perhaps the most beautiful riverfront Kate had ever seen. O’Rourke pointed out the six graceful bridges spanning the Danube, the wooded expanse of Margitsziget—Margaret Island—splitting the river, and then the glory of the city itself—old Buda rising high on the west bank, younger, sprawling Pest stretching away to the east. O’Rourke had pointed out the beautiful parliament building on the Pest side and was describing Castle Hill on the Buda side when exhaustion and dismay suddenly washed over Kate like a great wave. She closed her eyes a second, overwhelmed by sorrow, a sense of futility, and the sure knowledge that she had been displaced forever in space and time.

O’Rourke quit talking at once and gently touched her forearm. The hydrofoil’s engine rumbled as they slowed and backed toward a pier on the Pest side of the river.

“When do we meet the Gypsy representative?” asked Kate, her eyes still closed.

“Seven tonight,” said O’Rourke. He still touched her arm.

Kate sighed, forced the tide of hopelessness back far enough that she could breathe again, and looked at the priest. “I wish it were sooner,” she said. “I want to get going. I want to get there.”

O’Rourke nodded and said nothing else while the hydrofoil rumbled and bumped its way to the end of this leg of their voyage.

*   *   *

O’Rourke had booked rooms for them in a Novotel in the Buda side of the city, and Kate marveled at the island of Western efficiency in this former Communist country. Budapest made Kate think of Bucharest, Romania, in twenty-five years—perhaps—if capitalism continued to make inroads there. Never very interested in economic theory, Kate nonetheless had a sudden insight, however naive, that capitalism, or at least the individual initiative component of it, was like some of the life forms that found a foothold in even the most marginal of ecological niches until eventually—voilà!—a proliferation of life. In this case, she knew, the proliferation would grow and multiply until the balance of old and new, public and commercial, aesthetically pleasing and standardized mediocre would be lost and all the tiresome, leveling by-products of capitalism would make Budapest look like all the other cities of the world.

But for now Budapest seemed a pleasant balance of respect for antiquity and interest in the Almighty Dollar—or Forint, whichever the case might be. CNN and Hertz and all the usual pioneer buds of capitalism were present, but even a glimpse of the city in the cab had shown Kate a rich mix of the old and the new. O’Rourke mentioned that all of the bridges and the palace on Castle Hill had been blown up by the Germans or destroyed in fighting during World War II, and that the Hungarians had rebuilt everything lovingly.

In her room, staring out the window at a stretch of autobahn that could have been any American Interstate, Kate rubbed her head and realized that all of this apparent interest in travel trivia was just a way to distract herself from the dark tide that continued to lap at her emotions. That, and a way to avoid the anxiety at the coming entry into Romania.

She was surprised to realize that she was afraid of what lay ahead—afraid of the Transylvanian darkness which she’d glimpsed from the hospitals and orphanages of that cold nation—and in that sudden, sharp realization of fear, she had the briefest glimmer of hope that there was a path she could follow to a place where there were some emotions other than sorrow and shock and hopelessness and grim resolve to recover what could not be recovered.

There was a knock at the door.

“Ready?” said O’Rourke. His bomber jacket was cracked and faded with use, and for the first time Kate noticed that the web of laugh lines around the priest’s eyes contained small scars. “I figure we can get a light dinner here at the hotel and then go straight to the rendezvous.”

Kate took a deep breath, gathered up her coat, and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Ready,” she said.

*   *   *

They did not talk during the brief cab ride to Clark Adam Ter, the traffic circle at the west end of the Chain Bridge and just below the walls of Castle Hill. O’Rourke said nothing as they rode the funicular railway up the steep hillside to the ramparts of the Royal Palace itself.

“Let’s sightsee,” he said softly as they stepped out of the cog railway. He took her arm and led her past glowing streetlamps toward a huge equestrian statue farther south along the terrace.

Kate knew from going over city maps that the Matthias church was in the opposite direction, and she had no urge whatsoever to sightsee, but she could tell from the tone of O’Rourke’s voice and the tension in his hand on her arm that something was wrong. She followed without protest.

“This is Prince Eugene of Savoy,” he said as they circled the giant statue of a seventeenth-century figure on horseback. The view beyond the balustrade was magnificent: it was not quite six-thirty in the evening, but the city of Pest was ablaze with lights and traffic, brightly lit boats moved slowly up and down the Danube, and the Chain Bridge was outlined with countless bulbs that made the river glow.

“That man near the steps is following us,” whispered O’Rourke as they moved into the lee of the statue. Kate turned slowly. Only a few other couples had braved the chill evening breeze. The man O’Rourke had indicated was standing near the steps to the terrace near the cog railway; Kate caught a glimpse of a long, black leather jacket; glasses and beard beneath a Tyrolean hat. The man was studiously looking out over the railing at the view.

