The Istanbul Decision

Thirteen

The scenery rushed at him through the Fiat's windshield, a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors without definition. He squinted into the sun, clinging to the wheel with his good arm, desperately fighting to stay conscious. The pain was no longer centered in his shoulder. It had spread throughout his body, and with each beat of his heart, his whole being seemed to throb.

The flat, monotonous fields outside Györ had given way to the rounded crests of the Transdanubian Mountains, and the driving was getting more difficult. The road dropped three or four hundred feet in the space of half a mile, then rose almost as quickly in short, unexpected curves. More than once Carter jerked awake to find himself on the wrong side of the white line, another vehicle bearing down on him.

He knew he needed doctoring and needed it fast. He had ignored the awesome pain in his ribs after his fight with Shurin, and it had eventually subsided. There wasn't much one could do with cracked ribs but tape them and let them heal. But a bullet wound was a different matter.

And yet whenever he thought about the pain, which was every few seconds, his foot only pressed harder on the accelerator.

He had lost sight of the train in the intricate byways of Györ but relocated it again several times out on the flats, its stack spitting out black coal smoke as it charged down the track under a full head of steam. Running parallel with it at times, it galled him to think Cynthia and Roberta were only a few hundred feet away yet impossible to get to. It galled him, too, to think Kobelev and his daughter were together again, and there was nothing preventing him from killing Cynthia and even Roberta anytime he wanted.

He'd lost track of the train again during its ascent into the mountains, and by now he hadn't seen it for almost thirty minutes. His only hope, he figured, was by some miracle to meet the train in Budapest ninety kilometers away. It would stop if only for coal and water, and he had to be there when it did.

For the thousandth time he rubbed his eyes and willed himself to stay conscious and forget about the pain, and for the thousandth time his body answered with a constant hum, a "white noise" of red-hot sensation. The white line began to waiver in front of the hood. Soon it was further to the right than it was to the left. A car hurled itself at him from the opposite direction, its horn screaming a warning. He twisted the wheel at the last minute and it sped past, its angry wail fading gradually behind him.

This time it had been too close for comfort. He pulled over to the shoulder and stopped, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his heart galloping in his chest. There was nothing he could do, no way to get help. He forced his mind through every possibility from calling Hawk and having him send out the militia, to giving up right here and now and curling up to die, but nothing was viable. In the end there was only one course and that was to do what he was doing. He started the engine and pulled out onto the asphalt, wondering if he would wake up in time the next time.

Within a few minutes, despite his resolve, his eyelids began to droop and then close. In a few seconds he heard a rapping against the right front fender as though someone were hitting it with a hammer. He jumped awake in time to see the boulders on the road shoulder close enough in the passenger window to pick out the grain in the rock. He tried to pull away, but the bouncing against the granite wall jerked the steering wheel from his hand. The car caught a particularly large outcropping, spun around, and came to a sudden halt, throwing Carter against the door shoulder first. The pain exploded in his arm like a fragmentation grenade. He made only the briefest pass at staying awake before black night overtook him.

An old peasant woman carrying a steaming basin of water in her arms peered at him shrewdly from a distance of less than a foot, then turned and waddled across the low-ceilinged, whitewashed room to a boy who sat by a crude wood-burning stove. She poured the water from the basin into the sink and without looking at the boy, told him, "Fetch the doctor. The American is awake."

In less than a minute the boy returned with a swarthy man in his mid-fifties, a thick salt-and-pepper mustache covering his upper lip and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. Encircling his eyes were a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, over the tops of which he gave Carter a studious look. "How are you feeling?" he asked in English. "You are American?"

"Shaky," Carter said, ignoring the second question.

"You've had quite an ordeal. I took this out of your shoulder last night." He held up a wad of blood-encrusted lead.

"Last night? What day is it?"

"Monday."

"Holy Christ!" said Carter, starting to get up.

"Easy," said the doctor, holding him with a firm grip on his arm and shoulder. "You're not in any shape to go anywhere just yet. You'll have that wound open if you persist."

"You don't understand! I have to be in Budapest! I was supposed to be there yesterday!"

Carter struggled against the doctor's hold on him, the effort playing havoc with his shoulder.

"Go!" the doctor shouted to the boy who had been watching just inside the door. "Tell the commandant I can't hold him."

Carter strained for a few minutes more, then fell back on the bed exhausted. "They're gone by now, anyway," he mumbled.

