Dark Star

outside Feldhausen to the other end of the station platform and even a little way out into the countryside. The point was made: those were excellent matches, just the thing for woodsmen, mountain climbers, and any others who might need to light a fire.

As Szara approached the car, the man next to the driver climbed out, held the back door open and said, “Change of travel plans,” with a smile of regret.

His Russian was elementary but clear, phrased in the slow cadence characteristic of the southeastern reaches of the country, near the Turkish border. “It won’t be so inconvenient.” He was a dark man with a great belly; Szara could make out a whitening mustache and thinning gray hair spread carefully over a bald head. The driver was young-a relative, perhaps even a son of the passenger. For the moment he was bulky and thick, the extra chin just beginning, the hair at the crown of his head growing sparse.

Szara settled himself in the back seat and the car moved forward cautiously through the night mist. “You tried to contact me in Prague?” he asked.

“Couldn’t get your attention, but no matter. Which one do we want? “

Szara handed the satchel over the seat.

“Handsome old thing, isn’t it,” said the man, running an appreciative hand over the pebbled hide.

“Yes,” Szara said.

“All here? “

“Except for a pistol. That I dared not take through German border control. It’s at the bottom of the river.”

“No matter. It’s not pistols we need.”

Szara relaxed. Wondered where and how he’d be put back on his way to Berlin, knew enough about such treffs not to bother asking. The Great Hand moved everyone about as it would.

“Must keep to form,” said the man, reaching inside his coat. He brought out a pair of handcuffs and held them out to Szara over the back of the seat. The car entered a farming village, every window dark, thatched-roof stone barns, then they were again among the fields.

Szara’s heart pumped hard; he willed his hand not to rise and press against his chest.

“What?” he said.

“Rules, rules,” said the fat man disconsolately. Then, a bit annoyed: “Always something.” He shook the handcuffs impatiently. “Come, then …”

“For what?” Za chto?

“It isn’t for anything, comrade.” The man made a sucking noise against his tooth. He tossed the handcuffs into Szara’s lap. “Now don’t make me irritable.”

Szara held the cuffs in his hand. The metal was unpolished, faintly oily.

“You better do what we say,” the young driver threatened, his voice uncertain, querulous. Clearly he wanted to give orders but was afraid that nobody would obey him.

“Am I arrested? “

“Arrested? Arrested?” The fat man had a big laugh. “He thinks we’re arresting him!” The driver tried to laugh like the other man but he didn’t have the voice for it.

The fat man pointed a blunt index finger at him and partly closed one eye. “You put those on now, that’s plenty of discussion.”

Szara held his wrist up to the faint moonlight in the back window.

“In back-don’t you know anything?” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you. It’s just one of those things that has to be done-you’re certainly aware, comrade, of the many things we all must do. So, humor me, will you? ” He turned back around in his seat, dismissively, and peered through the ground mist rising from the road. As he turned, Szara could hear the whisper of his woolen coat against the car upholstery.

Szara clicked the handcuff around his left wrist, then put it behind his back and held the other cuff in his right hand. For a time, the men in the front seat were silent. The road moved uphill into a wood where it was very dark. The fat man leaned forward and peered through the window. “Take care,” he said. “We don’t want to hit an animal.” Then, without turning around, “I’m waiting.”

Szara closed the cuff on his right wrist.

The car left the forest and headed down a hill. “Stop here,” the fat man said. “Turn on the light.” The driver stared at the dashboard, twisted a button; a windshield wiper scraped across the dry glass. Both men laughed and the driver turned it off. Another button did nothing at all. Then the dome light went on.

The fat man leaned over and rummaged through the open satchel between his feet. He drew out a sheet of paper and squinted at it. “I’m told you’re sly as a snake,” he said to Szara. “Haven’t been hiding anything, have you?”

“No,” Szara said.

“If I have to, I’ll make you tell.”

“You have all of it.”

“Don’t sound so miserable. You’ll have me weeping in a minute.”

Szara said nothing. He shifted in the seat to make his hands more comfortable and looked out the side window at the cloudy silhouette of the moon.

“Well,” the fat man said at last, “this is just the way life is.” A shrill whine reached them from around a bend in the road and the single light of a motorcycle appeared. It shot past them at great speed, a passenger hanging on to the waist of the driver.

“Crazy fools,” the young man said.

“These Germans love their machines,” the fat man said. “Drive on.”

They went around the bend where the motorcycle had come from. Szara could see more woodland on the horizon. “Slowly, now,” said the fat man. He reached over and turned off the dome light, then stared out the side window with great concentration. “I wonder if it’s come time for eyeglasses? “

“Not you,” the driver said. “It’s the mist.”

They drove on, very slowly. A dirt track for farm machines broke away from the road into a field that had been harvested to low stubble. “Ah,” the fat man said. “You better back up.” He looked over the seat at Szara as the car reversed. “Let’s see those hands.” Szara twisted around and showed him. “Not too tight, are they?”

“No.”

“How far? ” said the driver.

“Just a little. I’m not pushing this thing if we get stuck in a hole.”

The car inched forward down the dirt path. “All right,” said the fat man. “This will do.” He struggled out of the car, walked a few feet, turned his back, and urinated. Still buttoning his fly, he walked to Szara’s door and opened it. “Please,” he said, indicating that Szara should get out. Then, to the driver: “You stay here and keep the car running.”

Szara shifted himself along the seat, swung his legs out, and, leaning forward in a crouch, managed to stand upright.

“Let’s walk a little,” said the fat man, positioning himself just behind Szara and a little to his right.

Szara walked a few paces. As the car idled he could hear that one cylinder was mistimed and fired out of rhythm. “Very well,” said the fat man. He took a small automatic pistol from the pocket of his coat. “Is there anything you would like to say? Perhaps a prayer?”

Szara didn’t answer.

“Jews have prayers for everything, certainly for this.”

“There’s money,” Szara said. “Money and gold jewelry.”

“In your valise?”

“No. In Russia.”

“Ah,” said the fat man sorrowfully, “we’re not in Russia.” He armed the automatic with a practiced hand, the wind gusted suddenly and raised a few strands of stiff hair so that they stood up straight. Carefully, he smoothed them back into place. “So …” he said.

The whine of the motorcycle reached them again, growing quickly in volume. The fat man swore softly in a language Szara didn’t know and lowered the pistol by the side of his leg so that it was hidden from the road. Almost on top of them, the cyclist executed a grinding speed shift and swung onto the farm track in a shower of dirt, the