They were not lucky. The motorcycle ran out of gas about six miles north of ~Sercaia 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 benzind. “
An old woman stood outside the gate and watched them approach. “Buna dimineata!” said O'Rourke.
“Buna 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.
“Vorbili englezd? 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 puteti spune, va rog, unde este a cea mat apropiabd stagie de benzind?”
The old woman blinked at him and raised empty hands. She appeared nervous.
“Simtem doar turild,” said O'Rourke reassuringly. “Not calatorim prin Transilvania . . .” He grinned and pointed to the motorcycle down the highway. “. . . 'de benzind.”
When the woman spoke, her voice was like old metal rasping on metal. “Eqti insetat?”
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! Mullumesc 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, rapidfire 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 benzind 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 Fagaras or Sighisoara or Brasov 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 blackclad 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 darkeyed stranger Kate had seen twice beforeonce 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 halfdragged, halfcarried toward the waiting helicopter.
Chapter Thirty-three
Romania from the air was beautiful. The helicopter stayed low, below a thousand feet, following the upper regions of the Olt River northwest and then swinging northwest up a broad valley. Kate saw a ribbon of highway below, sparsely traveled, and thought it must be the highway from Brasov to Sighisoara. The valley gave way to a high plateau which was still green in places, relatively free of trees except where thick copses grew on hilltops, and ridged with passes connecting the snow clad Fagaras and Bucegi ranges in the south to the unnamed mountain wilderness stretching as far north as Kate could see. The helicopter wove its way up the ascending plateau, often flying past tumbledown castles, huge stone abbeys that looked as if no one had visited for centuries, and medieval keeps that sat atop hilltops and crags which dominated the valley below. There were few farms in the valley and those few were collective monstrosities that seemed to be nothing more than a collection of long barns and stone buildings. Villages were small and scarce. The rest of the scenery was forest, mountain slopes, steep canyons boiling with low clouds, and ancient ruins. It was dramatic and beautiful.
Kate Neuman did not give a good goddamn about the scenery.