THIRTY-TWO

The day was like a return to early autumn; the blue skies emphasized each remaining leaf in the forests along Highway 71 to Braşov. Kate thought that “highway” was a generous term for the narrow strip of patched and potted asphalt that ran north and east from Tîrgovişte, wound its tortured way through passes in the Carpathian Mountains, and then dropped dramatically again before connecting with Highway 1 south of Braşov.

Rejuvenated by last night’s bath, several hours’ sleep, and the clean new clothes that O’Rourke had found—at least one of the monks at Tîrovişte Monastery had been small enough that Kate could wear his dark sweater over her last clean, black skirt and look moderately presentable—she was tempted to take off her scarf, tilt her head back, and enjoy the sunlight as she bounced along in the sidecar.

It was not possible. The sense of urgency to find Joshua was too great, the terror at making the wrong decision too deep.

They had not flipped a coin to decide the direction. After looking at the map in the morning light, both of them had lifted their heads and said, “Sighişoara.” On Kate’s part it was nothing but intuition. Something about traveling in Transylvania makes one superstitious, she thought.

“If we’re wrong about where the ceremony is tonight, we have a final crack at tomorrow night,” said O’Rourke.

“Yes,” said Kate, “if Lucian was telling the truth. Our information is shaky, based on hearsay, and generally half-assed. If this plan was a medical diagnosis, I’d sue the physician for malpractice.”

There were few cars this morning but traffic was heavy: heavy semis belching pollution behind them in blue and brown clouds, tractors that looked like they came out of a Henry Ford turn-of-the-century museum, their iron wheels chewing up more of the well-chewed asphalt road, rubber-wheeled horse carts, wooden-wheeled horse carts, painted-wheel pony carts, the occasional Gypsy wagon, herds of sheep standing stupidly in the road looking lost while their herders lagged behind with the same expression, cattle being flicked along by children no more than eight or nine years old who did not even look up at the heavy trucks as they roared past or at the motorcycle as it weaved to avoid hitting cows, bicycles wobbling their way to what appeared to be nowhere in particular, the occasional German car breezing past at 180 kph with a blast of its arrogant German horn, the driver not even glancing at the motorcycle and its occupants, a few Dacias limping along or sitting broken down in the middle of the road, army vehicles evidently trying to race the German cars as they roared and smoked their way down the center of the highway, and pedestrians.

There were many pedestrians: Gypsies with their swarthy skins and loose clothes, old men with white-stubbled cheeks and soft hats that had lost all form, flocks of schoolgirls near the two tiny villages and one small town they had passed through—Pucioasa, Fieni, and Matoeini—the girls’ much-mended but stiffly starched blue skirts and white blouses seeming very bright in the sunlight, the unschooled children tending cattle, both boys and bovine wearing expressions of infinite boredom, old peasant women waddling down the side of the road—there was no shoulder to the highway, only a three-foot ditch filled with foul-smelling water most of the way—and older peasant women being led by tiny children much as the cows were being led, and the occasional ofiter de politiţie standing outside his village police headquarters.

The police did not even look up as the motorcycle rumbled through Fieni, a thoroughly soot-soaked industrial town. O’Rourke was careful to obey the speed limits.

“We’ll need gas in Braşov!” he shouted.

Kate nodded and kept her eyes on the weaving bicycle just visible beyond the horse cart that had pulled out in front of them.

This was no time to close her eyes and enjoy the sunlight.

*   *   *

Once past the mountain village of Moroeni the traffic mysteriously dwindled to nothing, the winding road was empty, the air grew cooler, and few of the trees had retained their leaves. Kate asked if she could drive the motorcycle for a while.

“You’ve done it before?”

“Tom used to let me drive his Yamaha 360,” Kate said confidently. Once. A little distance. Slowly. She was good with machines though, and had been watching O’Rourke closely.

O’Rourke pulled onto the gravel shoulder where the road began its switchback, parked, and stepped off. He left the engine idling. “Watch the clutch,” he said. “It’s a mess. No second gear to speak of.” He limped around to the sidecar while Kate stood stretching.

He’s hurting, she thought. Driving that thing with the clutch pedal and everything has been an ordeal. She mounted the bike, waited while O’Rourke settled in, grinned at him, and started off with a little too much throttle.