"You are quite right, my friend," said a low, cultured voice. Both Carter and the doctor turned around. In the doorway, filling it, was a tall, elegantly slim man in the blue serge uniform of the Hungarian People's Army. At least it looked like other Hungarian Army uniforms Carter had seen; the difference was this one didn't fit like a gunny sack. It had been custom tailored to smooth out every bulge and wrinkle. From the gold on his shoulders, Carter guessed a colonel or higher.

"Let him up, Doctor, if he wants to sit."

The doctor released him, and Carter pulled himself painfully into a position where he could lean his back on the whitewashed wall.

"The doctor tells me you have remarkable powers of recovery," the commandant said, coming closer. "I see now that he was right. Most admirable. Would you care for a cigarette?" He held out a gold case filled with dark brown cigarettes, which Carter recognized as Russian-made. Carter took one, then the commandant took out one for himself, tapped it firmly against the case, and lit it. He lit Carter's, then drew up a chair and sat down.

"Where am I?" asked Carter.

"In the mountains about halfway between Budapest and Györ. The village is called Diosd. One of the local peasants found you after your unfortunate accident while he was returning home from making a delivery. He was going to take you to the hospital in Budapest, but he recognized a bullet wound when he saw one and figured you were in some sort of trouble, so he brought you here."

"Some favor," said Carter sourly.

The commandant smiled. "You mustn't blame the peasant for my presence. He had no choice in that. Besides, I'm afraid you overestimate the effectiveness of your security. We've been monitoring your movements since you left Györ. We would have found you after you failed to pass through our last checkpoint, in any event. And after all, it isn't so bad, is it? Your wound has been tended to, and soon you will be given free transportation back to the Austrian border."

"I have a job to finish in Budapest."

"Doctor, would you excuse us for a moment?" asked the commandant.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, then without a word walked to the sink, gathered up several instruments that lay in a tray beside it, and went out the door.

When he was gone, the commandant pulled his chair several feet closer to the bed. "I think you should know," he said in a confidential tone, "my superiors regard you as nothing more than a common assassin and would like to have you shot. And they would have sent me here to do just that if it weren't for the Soviets themselves. None of them seems to be able to determine where Comrade Kobelev stands in the pecking order. They are afraid to serve his cause and afraid not to. They are very confused, and as long as they remain so, we Hungarians will wash our hands of both of you. Kobelev is speeding out of the country right now, and you are incapacitated. Things work out well in the end, no?"

"No," said Carter resolutely. "There are two women aboard that train, American citizens, and my government is going to take it very much amiss if any harm…"

"Ach!" the commandant exclaimed harshly. "You have no rights here. You have all entered the country illegally. All except Miss Stewart, which I am told is her real name, and she is nothing but a spy masquerading as a Hungarian schoolteacher. You are all undesirable aliens, and we shall be glad to get rid of the lot of you!" He punctuated this last statement by snapping the ash from his cigarette onto the immaculate wooden floor, and for several minutes this ended the conversation.

They smoked. The commandant watched Carter, but Carter ignored him and stared at the floor. He was thinking of Cynthia and Roberta and his dwindling chances of rescuing them.

"You know," said the commandant finally, "it isn't that I dislike you, my friend. You are an impressive man, and I must admire your training. For instance, your Hungarian is very good, almost accent-free. And you have come a long way against formidable odds. The doctor tells me you've had several ribs cracked recently. Your capacity for punishment is astonishing. But I have a job to do."

"You don't like Kobelev any better than I do, do you?" asked Carter.

"What makes you say that?"

"It's true, isn't it?"

"I dislike the man, I'll admit it. He's a legend in the KGB. The stories they tell are frightening. Let me put it this way — I disapprove of his methods. To me he typifies the entire Soviet approach to government. Ruthless, power-for-the-sake-of-power. Altogether a despicable man. But one can't always choose one's bed partners in this day and age. A small country such as mine must be aligned with someone strong."

Outside, an engine started up. "What's that?" asked Carter.

"The helicopter to take you to Austria. I imagine a man of your extraordinary endurance is up to traveling."

The door swung open and the doctor rushed in. His hair was windblown, and behind him out in the barnyard the grass was being whipped flat by the wash from the chopper's big rotor.

"You can't move this man now!" he shouted.

"Why not?" asked the commandant calmly.

"Because his condition hasn't had a chance to stabilize. Move him now and you may kill him."

"Orders are orders, Doctor. I'm afraid our friend here is something of an embarrassment."

"You let me save his life. You don't expect me to stand by and let you kill him, do you? Give him twenty-four hours."

The commandant slowly shook his head.

"We are not like these Americans who believe in nothing but money. We have some appreciation for the value of a human life."

