“The Prophet was terribly keen on cats, you know,” Wisdom said as we stumbled over a couple of kittens who pranced around spitting fiercely and arching their backs and puffing up their tails only to forget what they were mad about in the next second.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“You can see the mark of His hand on their heads,” Wisdom went on.
“Truly,” I said.
“There is a legend.”
“Ah.”
“Mohammed cut off a piece of his robe rather than disturb the cat who was sleeping on it.”
“There must have been an easier way,” I said.
“Then there would have been no legend.”
I looked back several times, but if we were being followed, I couldn’t spot the tail in the dim streets. If there were more than one, they could have been ducking in and out of a score of dark alleys and doorways. I didn’t feel as if I were being followed, but then I never did which must indicate a low level of paranoia if nothing else.
“Left at the next street,” Tavro said and we turned out of the quarter and onto a wider thoroughfare that commemorated the Sixth Day of November which, Tavro informed me, was a state holiday whose occasion he couldn’t recall. It was his only failure as a guide thus far and I think it upset him a little.
“The train station is left at the next corner,” he said and I turned to inspect the group which I reluctantly was beginning to think of as a brood. Wisdom was with Gordana and Knight was with Arrie.
“This is a dead-end street,” I said. “The train station is about a block up. This time I’ll go by myself. If I’m not back in ten minutes, I suggest that you check in with Traveler’s Aid.”
“It’s cold here,” Arrie said.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” I said, turned and walked toward the station. I looked back twice at the five of them who huddled at the corner in a disconsolate group, looking something like a Salvation Army band that had lost its instruments.
The station was nearly empty except for a couple of Gypsies who were more interested in the tile stove than the next train and a shaggy-haired man in his thirties who wore a long, sheepskin-lined shepherd’s coat, a fur hat, and scuffed leather boots. He looked at me and I looked at him. Then I looked at my watch and wandered over to examine the train schedule.
“You figure on catching a train?” a voice said and I turned. It was the shaggy-haired man.
“I hadn’t thought of it,” I said. He needed a shave and maybe a bath, but he probably knew it as well as I did.
“The radio said you were dead. Hit-and-run.”
“Then what’re you doing here?”
“We took a chance.”
“How’s Killingsworth?”
“You ever spend a week with him?”
“No.”
“Don’t,” he said and looked around the station carefully. “You weren’t followed?”
“None that I could spot.”
He was a little shorter than I with dark brown eyes and quick, nervous movements. His hands made rapid, fluent gestures.
“You’re the Italian,” I said.
He nodded. “My partner’s staying with Killingsworth. Where’re the rest of them?”
“At the corner.”
“How many?”
“Five. Two women, three men.”
He rolled his eyes a little at that, but then gave me a magnificent shrug which made it perfectly clear that he considered them to be my foolish responsibility and one which would rest lightly on his shoulders for only a brief time.
“I got a Volks bus outside,” he said. “We may as well go.”
I followed him outside to a three- or four-year-old gray Volkswagen microbus that had chains on its rear wheels. I looked around again, but I could still see no one other than the two Gypsies in the train station. The Italian also took his time before climbing up into the driver’s seat.
“You sure you weren’t followed?” he said, starting the engine.
“Hell no, I’m not sure.”
“Cool it, friend, we’re almost home.” He paused a moment and then gruffly asked, “What do you think of my English?”
“It’s swell.”
“That’s what he says.”
“Who?”
“Killingsworth.”
“What’s he been doing?” I said.
“Chopping wood and when he’s not doing that, he talks. He says he’s going to write a story about us.”
“What do you tell him?”
“That we’re going to kill him. It keeps him quiet for a little while.”
“He still thinks it’s for real?”
“All the way,” the Italian said.
“What’s the schedule?”
“I’ll get you up to the castle. Then you’re on your own. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay.”
He pulled the Volkswagen up to the corner and I got out. The two women got in first, then Wisdom and Knight. Tavro seemed to hesitate. “What’s the matter?” I said.
“I must know your plan,” he said.
“Get in,” I said, “and I’ll try to think of one.”
24
We went south along the highway that climbs back into the mountains. About ten miles out of Sarajevo we turned east onto a narrow road which the snow plows had given only a lick and a promise. The Italian had to keep the Volks bus in first or second gear most of the time because it was a steep, twisting road with sharp, unannounced cutbacks and nearly right-angled corners. On the right I could see the side of a mountain, on the left I could see nothing — no guardrails, no billboards, only the edge of the road that I was sure dropped straight down for at least half a mile.
The Italian drove with all the fine, unconcerned flair of his race. I was glad that we were going up instead of down because the grade kept him below forty kilometers per hour most of the time. It took us almost an hour and a half to go what I estimated to be thirty kilometers. The Italian slowed the Volks down to a crawl and we crept through a village that was a cluster of stone houses and what looked to be a combination café and general store.
“From here we take the horses,” he said.
“Where’s here?” I asked.
“It’s called Trnovo,” he said, “and it’s not much.”
Just past the village we stopped at a small stone house that had a long low shed attached to it.
“Wait here,” he said and got out.
He knocked on the door of the house and I caught a glimpse of a tall dark man with a mustache that drooped solemnly down the sides of his heavy chin. Then the Italian was inside the house and the door closed.
“What is he doing?” Tavro said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Asking directions maybe.”
“He said something about horses,” Tavro said.
“That’s right.”
“When’s the last time you were on a horse, Phil?” Wisdom said.
I thought a moment “Nineteen forty-two, in Columbus, Ohio. It wasn’t really a horse though; it was a Shetland pony and it cost a nickel to ride around the ring. I was six or seven, I think.”
“I’ve never been on a horse,” Arrie said.
“Maybe you’ll like it,” I said.
Tavro was sputtering. “It is... it is ridiculous. It is playacting.”
“It’s the only transportation there is,” I said. “I don’t think we’ll have to go far.”