Czech–Austrian Border
JULIE STOOD AT the back of the sedan fumbling with her keys. The border patrol officer stood next to her, impatiently tapping the toe of his boot on the pavement. She tried to steady her hand as she reached to unlock the trunk, but the keys rattled noticeably. The lock mechanism clicked when she turned the key, and the trunk popped up. She lifted the lid the rest of the way, and the young officer eagerly shined his flashlight inside.
After a quick survey, he turned to her. The look on his face was a mixture of both disappointment and suspicion. He stared at her a long moment, but said nothing. Except for an old gray blanket and the spare tire, the trunk was empty. The fugitive whom the officer was hoping to find was presently one kilometer to the west, hoofing it across the border.
“You can close the lid,” the officer said.
Julie exhaled and walked toward the driver’s side door.
“Ms. Ponte, are you certain you do not know this American, William Foster?” he said following her.
She paused. It was critical to sound convincing, but not too convincing. She told herself to imagine he was talking about someone else, a different William Foster. The man he was referring to probably called himself Bill or Billy. She had never met Billy Foster before.
“I’m sorry, but no, I do not know the man you are looking for.”
He fixed his icy stare on her. She surmised he was looking for nonverbal cues to indicate she was lying—rapid blinking, averting of the eyes, or maybe a tensing of the facial muscles. She knew trained interrogators used facial expressions as litmus tests for truth telling, but she was not an expert in such matters. In trying to manipulate her expression, she might inadvertently tip off to the very secret she was working so hard to conceal.
Then, like Apollo in his sun chariot chasing away the stygian night, the headlights of an approaching semi-truck illuminated the space around them. Someone brazenly honked. The traffic queue, now four vehicles deep, created psychological pressure for progression. An expectation of advancement. It was time for Julie Ponte to be on her way. With purpose, she reached for the door handle.
“Ms. Ponte?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes, officer?”
“Don’t you want to close the lid?” he questioned, gesturing back to the open trunk.
“Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me.”
A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and fell to the ground, glistening in the yellow glow from the headlights of the car now idling ten feet behind her Opel.
She jogged back and shut the trunk lid.
“Is there anything else, or am I free to go home?”
The young border patrolman’s brow furrowed. His mouth twisted into the frustrated expression she had become so intimately familiar with over the past ten minutes. He clicked off the flashlight and slid it into a holster ring fastened to his belt.
“No more questions. Welcome back to Austria, Ms. Ponte.”
“Thank you. Gute Nacht.”