collapsed. They lay in silence, breathing heavily, shivering. Brano rubbed his temples to get rid of the pain, while Jan smiled blankly at the night sky.
Brano forced a soft, slow laugh. The Sorokas looked at him.
“What?” said Lia.
He raised himself on his elbows and laughed again-it came from deep inside himself, a strong, convincing laugh, but nonetheless an act. “Now I’m the one who has to pee.”
Maybe it was the stress finally rolling off their shoulders, but the Sorokas, after a second, laughed as well. Petre, delighted, said, “I can’t pee at all!”
Brano wandered back to the broken rowboat and urinated into the water, watching the out-of-reach spotlight turn in the distance. The pain in his head was becoming manageable. He zipped himself up and reached into his soaking coat pocket. He took out Jakob Bieniek’s passport and wrapped it tightly in a handkerchief, then squatted. He glanced back, but the Sorokas were unaware, huddled together for warmth. Then he hid the package in a dry pocket under the hull of the boat.
Brano returned, watching the faint western horizon. “They should’ve found us by now,” he said to Jan. “Where are the Austrian border guards?”
“I don’t do the planning, but it doesn’t matter. We’re safe now.”
“She said we go to the right?”
“To a road,” he said, a grin playing on the corners of his lips. “From here it’s simple.”
So they followed Jan across the grassy field. Brano caught up with him, hopping over occasional rocks. “You might as well tell me now.”
“What should I tell you?”
“What you sold the Americans. You opened a Viennese account with their money.”
“Why should I tell you that now?”
“Because in a few minutes I’m not going to be a problem anymore. Your friends will take me away, because I’m the reason they helped you get your family back. So you might as well tell me what information you sold them.”
Jan looked at him, for a moment stunned, then he snorted a half-laugh. “Information? Honestly, Brano, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” He squinted ahead to where a raised dirt road was just visible. A little to the left, Brano saw the silhouettes of two cars waiting in the darkness. He could make out the lights of the cigarettes held by men who leaned against the hoods. Five in all.
One stepped on his cigarette and jogged out to greet them, holding towels under his arm. He was tall, with a gray Viennese suit and a big smile. “ Gru? Gott,” he said, shaking Jan’s hand furiously, then gave them each a towel. He shook Brano’s hand, then kissed Lia’s with excited intensity. He crouched beside Petre and produced a bar of Toblerone chocolate wrapped in foil. “Been saving this for you, young man,” he said, and stood up. “ Herzlich willkommen in Osterreich! I’m Ludwig.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Lia, but with a flat, emotionless tone.
Jan, one hand rubbing a towel over his hair, placed the other on the Austrian’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“My absolute pleasure, Jan. It’s time for a new life!” He took Lia’s limp hand and kissed it again. “I’m sorry about the sudden change in plan-you never really know how these things will turn out. But now it’s time to get you into the warmth.”
As they approached the cars, the other four stepped on their cigarettes. They were all large men, their hats low, with significant bulges under their jackets.
When they reached the cars and one man put a hand on his shoulder, Brano did not resist. This was no surprise. He didn’t even protest as another patted him down to be sure he was unarmed.
He looked at Jan to see what expression he might have, but Jan was helping Lia into the back of a car. He went out of his way not to look at Brano as he followed her inside.
PART TWO: THE JOWLS
17 FEBRUARY 1967, FRIDAY
It had all been so predictable. The whole ride he didn’t ask a thing, because there was no point. He could imagine the scene in the American embassy those months ago. Jan Soroka, no longer able to live without his wife and son, asked for their help. Of course, the Americans told him. We are for freedom and the values of the family. Just one little thing you can do for us.
Brano Sev wasn’t vain; he didn’t imagine they had desired him a long time. No, they simply looked at Jan Soroka’s file, and some smart office boy lined up Soroka’s family home with a list of known intelligence agents. It was simple; it was a given. No one helps without asking a price.
But these men were not Americans; they were Austrian. Members of military counterintelligence, the Abwehramt, like the man he had knocked out in the Vienna Airport’s bathroom six months ago.
After ten minutes of driving, they passed a sign that said they were entering Apetlon, and Ludwig turned in his seat. He asked Brano, in German, to please excuse them. Then everything went black because of the burlap bag placed over his sore head.
So obvious. So predictable.
They didn’t talk in the car, and when, after perhaps two hours, they stopped, the only thing said was a polite, “Right this way,” as a hand led him by the arm into the cold night.
There was gravel beneath his feet and dirt. They were not in a city. The air through the burlap was fresh.
“Watch your step, now.”
He tripped over something, but they righted him-strong hands gripping his elbows. Someone cursed- Scheisse! — trying to work a set of keys into a lock, then they walked into a warm, dry place. Light bled through the burlap, and he could smell old cigarettes.
“Sit down, why don’t you?” someone said, then eased him back into a thick-padded chair. Soft, comfortable.
The bag was taken off.
It was a living room. Comfortable, bourgeois. His chair matched the gray Bauhaus sofa on the other side of a low coffee table stocked with periodicals- Der Standard, Stern, and the dissident Filip Lutz’s sounding board, Kurier. In the corner, between a large television and a cabinet of coffee cups and cocktail glasses, Ludwig whispered to one of the men, then checked his watch. He noticed Brano staring, and smiled.
“It’s a relief to get that thing off, isn’t it? Can breathe a little better.”
Brano glanced up at the fat man beside him with the bag in his hand. He was smiling as well. The third man walked out the front door and locked it behind himself.
“Something to drink?” asked Ludwig as he opened the cabinet door to reveal rows of bottles. “Brandy to warm you up? It’s a fully stocked bar.”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“How about some water?” As he spoke, he took out a plastic pitcher and began to pour a glass.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“It’s not drugged, Brano. Here-” Ludwig drank half the glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then placed it on the coffee table and settled into the sofa. “See? I feel fine. That’s mountain spring water, pure and simple.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Well, then. Want to change out of that?”
Brano looked down at his soaked clothes. “My clothes are supposed to be in transit.”
“No worries.” Ludwig nodded at the fat man. “Get that robe, will you?”
He brought a thick yellow robe from the bathroom and handed it to Brano, who stood, then hesitated. “Here?”
Ludwig grinned. “We’re not queer, Brano.”