The ancient motorcycle and sidecar tried to do a wheelie, O’Rourke let out a single, very strange sound, Kate compensated a bit too fast by squeezing the brake handle hard enough to send O’Rourke’s head into the plastic wind visor and almost toss her off the saddle, she decided to go straight to third gear, missed it a couple of times, got them going again vigorously in first gear, looked up just in time to avoid driving off the cliff edge, took most of the width of the asphalt to recover, then got the machine on the right side, going the right speed, with the right smoothness. Almost.

“I’ve got it now,” she said, ticking up through gears with her foot and leaning forward into the wind.

O’Rourke nodded and rubbed his head.

The highway crossed a high pass above Sinaia, and by the time Kate reached the summit she had worked things out between her and the machine.

“Stop here!” yelled O’Rourke, pointing to a narrow gravel shoulder on the other side of the road.

Kate nodded, swerved, realized that she hadn’t really practiced with the brake yet … where was it?… but found it and applied it hard enough that their skid did not take them over the edge. Quite. The bike had spun around during their deceleration phase, and when the dust and flying gravel dissipated, they were facing back downhill and O’Rourke and the sidecar were hanging out over treetops and rocks.

He took his goggles off slowly and rubbed grit out of his eyes. “I just wanted to admire the view,” he said softly over the idling engine.

Kate had to admit that the view was worth stopping for. To the north and west the Bucegi Range of the Carpathians blended into the snow-peaked Fărăgaş Range which curved south just where the horizon became murky. The highest foothills below the snowfields were spotted with sturdy juniper and dwarf firs, the middle regions glowed green with pine and fir, the lower hills were mottled white with birch, and the valleys miles below were dappled with the dying leaf colors of oak, elder, elm, and sumac. Clouds were boiling in from the north and the west, but the sun was still bright enough to send their shadows sliding down limestone ridges to the tree-filled valleys below. Except for a glimpse of the briefest stretch of road behind them, there was no sight of man. None. Not smokestack or rooftop or smog or aircraft or microwave antenna for as far as Kate could see to the west and south. In a country contemptuous of all environmental standards, this was the first time she had seen the real beauty of the earth.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, hating herself for mouthing the cliché but not knowing what else to say. “What’s that bright green plant up high? Near the juniper trees below the snow?”

“I think it’s called zimbru,” said O’Rourke. He leaned over the edge of the sidecar and looked down. “Say, could you engage the brake, let the clutch out just a little, and ease us a bit forward … toward the road?”

Kate did so. She liked the percolating of the oversized engine and the feel of the motorcycle between her legs. Sunlight glinted off the tarnished chrome of the handlebars.

“Thanks,” said O’Rourke and cleared his throat. He turned and pointed to the southwest. “The Argeş River and Vlad’s castle is out that way.”

“How far?”

“For a bird, maybe a hundred klicks. Sixty, maybe seventy miles. By road…” He chewed his lip. “Probably about eight hours of driving.”

Kate glanced at him. “We’re not wrong, Mike. It’s Sighişoara tonight.”

He looked at her and then nodded. “What do you say we find a better place to park up on the summit, get the bike away from the road, and eat lunch?”

*   *   *

There had been bread and cheese at the monastery, and enough bottles of wine to make all of Transylvania drunk. O’Rourke had explained that the monks still grew vineyards and bottled wine for the local region. It was a way to help pay expenses. Kate had loaded three bottles under the seat of the sidecar and left fifty American dollars in a kitchen drawer.

The cheese was good, the bread was stale but delicious, and the wine was excellent. They had no glasses but Kate did not mind swigging directly from the bottle. She drank only a bit; she was, after all, driving. The last of the sunlight before the clouds won the aerial battle warmed her skin and brought back sensuous thoughts of the previous day and night.

“Do you have a plan?” said O’Rourke, leaning back against a tree and chewing on a tough strand of crust.

“Hmm? What?” Kate felt like someone had thrown cold water on her.

“A plan,” said O’Rourke. “For when we catch up to the strigoi.”

Kate set her chin. “Get Joshua back,” she said tightly. “Then get out of the country.”

O’Rourke chewed slowly, swallowed, and nodded. “I won’t even ask about part two,” he said. “But how do we achieve part one? If the baby is really their new prince or whatever, I don’t think they’ll want to give him up.”