The commandant looked hard at Carter, considering. Finally he said, "Very well. Twenty-four hours. No longer. I'll leave the helicopter and crew on hand to take him back as soon as you say he's up to it." He opened the door, then turned and looked directly at Carter. "We are not barbarians," he said and went out.

The doctor came over and gently took the cigarette from Carter's fingers and dropped it with a hiss in a nearby water glass. "You must sleep," he said. "You'll need your strength."

"Can't I make anyone understand?" asked Carter plaintively. "The lives of two young women depend on…"

"Shh!" said the doctor harshly. "Sleep. I've bought you sometime. Hopefully enough to keep you alive. Don't ruin it by trying to do something foolish."

He pushed Carter back on the bed and pulled the blanket up under his chin. Carter stopped fighting. He was afraid the doctor would give him something to make him sleep, and he needed his thinking sharp. The doctor pulled the crude homespun curtains over the low windows and crept to the door. He opened it, creating an oblong of light, and stepped out. Behind him, staring in, wide-eyed, was the boy.

When Carter's eyelids next fluttered open, he found himself surrounded by a pale yellow light. The boy was standing over him holding up a chimneyless kerosene lantern and staring. When he realized Carter was awake, he gave a little gasp of fright.

"Don't be scared," Carter whispered. "What's your name?"

"Milos," the boy replied softly.

"Milos. Ever been to Budapest, Milos?"

The boy nodded.

"I'll bet you'd like to live there someday."

The boy nodded again, vigorously.

"I'd like to get to Budapest, Milos. I have some friends there waiting for me. But these men won't let me go. I have to go, and they won't let me. I need help, Milos. Your help, if I'm ever going to get there in time. Do you like knives, Milos?"

The boy nodded again and produced an ancient jackknife from his pocket. It was Swiss but had been badly abused by one of its owners. Only two blades remained, one of them rusty and the other badly chipped. And yet, in the way he handled it, Carter could see it was worth its weight in gold to the boy.

"I'll bet no one else around here has a knife as nice as this." He took it from the boy and held it up to look at it. "Two blades," he said appreciatively, pulling out the rusty one and running his finger along its edge. "Where did you get it?"

"Traded for it," said the boy.

Carter nodded sagely. "I have a knife, too," he said, "even nicer than this. I'd be willing to give it to someone who helped me get to Budapest."

The boy said nothing.

Carter took him earnestly by the arm. "My clothes, Milos. And my weapons. The soldiers have them outside. Bring them to me and I'll give you as fine a knife as you've ever seen, I promise you."

The boy's gaze remained level, and Carter wasn't sure he'd understood. He thought of rephrasing it somehow but decided it was no use. Wilhelmina and Hugo were most likely locked away in a police vault miles from here by now. He fell back on the bed and sighed. The boy reached over, retrieved his knife, and put it back in his pocket.

The door swung open suddenly, and the peasant woman appeared with a bucket in her hand. "Milos!" she shouted. "Get away from there!"

The boy backed away guiltily.

"Go on now. Go out and play. Leave the poor man alone." She flapped her apron at him as though she were herding chickens. The boy hurried to the door, opened it, but before going out he cast a hasty glance back at Carter. Then he ran off, and the woman slammed the door behind him. "Ruffian," she exclaimed, shaking her head when he was gone.

She turned and poured the contents of the bucket into a large kettle on the stove. Then with a long match she lit a fire and fed it wood a few pieces at a time. There was something in her movements, the slow, ponderous way she worked, that was relaxing to watch. When the kettle was steaming, she picked it off the stove and brought it over beside the bed. "I have to change those dressings," she said.

Slowly she began to undo the gauze bandage the doctor had put on earlier. The wound looked ugly, but her calm, purposeful expression never changed. Gently she dabbed at his shoulder with cotton and water from the kettle. "I'm the horse doctor around here," she said. "That's why they brought you to me. Show me a body can mend a horse, and I'll show you a body can fix almost anything." Her country accent had a delightful lilt.

When she finished cleaning the area, she snipped off several lengths of gauze and tenderly pressed them into place. Then she taped him. When she was done she told Carter to roll onto his stomach.

For several minutes her strong fingers kneaded the muscles of his shoulder and neck in a slow steady rhythm, then Carter lost track of the individual movements and gave himself over to the overall sensation of pleasure. The effect was miraculous. Pain and tension seemed to melt away. He relaxed completely and was soon fast asleep.

He awoke the second time in darkness. There was no light at the window or at the threshold of the door. At first he thought he was alone, then he heard a movement. Shoes shuffled across the wooden floor. Something heavy landed on the foot of the bed. Pulling himself up, he reached down to feel what it was. Wilhelmina.

