“My . . . chavo . . . son,” said Voivoda Cioaba. “Balan. “
“Pleased to meet you,” said Balan with a vaguely British accent. “Sorry I wasn't able to accompany my father to the meeting last night.” He extended his hand.
Kate thought that there was something salesmanlike in the handshake. Voivoda Cioaba showed his gold grin and nodded, as if proud of his son's language ability.
“Please,” said Balan, holding open the door of the lead Land Rover. “It is not a long voyage, but it is a slow one. And we must be many kilometers from the border by sunrise.” He took their bags from them and tossed the luggage in the rear of the vehicle as Kate and O'Rourke clambered into the backseat.
The other men had gotten in their Land Rovers with a great banging of doors. Engines roared. Kate watched as women in long robes appeared from the rocks and pulled down the poles and camouflage netting with practiced speed. Balan sat behind the wheel, his father in the leather passenger seat, as their vehicle led the way down the gulley and then out onto a flatter stretch of river valley. There was no road. Kate glanced over her shoulder but the other Land Rovers' headlights were almost completely covered with black tape, allowing only a thin crescent of light to escape.
The rest room on the Orient Express had been miserable, one of the filthiest lavatories Kate had ever seen in her travelsbut after a mile or two of kidney jarring, spineprodding travel, she was very glad that she had used it before reaching Lokoshaza. It would be embarrassing to have this caravan stop while she ran behind some boulder.
Kate was half asleep, the rhythmic bouncing and jarring almost hypnotic now, when Balan said, “If I may be so bold to ask . . . why do you choose to enter the People's Paradise in such a manner?”
Kate tried to think of something clever and failed. She tried to think of something merely misleading, but her mind had moved beyond fatigue to some region where thought flowed like cold molasses.
“We're not sure we'd be welcomed properly via the usual routes,” said O'Rourke. Kate could feel his leg against hers in the cramped rear bench. There were boxes piled on the floor and seat next to him.
“Ahhh,” said Balan, as if that explained everything. “We know that feeling. “
O'Rourke rubbed his cheek. “Have things gotten better for the Rom since the revolution in Romania?”
Balan glanced at his father and both men looked over their shoulders at the priest. “You know our name for ourselves?” said Balan.
“I've read Miklosich's research,” said O'Rourke. His voice sounded ragged with fatigue. “And I've been to India, where the Romany language probably originated.”
Balan chuckled. “My sister's name is Kalian ancient Gypsy name. The man who wishes to purchase her for a wife is named Angar, also an honorable Gypsy name. India . . . yesss. “
“What do you usually smuggle?” asked Kate. She realized too late that it was not a diplomatic question, but she was too tired to care.
Balan chuckled again. “We smuggle whatever will bring us the best price in Timisoara, Sibiu, and Bucharest. In the past we have smuggled gold, Bibles, condoms, cameras, guns, Scotch whiskey . . . right now we are carrying X-rated videotapes from Germany. They are very popular in Bucharest, these tapes.”
Kate glanced at the boxes next to O'Rourke and under their bags in the back.
Voivoda Cioaba said something in rapidfire Magyar.
“Father said that we have frequently smuggled people out of Romania,” added Balan. “This is the first time we have smuggled anyone in.”
They were crossing rolling pastureland. The dim lights illuminated only the slightest trace of ruts between rocks and eroded gullies.
“And this route is secure?” said O'Rourke. “From the border guards, I mean.”
Balan laughed softly. “It is secure only as far as the baksheesh we pay makes it secure.”
They bounced along in silence for what seemed like hours. It began to rain, first as an icy drizzle and then hard enough that Balan turned on the single wiper blade in front of him. Kate snapped awake as the Land Rover suddenly bounced to a stop.
“Silence,” said Balan. He and Voivoda Cioaba stepped out and closed the doors without slamming them.
Kate craned but could barely make out the other vehicles pulled in behind low shrubs. A river was nearby: she could not see it in the dark, but could hear the water running. She cranked down her window and the cold air lifted a little of the fog of fatigue that hung over her.
“Listen,” whispered O'Rourke.
She heard it then, some sort of massive diesel engine. Sixty feet above them, an armored vehicle suddenly came into sight along a highway or railway bridge. A searchlight joggled on its forward carapace, but it did not sweep left or right. Kate had not even known the bridge was there in the rain and darkness.
“Armored personnel carrier,” whispered the priest. “Russianbuilt. “
Another vehicle, some sort of jeep, followed, its headlights illuminating the gray flank of the armored car ahead of it. Kate could see the rain as silver stripes in the headlight beams: One of the men in the open door of the jeep was smoking; she could see the orange glow.
They must see us, she thought.
The two vehicles rumbled on, the sound of the diesel audible for a minute or more.
Voivoda Cioaba and Balan got back in the Land Rover: Without speaking, the young man engaged the fourwheel drive and they bounced down into the river itself. The water rose only to the hubs. They rocked and teetered along on unseen rocks, passing under the bridge. Kate could see barbed wire running down to the water to their right and left and then the fence was behind them in the darkness and then they were roaring up a grade so steep that the Land Rover spun wheels, slid, and almost rolled before Balan found traction and brought them over the lip of the bank.
“Romania,” Balan said softly. “Our Motherland.” He leaned out his open window and spat.
Kate did sleep for what might have been hours, awakening only when the Land Rover stopped again. For a terrible second she did not know where she was or who she was, but then the sadness and memory rolled over like a black wave. Tom. Julie. Chandra. Joshua.
O'Rourke steadied her with a strong hand on her knee.
“Get out,” said Balan. There was something new and sharpedged in his voice.
“Are we there?” asked Kate but stopped when she saw the automatic pistol in the Gypsy's hand.
The sky was growing lighter as Balan led O'Rourke and her away from the Land Rovers. A dozen of the other men stood there in a circle, their dark forms made huge by the large sheepskin jackets and caps.
Voivoda Cioaba was speaking rapidly to his son in a mixture of Magyar, Romanian, and Romany, but Kate followed none of it. If O'Rourke understood it, he did not look happy at what he heard. Balan snapped something back in sharp Romanian and the older man grew still.
Balan lifted the pistol and pointed it at the priest. “Your money,” he said.
O'Rourke nodded to Kate and she handed over the envelope with the other sixteen hundred dollars in it.
Balan counted it quickly and then tossed it to his father. “All your money. Quickly.”
Kate was thinking about all the cash in the lining of her carryon bag. More than twelve thousand dollars in American bills. She was reaching for the bag when O'Rourke said, “You don't want to do this.”