“I know that,” said Kate. The clouds now obscured the sun. A cold wind blew down from the snowfields above them.

“So…” O’Rourke opened his hands.

“I think we can negotiate,” said Kate.

O’Rourke frowned slightly. “With what?”

She nodded toward her travel bag. “I’ve brought samples of the hemoglobin substitute I was giving Joshua. It should allow the strigoi to break their addiction to whole human blood and still allow the J-virus to work on their immune systems.”

“Yes,” said O’Rourke, “but why would they want to go on methadone when they enjoy heroin?”

Kate looked out at the now shadowed valley. “I don’t know. Do you have any better suggestions?”

“These are the people who killed Tom and your friend Julie,” said O’Rourke, his voice very low.

“I know that!” Kate did not mean for her voice to be so sharp.

He nodded. “I know you know that. What I mean is, did you come just to get Joshua, or is revenge on your agenda?”

Kate turned her face back to him. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. The medical research … the breakthrough potential of this retrovirus…” She looked down and touched her breast where it ached. “I just want Joshua back.”

O’Rourke slid closer and put his arm around her. “We’re a strange choice for the dynamic duo,” he whispered.

She looked up, not understanding.

“Caped crimefighters. Superheroes. Batman and Robin?”

“What do you mean?” The ache in her chest subsided slightly.

“You said that you shot that intruder the first time he entered your home in Colorado,” said O’Rourke. “The strigoi. But you didn’t kill him.”

“I tried to,” said Kate. “His body rejuvenated because of—”

“I know. I know.” The pressure of O’Rourke’s arm was reassuring, not condescending. “What I mean is that you haven’t killed anyone yet. But you might have to if we keep going on this quest. Will you do it?”

“Yes,” Kate said flatly. “If Joshua’s life and liberty depend on it.” Or yours, she added silently, looking at his eyes.

O’Rourke finished his bread and drank some wine. For a giddy moment Kate wondered how many times this man … this lover of hers … had said Mass, had prepared the Eucharist for Communion. She shook her head.

“I won’t kill anyone,” he said softly. “Not even to save the person most dear to me in the world. Not even if your life depended on it, Kate.”

Kate saw the sadness in him. “But—”

“I’ve killed people, Kate. Even in Vietnam, where none of the usual reasons made sense anymore, there was always a good reason to kill. To stay alive. To keep your buddies alive. Because you were attacked. Because you were scared…” He looked down at his hands. “None of the reasons are good enough, Kate. Not anymore. Not for me.”

For the first time since she had met the priest … ex-priest … she did not know what to say.

He tried to smile. “You’ve gone on this mission with the worst choice for a partner that you could have made, Kate. At least if killing people is going to be called for.” He took a breath. “And I think it is.”

Kate’s gaze was very steady. “Are you sure these … these strigoi are people?”

His head moved almost imperceptibly back and forth. “No. But I wasn’t sure that the shadows in Vietnam were human either. They were gooks.”

“But that was different.”

“Maybe,” said O’Rourke and began cleaning up their modest picnic site. “But even if the strigoi have become so alien from human emotions that they’re another species … which I won’t believe until I see more evidence … it’s not enough. Not for me.”

Kate stood and brushed off her skirt. She pulled a jacket on over her sweater. The wind was colder now, the sky grayer. The brief return to autumn was over and winter was blowing down from the Carpathians.

“But you’ll help me find Joshua,” she said.

“Oh, yes.”

“And you’ll help me get him out of this … country.”

“Yes,” he said. He did not have to remind her of the police, the military, the border guards, the informants, the air force, the Securitate … all obeying the orders of those who took orders from the strigoi.

“That’s all I ask,” Kate said honestly. She touched his arm. “We’d better get moving if we have another hundred miles or so before we get to Sighişoara.”

“The main highway is faster,” said O’Rourke. He hesitated. “Did you want to continue driving for a while?”

Kate paused for only a second. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”

*   *   *

The road down from the pass was a series of hair-raising switchbacks, but Kate had got the hang of handling the bike now, and used the compression of the lower gears to keep the brakes from overheating. O’Rourke had double-checked the gas tank and thought they would have enough to get to Braşov, but the uncertainty made Kate nervous.