"Milos?"

In answer, something else fell, this time lighter and more flexible. He ran his hand down and felt the rough shirt and trousers Schwetzler had lent him what now seemed like years ago.

"Good work, Milos, my boy!"

Carter got up and hastily began to dress. He was a bit shaky but too excited to care. He pulled on the trousers as best he could and was tucking in the shirttail when the boy struck a match and lit the kerosene lamp. When he had it flickering, he sat down in a chair and began to examine the stiletto, lovingly running his fingers up and down the blade.

"That's right. She's all yours, Milos," Carter whispered, checking the Luger's cartridge clip, then stuffing it into the waistband of his trousers. "Here, let me show you something." He came over, picked up Hugo's special sheath, and fastened it to the boy's forearm. Then he loaded the stiletto into the spring mechanism. "Now flex the muscle," he said. The boy flexed, and the knife shot out and skidded across the floor. The boy started to retrieve it when Carter caught him by the arm and spun him around until they were looking directly into one another's eyes.

"This is no toy, son. It's a weapon used to kill men. More than one has left his blood on it. Think about that and treat it accordingly." The boy nodded solemnly.

While Milos was on the other side of the room, Carter bent down and blew out the lantern. The boy seemed to sense what was happening and stopped moving.

Carter drew back the window curtain. The helicopter's long blades glistened in the moonlight. To the left, in the shadow of a low, oblong shed, the flames of a small fire danced in the wind. He started for the door, but the boy grabbed his arm. "So long," Carter said in English, squeezing the boy's shoulder. "You'd better hide that knife for a while, or they 're going to know who helped me out of here."

For a moment the boy just held him as though he wanted to say something but was having trouble finding the words. Then he said, "Koszonom."

"You're welcome," said Carter, ruffling the boy's hair. Then he pushed open the wooden door as noiselessly as he could and descended into the barnyard.

The helicopter stood on a grassy plot between the house and the shed, a Soviet production model, the kind the NATO boys called a "hound." It was easy to see why the doctor had been reluctant to have him moved in it. In this particular version the passenger capsule had been removed and the after-cabin left open. It would be cold and breezy at five thousand feet.

He crept along the stock fence to the far side of the shed, to the end opposite the glowing fire, then through the thick grass along the shed's outer wall until he was close enough to see the long shadows the men cast and hear their voices.

Silently he flipped off the Luger's safety, then crouched down to wait. Bits of conversation came to him on the wind, but nothing coherent. Then he heard the dry weeds crackle a few yards off, and he knew it wouldn't be long.

A dark figure appeared around the corner of the building, unzipped his pants and spread his legs slightly. A soft hissing followed as Carter stole up from behind.

"Not a movement, not a sound," he whispered as he placed the Luger's barrel to the back of the man's head. The man stiffened, and his stream abruptly terminated. "You're through here. Turn around and walk back to your friends."

As they entered the firelight, the conversation suddenly stopped, the others turning toward them.

"Throw your guns down," Carter shouted. The men obeyed. There were two AK-47 machine guns and several small arms.

When they were disarmed. Carter motioned for them to stand, then waved them away from the helicopter. "Turn around and start walking away. Now! Move it."

For a moment or two it seemed as if the soldiers would not obey his commands. He raised his weapon a little higher, and they turned and hurried away.

He let them get at least a hundred yards away before he scrambled aboard the chopper.

The machine started easily, and in a moment or two the oil pressure had come up, and the engine steadied. The soldiers were running toward the house. Probably more weapons.

Carefully Carter eased the pitch and speed controls forward, and the machine slowly lifted off the ground, the pain from his wound making him nauseated. But he was on his way, the thought of Kobelev blanking out all other considerations.

Budapest with its geometric grid of lights and black Danubian abyss in its center came and went, as did the local air traffic control, whom Carter managed to convince he was on an important military exercise. Word had evidently not caught up with him yet.

From the charts aboard, Carter figured Kobelev and the kidnapped train had passed Budapest hours ago. By now it would be nearly to the Rumanian border to the south.

South of the city he picked up the mainline tracks, dipped in low, and cranked the throttle full.

The land flattened, and the tracks ran like knife edges toward the horizon. He kept his altitude low, rising only for bridges and overhead wires.

Within half an hour he had reached Szolnok on the Tisza River. He skirted the town and continued south, the steady beat of the rotors almost lulling him to sleep. It seemed as if he had been flying forever, toward a goal he would never reach…out of touch with the world and with his own past, Kobelev the only thought that mattered any longer.