Kate pretended to consult her city map. “You’re sure?” she said softly.

The priest rubbed his beard. “I think so. I saw him catch a cab behind us at the Novotel. He rushed to get in the car next to ours on the funicular.”

Kate walked to the broad railing and leaned on it. The autumn wind brought the scent of the river and dying leaves and auto exhaust up to her. “Are there any others?”

O’Rourke shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m a priest, not a spy.” He inclined his head toward an elderly couple walking a dachshund near the palace. “They may be following us, too … I dunno.”

Kate smiled. “The dog too?”

A tug pushing a long barge up the river saluted the city with three long hoots. Traffic whirled around Clark Adam Ter below with a cacophony of horns, then swept across the Chain Bridge, tail- lights blending with the red neon on the buildings across the river.

Kate’s smile faded. “What do we do?”

O’Rourke leaned on the railing with her and rubbed his hands. “Go on, I guess. Do you have any idea who might be following you?”

Kate chewed a loose piece of skin on her lip. Her head ached less this evening, but her left arm itched under the short cast. She was so tired that concentrating was like driving a car on dark ice—a slow and skittish process. “Romanian Securitate?” she whispered. “The Gypsies? American FBI? Some Hungarian thug waiting to mug us? Why don’t we go ask him?”

O’Rourke shrugged, smiled, and led her back toward the upper terrace. The man in black leather moved away from them slightly and continued to be absorbed by the view of Pest and the river.

They continued strolling, arm-in-arm—just another tourist couple, Kate thought giddily—past the funicular station, across a wide space labeled Disz ter by the street sign, and down a street that O’Rourke said was named Tarnok utca. Small shops lined the cobblestoned way; most were closed on this Sunday evening, but a few showed yellow light through ornate panes. The gas streetlamps cast a soft glow.

“Here,” said O’Rourke, leading her to the right. Kate glanced over her shoulder, but if the man in black leather was following, he was concealed by shadows. Carriages were lined along the small square here and the sound of horses chewing on their bits and shifting their hooves seemed very clear in the chill air. Kate looked up at the neo-Gothic tower of the small cathedral as O’Rourke led her to a side door.

“Technically this place is named Buda St. Mary’s Church,” he said, holding the massive door for her, “but everyone calls it the Matthias Church. Old King Matthias is more popular in legend than he probably ever was in real life. Shhh…”

Kate stepped into the nave of the cathedral as the organ music suddenly rose from silence to near-crescendo. She paused and her breathing stopped for a second as the opening chords of Bach’s “Tocatta and Fugue in D-minor” filled the incense-rich darkness.

The interior of the old Matthias Church was illuminated only by a rack of votive candles to the right of the door and one large, red-glowing candle on the altar. Kate had an impression of great age: soot-streaked stone—although the soot may have been only shadows—on the massive columns, a neo-Gothic stained glass window over the altar, its colors illuminated only by the blood-red candlelight, dark tapestries hanging vertically above the aisles, a massive pulpit to the left of the altar, and no more than ten or twelve people sitting silently in the shadowed pews as the music soared and echoed.

O’Rourke led the way across the open area in the rear of the church, down several stone steps, and stopped at the last row of pews in the shadows to the left and behind the seating area in the nave. Kate merely sat down; O’Rourke genuflected with practiced ease, crossed himself, and then sat next to her. Bach’s organ music continued to vibrate in the warm, incense-laden air. After a moment, the priest leaned closer to her. “Do you know why Bach wrote ‘Tocatta and Fugue’?”

Kate shook her head. She assumed it was for the greater glory of God.

“It was a piece to test the pipes in new organs,” whispered O’Rourke.

Kate could see his smile in the dim, red light.

“Or old organs for that matter,” he went on. “If a bird had built a nest in one of the pipes, Bach knew that this piece would blast it out.”

At that second the music rose to the point that Kate could feel the vibrations in her teeth and bones. When it ended, she could only sit for a moment in the dimness, trying to catch her breath. The few others who had been there, all older people, rose, genuflected, and left by the side door. Kate watched over her shoulder as a white-bearded priest in a long, black cassock locked the door with the sliding of a heavy bolt.

O’Rourke touched her arm and they walked back to the rear of the nave. The white-bearded priest opened his arms, he and O’Rourke embraced, and Kate blinked at the two—the modern priest still in his bomber jacket and jeans, the older priest in a cassock that came to his shoe-tops, a heavy crucifix dangling around his neck.

“Father Janos,” said O’Rourke, “this is my dear friend Doctor Kate Neuman. Doctor Neuman, my old friend Father Janos Petofi.”

“Father,” said Kate.

Father Janos Petofi looked a bit like Santa Claus to Kate, with his trimmed white beard, pink cheeks, and bright eyes, but there was little of Santa Claus in the way the older man took her hand and bent over to kiss it. “Charmed to meet you, Mademoiselle.” His accent sounded more French than Hungarian.