There was no traffic at all on this steep stretch of the highway and Kate saw only a handful of cottages set far back in the pine trees. Then they were in the outskirts of Sinaia and the homes grew more frequent and larger, obviously country houses for the privileged Nomenclature—those party apparatchiks and smiled-upon bureaucrats who earned extra perks from the state. Sinaia itself looked like a typical Eastern European resort town—large old hotels and estates which had been fine places a century earlier and which had received little maintenance since, signs to winter sports facilities where a “ski lift” would involve ropes and the occasional T-bar, and a newer, larger section of town featuring Stalinist apartments and heavy industry pouring pollution into the mountain valley.

But the scenery above the town could not be compromised by socialist ugliness. On either side of Sinaia and the busy Highway 1 that ran through it, the Bucegi Mountains rose in almost absurd relief, leaping skyward to bare peaks whose summits reached 7,000 feet. Kate’s home—her ex-home—in the foothills above Boulder had been at 7,000 feet, and the peaks of the Rockies to the west had risen to almost 14,000 feet, but these Bucegi Mountains were much more dramatic, rising vertically as they did from the Prahova River Valley that was not far above sea level. The result, Kate thought, glancing up at the scenery while winding the motorcycle through truck traffic exiting from what looked like a steel mill, was a mountain scene that looked the way the nineteenth-century painter Bierstadt only wanted the Rockies to look: vertical, craggy, the summits lost in clouds and mist.

Kate had been to the Swiss Alps before, and the scenery here rivaled anything she had seen there. It was just the gray people shuffling along the highway, the empty shops, the decaying estates, the disintegrating apartment buildings, and the filthy industry pouring black smoke at the mountains that reminded her she was in an environment that no self-respecting Swiss would tolerate for an hour.

There was no gas station in Sinaia, and Kate pressed on toward Braşov thirty miles to the north. The road continued to follow the river, with cliffs and breathtaking views on either side. Kate was not looking at the view. When the truck traffic thinned out, she throttled back so that she could be heard. “O’Rourke,” she shouted. When he looked up from whatever thoughts he was lost in, she went on. “Why don’t you trust Lucian?”

He leaned closer as they rumbled past a closed-down Byzantine Orthodox church and followed the highway around a long bend in the river. “At first it was just instinct. Something … something not right.”

“And then?” said Kate. Clouds continued to pour between the mountains to the west, but occasional shafts of sunlight would illuminate the valley and the narrow river.

“And then I checked on something when I went back to the U.S. Before I went to Colorado and … before I saw you in the hospital there. Do you remember telling me that Lucian said he’d learned his idiomatic English during a couple of visits to the States? When he’d gone with his parents?”

Kate nodded and maneuvered to miss a Gypsy wagon and a small herd of sheep. She swerved back to the right lane just as a logging truck roared by in the opposite direction. It was half a mile before they escaped its blue exhaust fumes. “So?” she said.

“So I called my friend’s office in Washington … Senator Harlen from Illinois?… and Jim promised to check on it for me. Just look at the visa records and so forth. But he didn’t get back to me before you and I left for Romania.”

Kate didn’t understand. “So you didn’t learn anything?”

“I told him to contact the embassy in Bucharest when he did get the records and have them leave word with the Franciscan headquarters there,” O’Rourke shouted over the engine. “They’d gotten the message when I spoke to Father Stoicescu the other morning. The morning after Lucian showed us the bodies of his parents and the thing in the tank at the medical school.”

Kate glanced at him but said nothing. The valley was widening ahead.

“Visa records show that Lucian visited the United States four times in the last fifteen years. The first time he was only ten. The last time was in late autumn of 1989, just two years ago.” O’Rourke paused a minute. “He didn’t go with his parents any of those times. Each time he came alone and was sponsored by the World Market and Development Research Foundation.”

Kate shook her head. The vibration and engine roar were giving her a headache. “I never heard of it.”

“I have,” said O’Rourke. “They called my superior in the Chicago archdiocese almost two years ago and asked if the Church would suggest someone to go on a fact-finding trip to Romania that the foundation was sponsoring. The archbishop chose me.” He leaned up out of the sidecar so that Kate could hear better. “The foundation was started by the billionaire Vernor Deacon Trent. Lucian went to the States four times at the invitation of Trent’s group … or perhaps at the old man’s personal invitation.”

