Alan Furst - Blood of Victory

“What was that about?” Serebin asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Could they drive it.”

Marrano started the car, eased back out of the alley, and drove through the village, back toward the Szechenyi road. “We’ll have to avoid the border post,” he said. “By now, they’ve got themselves organized and they’re certainly looking for you.”

The idea of cars, in 1805, did not occur to Count Szechenyi. On the dirt road, the speedometer needle quivered at thirty kilometers an hour but, once they reached the hewed rock, it stayed well below that. And they were soon enough in mountain weather; rising mist, like smoke, and a fine drizzle-the stone cliffs at the edge of the road shining wet and gray in the glow of the headlights. The road was, at least, empty. They worked their way past a single Gypsy wagon, and after that there was nobody.

“How far is it?” Serebin asked.

“To the border? About sixty kilometers.”

Serebin watched the speedometer. “Five hours, maybe.”

“Could be.” Marrano glanced at his watch. “It’s after nine. We’ll want to get rid of the car and take to the fields before dawn.”

They crept along at walking speed, water gathering on the windshield until it began to run in droplets and Marrano turned on the single wiper, producing a blurred semicircle above the dashboard and a rhythmic squeak.

Marrano peered into the darkness, then braked carefully and the car rolled to a stop.

“What is it?”

“A hole.”

Serebin got out of the car and inspected it. “Not bad,” he called out. “But sharp.” He motioned Marrano forward, used hand signals so that the wheels ran on either side of the hole, then took a step back, and another, to make room for the car. Glancing behind him, he saw that the cliff fell away down to the river, black water flecked with white foam.

The Aprilia drove past the hole, Serebin got back in, and they managed a few kilometers without incident, until a doe and her fawn appeared from the brush and the car slid a little as Marrano braked. The deer galloped away from them, then bounded off down the hillside.

1:20. A light in the distance, a suffused glow from somewhere below the road. Marrano turned out the headlights, drove slowly for a few hundred feet, than shut off the ignition and let the car roll to a silent stop. Even before they opened the doors, they could hear the sound of working engines as it rose from the river. They walked up the road and looked over the edge of the hill.

The Moldova Veche pilot station was floodlit by a giant river tug, with crane barges working at either end of the canal, and patrol boats anchored offshore. A few wisps of smoke still rose from the ruined structure, and two German officers stood on the dock, pointing as they talked. The last barge in line was nowhere to be seen, and the Empress had apparently been taken away.

“Turbines in the canal?” Marrano whispered.

Serebin nodded.

“Not so bad-they’re working day and night.”

He was being decent about it, Serebin thought. “Probably won’t stop anybody from going anywhere.”

“No? Well, they’ve got the Germans in here, must mean something.”

They got back in the car. Marrano kept the lights off and drove close to the cliff wall, staying as far as he could from the sight line below them. When they were safely around a curve, he turned the lights back on. “Is it getting narrower, here?”

“A little, maybe.”

The Aprilia climbed for a few minutes, the road swung away from the river, then descended, Marrano pumping the brakes as the sedan whined in first gear. In the sky ahead of them, a white flicker, followed by a zigzag flash against the clouds and a long, low roll of thunder as the rain intensified. “Spring storm,” Marrano said. The wiper squeaked as it cycled back and forth. “Must get that fixed,” he said.

2:00. 2:15. Hard work for Marrano, leaning over the wheel and squinting into the rain, shifting back and forth between second and third gears. The engine didn’t seem to like either one and, as it labored, Serebin watched the needle on the temperature gauge.

“Road’s not meant for cars,” Marrano said.

“Horse and carriage.”

“Yes. Make a note of that, would you. For next time.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

A few minutes later, Marrano said, “What was that?”

The road curved, hanging on the side of a mountain, and he’d seen a light, thought he had, somewhere ahead where, for a moment, a distant section of the road came into view.

“Some kind of light,” Serebin said.

“Another car?”

“Yes, maybe.” But on reflection he didn’t think so. “Was it fire?”

Marrano had to slow down as the road drifted to the left, then narrowed to the width of a single car. “We’re back on the river,” he said. Barely crawling, they approached a sharp corner to the right, then back to the left. On the other side, an army roadblock.

In the flickering light of pitch pine torches driven into crevices in the rock, a squad of soldiers, most of them trying to shelter in a hollow at the foot of the cliff, and a command car with a canvas top, parked against the cliff wall. Marrano managed to get the Aprilia around it with inches to spare, then stopped in front of a barrier-a pole laid across two x-shaped sawhorses made of cut logs.

Marrano unbuckled his briefcase, on the floor by the gearshift, and found what he was after just as an officer, water streaming down his rubber cape, stepped into the headlights and held up a hand.

Marrano rolled down the window. “Yes, sir?”

The officer came around to the driver’s window and peered into the car. He was young and vain and very pleased with himself, stared first at Marrano, then at Serebin, and said, “Passports.”

Marrano took his passport from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to the officer. “He doesn’t have one,” he said casually, nodding at Serebin.

“Why not?”

“He’s coming from the Bucovina. The Russians took it away.”

Serebin got just enough of this-the USSR had occupied the province a few months earlier.

Not an answer the officer expected. “He’ll have to wait, then. You can go ahead.”

“He can’t wait, sir. It’s his wife, she’s giving birth in Belgrade.”

“Too bad.” He looked directly at Serebin and said, “You. Get out of the car.”

“His wife, sir,” Marrano said. “Please, she needs him by her side, she’s not well.”

The officer’s mouth grew sulky. “Get out,” he said, flipping his rain cape aside and resting a hand on the flap of his holster.

Marrano held his fist just below the edge of the window, where only the officer could see it, paused a moment for effect, then uncurled his fingers. Four gold coins gleamed in the torchlight. The officer stared, transfixed. This was a fortune. He reached through the window, took the coins, and put them somewhere beneath his cape. Then he stood up straight. “Now get out,” he said. “Both of you.”

Serebin was watching Marrano’s left foot, where it pressed the clutch pedal against the floorboard. It rose-quickly, but under control-as his other foot stepped on the gas. There was a soft thump-the officer sideswiped by the car, then Marrano drove full speed into the pole. Didn’t work-the sawhorses slid backwards, so Marrano jammed the accelerator to the floor, the engine howled as the tires spun on wet rock, one of the sawhorses tipped on its back and the other disappeared over the edge of the road. The car leaped forward, bouncing over the pole, past a soldier’s white face, his mouth open wide with surprise. Marrano hammered his hand against a knob on the dashboard and the lights went out. Something pinged against the trunk, something else made a spiderweb in the rear window.