The guard was now measuring Alex's passport photo against his face. It was totally unnecessary. He was obviously dawdling to drag out the conversation. Why couldn't Eugene keep his mouth shut? Freedom was only ten yards ahead of them-if only Eugene would shut his yap.
The boy began thumbing through Alex's passport again, visibly more attentive to Eugene's ramblings about his hero than his work. He asked, not all that casually, "So you are big friend of Reagan's. Why then, you must tell me, you are traveling with these Russians?"
"Russians" spat out of his lips loaded with enough contempt to make it sound like he wanted to pull his pistol and blow Alex and Elena back to the gates of Moscow.
"They're old friends," Eugene replied, thinking fast.
A troubled look on the boy's face. He scratched his unwashed hair, shuffled his feet, and stared glumly at the passport. "This name, Konevitch, I think I have heard before."
"No surprise there," Eugene conceded in a quick rush of words. "Alex is… was… a dissident, a very famous one. He wrote brilliant essays about the rot of communism, they were smuggled out and published in the West." Eugene pushed his face closer and confided, "Guess how we met? Come on, guess."
Bunched shoulders. No idea.
"Ronnie introduced us. Get this-he told me personally that Alex's essays inspired him to tell the Russians to haul their asses out of East Europe."
The guard bent over and studied Alex's face more closely. His eyes narrowed and his lips scrunched with curiosity. Eugene's expansive lie suddenly did not appear all that clever. Alex tried to appear relaxed, humble, and proud, anything to look convincing. Would he become curious about Alex's injuries? Maybe he wasn't buying Eugene's bullshit. Or maybe he remembered exactly why the name Konevitch sounded familiar. Alex and Elena fought an overwhelming urge to hop out of the car and make a run for it. Just run as fast as their feet could go, flee into the nearest field, and hope the boy's marksmanship was as awful as his English. They squeezed each other's hands and prayed. The examination seemed to go on forever. "If he so famous," the guard eventually asked, fingering the passports, "why then you are traveling in this very awful car?"
Elena wagged a finger at that backseat. "In honor of our American friend." A knowing wink and she flashed her cutest smile. "We thought it would be fun for him to experience the full splendor of communist quality. He hasn't stopped complaining the entire trip."
The guard laughed, handed the passports to Alex, took a step back, and waved his arm. "Welcome to the independent Slovakian Republic. Drive carefully, if you please."
10
The drive through Slovakia to the airport proved mercifully uneventful. Slovakia, the former half of Czechoslovakia before the "velvet divorce" rendered it asunder, had at one time been its industrial breadbasket, a cauldron of sprawling factories that spewed out guns and bombs and other nasty devices for the Soviet army. That business had suddenly dried up: the country now resembled a ghost town; having survived sixty years of communism, it wasn't clear it would survive capitalism. The huge factories no longer belched smoke out of towering chimneys. Little traffic was on the roads.
They stopped at a roadside eatery and killed a few hours, engulfing coffee and battling to stay awake. Alex insisted on it. But even had Elena or Eugene considered it a terrible idea, they were not about to object. One look and they could see Alex was on his last legs. He slumped in the chair, could hardly lift his head, and rubbed his dislocated shoulder and kneaded his sore leg constantly. They could barely imagine how horribly his fried chest ached and throbbed.
The beating and torture had sapped his incredible energy. He spoke little, only when absolutely necessary. The words came out slurred in short sentences, almost a labored whisper.
Elena was worried about him. He should be in a hospital, for godsakes. Every bone in his body should be X-rayed, his wounds cleansed and rebandaged, his chest embalmed in a burn packet. Then he should be pumped full of miracle drugs until the grimness in his eyes melted, until laughing fairies were dancing inside his head. But a powerful sense of guilt was driving him, she knew. He blamed himself for this whole mess; for being rich enough that serious people would want to steal it; for not insisting that a hundred security men shadow him everywhere; especially, he was ravaged with regret for dragging her and Eugene into this.
And now he was shouldering full responsibility for getting them out of it.
The first round of coffee and pastries arrived. They dug in and ran through the situation. Alex summoned energy from some hidden reserve and summarized their situation. The easy passage across the border could be a sign that his fears were overblown, Alex told them; or it was just a fickle stroke of luck. So play it safe. Assume people were still out there, hunting, so they should drag it out awhile. With each passing hour, the searchers would become more tired. Tired meant sloppy. Better yet, it might mislead them into believing their prey had traveled much farther than they had. They would be forced to extend and widen their dragnet, increasing the chance of slipping through. When the time was right they would jump back into the car, drive straight to the airport, and have a quick look-see. If the airport was covered, this plan would go on the scrapheap, and they would devise another way to escape.
Elena wasn't sure Alex had enough left in him for this plan. A whole new one seemed out of the question.
So they sat and sipped coffee, the three of them, tense and keyed up. After the first cup, Alex excused himself and limped away from the table. By their fourth cup, Alex had returned. He collapsed into his seat and insisted they unwind and dwell on topics other than their troubles.
Eugene tried his best with lively tales about his slew of marriages, how they all belly-flopped into messy divorces. The stories were deliciously vulgar and quite funny. He had nicknames for each ex, wedded to a hysterical talent for mimicry. Number Two-Dallaszilla-apparently had an aggravating Texas twang, chewed loudly with her mouth open, and couldn't mutter a word without violently flapping her arms-a stuttering windmill stuck on overdrive. Eugene shucked his New York accent and produced an impersonation that was almost frightening.
This was the same ex who hired a PI to track her husband, then showed up at Eugene's suite at the Plaza, catching him red-handed with his newest mistress. The door burst open and Dallaszilla screamed and bellowed and howled with the unadulterated fury only a native Texan lady can manufacture. Her arms whipped around so hard, the mistress thought she was witnessing an epileptic fit and promptly dialed 911 for an ambulance. Eugene never spoke to the mistress again. He was furious with her. Forgiveness would never come. In court, he adhered to his lawyer's standard legal dictum-he denied, denied, denied-until three paramedics showed up to corroborate the affair. The judge happened to be a she, herself an aggrieved veteran of two nasty divorces with husbands who had philandered and then lied their way out of what she considered fair settlements.
His lawyer swore afterward that that gaffe cost him an additional five million dollars.
Elena found the stories hilarious. She laughed until it ached. For one brief, shining moment she almost forgot people were out there chasing, trying to murder them. Alex managed an occasional stiff smile, but had either heard the tales before or was preoccupied, or exhausted.
They were back on the road at two o'clock. An hour later, after twice getting lost, they turned off a highway and entered the airport complex. Elena pumped the brakes and said, "You two get down. I'll cruise the terminal. See how it looks."
Alex reminded Elena, for the fourth time, "Be sure to check the cars in the lot," then both men tried their best to melt into the seats.