Kate found a wide enough spot in the shoulder to pull over and did so. The river rushed past to their right. “You’re saying that Lucian knows Trent? And that Trent is probably the leader of the strigoi Family? Maybe even a direct descendant of Vlad Ţepeş?”

O’Rourke did not blink. “I’m just telling you what Senator Harlen’s office found out.”

“What does it prove?”

He shrugged. “At the very least it proves that Lucian was lying to you when he said he traveled to the States with his parents. At the worst—”

“It says that Lucian is strigoi,” said Kate. “But he showed us that blood test…”

O’Rourke made a face. “I thought he went to rather great pains to disprove something we hadn’t even suggested. Blood tests can be faked, Kate. You of all people should know that. Did you watch carefully when he did the test?”

“Yes. But the slides or samples could have been switched when I was distracted.” A heavy truck rumbled past. Kate waited for the roar to fade. “If he’s strigoi, why did he shelter us and take us to Şnagov Island to see part of the Ceremony and—” She took a deep breath and let it out. “It would be an easy way for the strigoi to keep tabs on us, wouldn’t it?”

O’Rourke said nothing.

Kate shook her head. “It still doesn’t make sense. Why did Lucian run away when the Securitate or whoever it was were chasing us in Bucharest? And why would he allow us to be separated like we are if his role was to keep tabs on us?”

“I don’t think we have any real understanding of the power struggles going on here,” said O’Rourke. “We’ve got the government versus the protesters versus the miners versus the intellectuals, and the strigoi seem to be pulling most of the strings on each side. Maybe they’re fighting among themselves, I don’t know.”

Kate angrily stepped off the bike and looked out at the river. She had liked Lucian … still liked him. How could her instincts have been so wrong? “It doesn’t matter,” she said aloud. “Lucian doesn’t know where we are and we don’t know where he is. We won’t see him again. If his job was to keep track of us, they probably fired him.” Or worse.

O’Rourke had uncoiled himself from the sidecar and was checking the gas tank. There was a fuel gauge on the narrow console between the handlebars, but it had no needle and the glass was broken. “We need gas,” he said. “Do you want to drive us into Braşov?”

“No,” said Kate.

*   *   *

They got no gas in Braşov.

Foreigners in Romania could not—at least theoretically—buy gas at the regular pumps using Romanian lei. Laws still required tourists to use their own hard currency to purchase petrol vouchers at hotels, the few car rental agencies, and Office of National Tourism outlets—each voucher good for two liters—and to exchange these for gas at special ComTourist pumps set aside at the few-and-far-between gas stations.

That was the theory. In practice, O’Rourke explained, the ComTourist pumps usually sat idle while the gas station manager waved tourists to the front of the inevitable line at the regular pumps. This involved hateful stares from the people in the long lines while the time-consuming voucher paperwork was done, as well as baksheesh to the person whose job it was to pump the gas (never the manager of the station and all too frequently a woman in six layers of coats and stained coveralls).

Braşov itself was a once-beautiful medieval city which had been covered with industry, Stalinist apartment tracts, half-finished Ceauşescu-started construction, abandoned systematization projects, and even more industry like barnacles on a sunken ship. It may have been possible to find some streets or vistas of former beauty, but Kate and O’Rourke certainly did not during their ride down the busy Calea Bucureştilor and Calea Făgăraşului boulevards in search of the Sibiu/Sighişoara highway and the gas stations the map promised.

One of the gas stations was closed and derelict, windows broken and pumps vandalized. The other, just past the turnoff from the boulevard to the Sibiu/Sighişoara highway, had a line that stretched more than a mile back into the city proper.

“Merde,” whispered O’Rourke. Then, “We can’t wait. We’ll have to try the ComTourist pump.”

A fat man in stained coveralls came out to squint at them. Kate decided to hunker down in the sidecar and be invisible while O’Rourke handled things; few things were more conspicuous in Romania than a take-charge Western female.

“Da?” said the manager, wiping his hands on a grease-black rag. “Pot sa te ajut?”

“Ja,” said O’Rourke, his demeanor suddenly self-assured and a bit arrogant. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Ah … vorbiţi germana?”

“Nu,” said the man. Behind them a woman in several layers of jackets pumped gas into the first car in a line that stretched literally out of sight. Everyone was watching the exchange by the ComTourist pump.

