villages of Ca?lima?nesti, Brezoi, Balota…
“I think he’s heading to Sibiu,” Vesa said.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s the next biggest city. The man we’re following doesn’t strike me as someone who enjoys drives in the country. He’s a man of purpose.”
“You have a good eye.”
“It’s just logic.”
“How far is it from Bucharest to Sibiu?”
“Two hundred thirty kilometers.”
At Ca?inarii Mari, the Mercedes’ taillights flashed once, twice; then Fisher saw the car’s headlights swerving right, taking a fast turn over a bridge.
“Don’t slow down,” Fisher said. “Keep going.”
“They’re going to lose—”
“They’re checking for tails. Trust me.”
As the Opel pulled even with the bridge, Fisher darted his eyes sideways and caught a glimpse of the Mercedes, its lights now off, doing a U-turn on the bridge.
“Were they there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they spotted us?”
“I don’t know. We’ll know shortly.”
Three minutes passed; then the Mercedes’ headlights reappeared in the rearview mirror. Fisher watched closely, trying to gauge its speed; it was gaining ground but not at an alarming rate. Over the next fives minutes the Mercedes continued closing the gap until it was a foot from the Opel’s bumper.
“What’s he doing?” Vesa said, hands tightening on the wheel.
“Relax. When they pass, make sure you glance at them.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s the natural thing to do when a car rides your tail like a maniac, then passes. Glance at them, gesture, get mad.”
Fisher pulled his cap down over his eyes and nose and laid his head back on the rest, letting it go loose as though he were napping. “Let me know when they’re passing.”
“What if they shoot at us?”
“Then we know they spotted us. The first shot usually misses,” Fisher added. “It’s harder than the movies make it look. You’ll have a second or so before the second, better, shot comes.”
“I am not reassured.”
“You’re doing great.”
“He’s getting ready to pass us. He’s in the other lane,” Vesa reported.
“How fast?”
“Not too fast.”
“Did he signal?”
“Yes.”
“A good sign,” Fisher muttered from under his cap.
“They’re coming even with us.”
“Give them the okay sign?”
“The what?”
“Form your thumb and forefinger to make a circle. Do it.”
Vesa complied. After a few moments he said, “They’re pulling ahead.”
Fisher looked out from under the brim of his cap.
“What did that mean?” Vesa asked. “The circle.”
“You called him a zero. Or, worse, an asshole.”
“Oh.”
Predictably, Qaderi’s driver mostly obeyed the speed limit, never straying more than a few kilometers per hour under or over. Vesa’s Opel had no cruise control, but he did a good job of keeping the car at a steady pace.
“What are we going to do?”
“Wait. And hope we get a break.”
They did, twenty minutes later, as they rounded a bend in the river and pulled into the town of Raul Valc. Again Fisher saw the Mercedes’ brake lights flash a few times, but this time the turn was done slowly and evenly. A hundred yards back, Fisher could see the Mercedes had stopped at a gas station/convenience store.
“Drive past,” Fisher ordered, and Vesa complied.
When the lights of the convenience store disappeared behind them, Fisher said, “Turn right here. Stop.” Fisher reached up, toggled off the dome light, and opened his door. He climbed out and pushed his seat back into its fully reclined position. To Vesa he said, “Get back on the highway and keep heading north. Stay five miles under the speed limit. When the Mercedes passes you, wait until it’s out of sight, then turn around and come back for me.”
“And if they don’t pass me? If they take another road?”
“I’ll try to let you know. If it happens, get back as fast as possible. Go on, now.”
Fisher slammed the door and started walking back to the convenience store.
He had no plan and no time to come up with one, so he kept walking, trusting his training and his experience to recognize an opportunity.
The lights of the convenience store appeared ahead. Ten feet before the sidewalk ended at the driveway, Fisher remembered his cap. He took it off and tossed it into the bushes, then turned into the parking lot. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, hunched his shoulders, and loosened his gait, letting his right foot slap unevenly on the asphalt. The Mercedes was beside one of the pumps. One bodyguard stood pumping gas. The other stood just inside the store’s front door. Qaderi was nowhere to be seen.
Fisher could feel two sets of eyes on him, but he ignored them and kept walking, head down, until he reached the door, which he pulled open weakly. He shuffled past the bodyguard and headed toward the self-serve soda pop area. He bumped into a candy bar display and turned to set it straight; in the corner of his eye he saw the guard had turned toward him. His suit coat was unbuttoned and both hands were clasped at his belt. It was a classic ready-gun-hand pose, but Fisher couldn’t be sure if the man was armed or simply stood that way out of habit.
Fisher lifted a cup from the stack, stuck it beneath the ice chute, then the soda machine. Somewhere at the rear of the store came the sound of a door opening, then closing. Footsteps clicked on the linoleum. Fisher didn’t look up. He took his half-filled cup and shambled to the counter, where he dumped out a handful of euro coins, mumbled something incoherent, then turned and headed for the door. Qaderi was coming down the aisle toward him. Fisher ducked his head and sipped at the straw. The bodyguard took a step toward Fisher, simultaneously blocking and slowing down his principal. To his credit, Qaderi reacted as a good client, taking the hint and pausing behind his guard, who watched until Fisher had pushed through the door and turned right down the sidewalk, past a stack of bundled firewood.
He heard the ding of the convenience-store door opening. Qaderi and his guard appeared in the corner of his eye.
Transitions were the most dangerous times for VIPs and, as a result, the time when bodyguards are at their