Kate smiled, both at the kiss and the honorific that gave her the status of a young unmarried woman.

Father Janos clapped O’Rourke on the back. “Michael, our … ah … Romany friend is waiting.”

They followed Father Janos to the rear of the cathedral, through a heavy curtain that passed for a door, and up a winding stone staircase.

“Your playing was magnificent, as always,” O’Rourke said to the other priest.

Father Janos smiled back over his shoulder. His cassock made rustling sounds on the stone steps. “Ah … rehearsal for tomorrow’s concert for the tourists. The tourists love Bach. More than we organists, I think.”

They emerged onto a choir loft thirty feet above the darkened vault of the church. A large man sat at the end of one pew. Kate glimpsed a sharp face and heavy mustache under a wool cap pulled low and a sheepskin coat buttoned high.

“I will stay if you need me,” offered Father Janos.

O’Rourke touched his friend on the shoulder. “No need, Janos. I will talk to you later.”

The older priest nodded, bowed toward Kate, and disappeared down the stairway.

Kate followed O’Rourke to the pew where the swarthy man waited. Even with her eyes adapted to the candlelight in the church, it was very dark up here.

“Dobroy, Doctor New—man?” said the man to O’Rourke in a voice as sharp-edged as his face. His teeth gleamed strangely. He looked at Kate. “Oh … rerk?”

“I’m Doctor Neuman,” said Kate. The echo of Bach’s music still vibrated in her bones through layers of fatigue. She had to concentrate on reality. “You are Nikolo Cioaba?”

The Gypsy smiled and Kate realized that all of the man’s visible teeth were capped in gold. “Voivoda Cioaba,” he said roughly.

Kate glanced at O’Rourke. Voivoda. The same word that had been under the Vienna portrait of Vlad Ţepeş.

“Beszel Romany?” asked Voivoda Cioaba. “Magyarul?”

“Nem,” replied O’Rourke. “Sajnalom. Kerem … beszel angolul?”

The gold teeth flashed. “Yesss … yesss, I speak the English … Dobroy. Velcome.” Voivoda Cioaba’s dialect made Kate think of an old Bela Lugosi movie. She rubbed her cheek to wake up.

“Voivoda Cioaba,” said Kate, “Father Janos has explained to you what we want?”

The Gypsy frowned at her for a moment and then the gold teeth glimmered. “Vant? Igen! Yes … you vant to go Romania. You come from … Egyesult Allamokba … United States … and you go to Romania. Nem?”

“Yes,” said Kate. “Tomorrow.”

Voivoda Cioaba frowned deeply. “Tomarav?”

“Hetfo,” said O’Rourke. “Tomorrow. Monday night.”

“Ahhh … hetfo … yesss, ve cross tomarav night … Monday. It isss … iss all … how do you say?… arranged.” The Gypsy swirled fingers in front of his face. “Sajnalom … my son, Balan … he speak the English very good, but he … business. Yesss?”

Kate nodded. “And have we agreed on how much?”

Voivoda Cioaba squinted at her. “Kerem?”

“Mennyibe kerul?” said O’Rourke. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Penz.”

The Gypsy threw his hands apart as if brushing away something in the air. He held up one finger and pointed at Kate. “Ezer … you.” He pointed at O’Rourke. “Ezer … you.”

“One thousand each,” said O’Rourke.

“U.S. American dollars cash,” said Voivoda Cioaba, enunciating carefully.

Kate nodded. It was what Father Janos had communicated to O’Rourke earlier.

“Now,” added the Gypsy. His teeth flashed.

Kate shook her head slowly. “Two hundred for each of us now,” she said. “The rest when we meet our friend in Romania.”

Voivoda Cioaba’s eyes flashed.

“Ketszaz ejszakat … ah … tonight,” said O’Rourke. “Nyolcszaz on erkezes. Okay?”

Kate extended the envelope with the four hundred dollars in it, Voivoda Cioaba lifted it with nimble fingers and slid it out of sight under the sheepskin jacket without glancing within, and there came the flash of gold. “Okay.” His hand came out with a map and he spread it on the pew.

Kate and O’Rourke leaned closer. The Gypsy’s blunt finger stabbed at Budapest and began following a rail line southeast across the country. Voivoda Cioaba’s voice had the hypnotic lilt of litany as he recited the names of stops along the way. Kate closed her eyes and accepted the litany in the incense-smelling darkness of the cathedral.

“Budapest … Újszász … Szolnŏk … Gyoma-endröd Békéscsaba … Lŏkŏsháza…”

Kate felt the vibration through her leg as the Gypsy’s finger stabbed heavily at the map. “Lŏkŏsháza.”