“Scheiss,” said O’Rourke, obviously disgusted. He turned to Kate. “Er spricht kein Deutsch.” He turned back to the manager and raised his voice. “Ah … de benzină … ah … Faceţi plinul, vă rog.”

Kate knew enough Romanian to catch the “Fill ’er up, please.”

The manager looked at her, then turned back to O’Rourke. “Chitanta? Cupon pentru benzină?”

O’Rourke at first looked blank and then nodded and pulled an American twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. The manager took it but did not look happy. Nor did he unlock the heavy padlock on the gas pump. He held up one grease-black finger and said, “Please … you … to stay … here,” and went back into the tiny station.

“Uh-oh,” said Kate.

O’Rourke said nothing. He got back on the bike, gunned the engine to life, and drove off slowly. Eyes watched from the cars in line as they headed back into town. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” O’Rourke was saying to himself.

“Aren’t we going the wrong way?” asked Kate.

“Yes.” He drove back to the main boulevard, swung right at a traffic circle, and accelerated out into the truck traffic heading southwest. A road sign said RIŞNOV 13 KM.

“Do we want to go to Rişnov?” called Kate over the roar and rattle.

“No.”

“Do we have enough gas to get to Sighişoara?”

“No.”

Kate asked no more questions. In the outskirts of Braşov another highway branched northwest and O’Rourke swung onto it. A kilometer marker said FĂGĂRAŞ. O’Rourke pulled over and they studied the map. “If we’d kept going on the Sibiu/Sighişoara road, that fat toad could have sent the police right after us,” he said. “At least now they might look south before checking north. Damn.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Kate. “We had to get gas.”

O’Rourke shook his head angrily. “Running out of gas is a way of life in this country. Dacias have little pumps built in under the hood so people can transfer a liter or two to someone who’s broken down. Everyone carries liter jars in their trunks. I was an idiot.”

“No, you weren’t,” said Kate. “You were just thinking in American terms. Run low on gas, stop at a gas station. So was I.”

O’Rourke smoothed the map on the edge of her windscreen and pointed. “I think we can get there this way. See … stay on Highway One here until this village … here, Şercaia about fifteen klicks this side of Făgăraş … and then take this smaller road up to Highway Thirteen, then straight to Sighişoara.”

Kate studied the thin red line between the two highways. “That road would be in poorer condition than the cow path we took over the mountains.”

“Yeah … and less traveled. But there aren’t any high passes that way. Worth a try?”

“Do we have a choice?” said Kate.

“Not really.”

“Let’s go for it,” she said, hearing an echo of Lucian in the slang. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and find another gas station.”

*   *   *

They were not lucky. The motorcycle ran out of gas about six miles north of Şercaia on the mud and gravel road that was a fat red artery on the map. There had been no traffic since they had left the main highway and very few houses except for one huge collective farm, but now they could see a single home a quarter of a mile or so ahead, set back only slightly from the road behind a fence laced with dried wisteria vines. Kate got out and walked while O’Rourke pushed the heavy bike and sidecar along the road for a distance.

“To heck with it,” he said at last, rocking the bike to get it through muddy ruts. “Let’s hope they have a liter jar of benzină.”

An old woman stood outside the gate and watched them approach. “Bună dimineaţa!” said O’Rourke.

“Bună ziua,” the old woman replied. Kate noticed that she had said “good afternoon” rather than morning. She glanced at her watch. It was almost one P.M.

“Vorbiţi engleză? Germana? Franceza? Maghiar? Roman?” said O’Rourke, standing casually.

The old woman continued to stare, occasionally working her toothless gums in what might have been a smile.

“No matter,” he said, smiling boyishly. “Imi puteţi spune, vă rog, unde este e cea mai apropiabă staţie de benzină?”

The old woman blinked at him and raised empty hands. She appeared nervous.

“Simtem doar turişti,” said O’Rourke reassuringly. “Noi călătorim prin Transilvania…” He grinned and pointed to the motorcycle down the highway. “…’de benzină.”

When the woman spoke, her voice was like old metal rasping on metal. “Eşti însetat?”

O’Rourke blinked and turned to Kate. “Are you thirsty?”

Kate did not have to think about it. “Yes,” she said. She smiled at the old woman. “Da! Mulţumesc foarte mult!”

They followed her through the muddy compound and into the home.

*   *   *

The house was small, the porch where they sat much smaller, and the old woman’s daughter or granddaughter who joined them was so tiny that she made Kate feel grossly oversize. The old woman stood in the doorway speaking in her raspy, rapid-fire dialect while the daughter or granddaughter ran back and forth, fluffing pillows on the narrow divan for them, waving them to their seats, then rushing in and out of the room bringing glasses, a bottle of Scotch, cups, saucers, and a carafe of coffee.

The younger woman also spoke no German, French, English, Hungarian, or Gypsy dialect, so they all tried to communicate in Romanian, which led to much embarrassment and laughter, especially after the Scotch glasses were refilled. They held more than the diminutive coffee cups.

Through pidgin Romanian they ascertained that the old woman was named Ana, the younger one Marina, that they had no benzină here, on the farm, but that Marina’s husband would be home soon and would be happy to give them two liters of petrol, which should be enough to get the motorcycle to Făgăraş or Sighişoara or Braşov or wherever they wanted to go. Marina poured more coffee and then more Scotch. Ana stood in the door and beamed toothlessly.

Marina asked in slow, careful Romanian whether they were staying in Bucharest, how did they like Romania, were they hungry, what were farms like in America, had they seen the tourist sights yet, and would they like some chocolate? Without waiting for an answer she jumped up and ran into the other room. The radio, which had been playing softly, came on much louder; a moment later Marina returned with small chocolate biscuits that Kate guessed had been saved for a special occasion.

O’Rourke and Kate munched the biscuits, sipped the coffee, said “Este foarte bine” to compliment the food and drink, and asked again when Marina’s husband might be getting home. Would it be long?

“Nu, nu,” said Marina, smiling and nodding. “Approximativ zece minute.”

O’Rourke smiled at her and said to Kate, “Can we wait ten minutes?”

Suddenly Kate did not want to. She rose, bowing and thanking the two women. Ana stood smiling and blinking in the doorway as Kate moved toward it.

They heard the helicopter first. O’Rourke grabbed her hand and they ran out into the small yard just as the red and white machine roared in over the leafless trees and barn. When it passed, another, smaller chopper, black, looking all bubble and skids, buzzed in over the farmhouse like a furious hornet.

Kate and O’Rourke looked once at Ana and Marina standing in the doorway, fingers to their mouths, and then the two Americans ran for the road.

Police cars and military vehicles blocked the road a hundred yards away in each direction. Men in black cradled automatic weapons as they encircled the farmhouse. Even from a distance, Kate could hear radios squawking and men shouting. She and O’Rourke skidded to a halt on the gravel road, looking wildly around.

The two helicopters returned, one hovering above them while the larger Jet Ranger circled, hovered, and settled onto its skids fifteen yards away. The blast from the rotors threw dust and gravel over O’Rourke and Kate.

She pivoted, thought about running toward the barn, saw the black-clad figures already there, saw more of them moving through the yard and up the road. The black helicopter buzzed above them, darting back and forth.

“Marina turned the radio up so we wouldn’t hear the phone call,” said O’Rourke. “Or the trucks coming. Goddamn her.” He gripped Kate’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

The door of the Jet Ranger opened; three men jumped out and walked quickly toward them. O’Rourke whispered the name of the short man: Radu Fortuna. The second man was the dark-eyed stranger Kate had seen twice before—once in her son’s bedroom, once on the night they tried to kill her. The third man was Lucian.

Radu Fortuna stopped three feet from them and smiled. He had a slight gap between his strong front teeth. “I think you have created much mischiefs, yes?” He smiled at O’Rourke, shook his head, and made a clucking sound. “Well, the time for mischiefs is over.” He nodded and the men in black jogged forward, pinning O’Rourke’s arms, grabbing Kate’s wrists. She wished Lucian would come closer so she could spit in his face.

He looked at her with no expression and kept his distance.

Radu Fortuna snapped something at one of the men and he jogged back to the house and gave something to Ana and Marina. Fortuna smiled at Kate. “In this country, Madame, one out of every four peoples works for the secret police. Here we are all either the … how do you say it?… the informed or the informed on.”

Radu Fortuna nodded. Kate and O’Rourke were suddenly grabbed and half-dragged, half-carried toward the waiting helicopter.