Could all that be connected? Was it possible that Travin, without meaning to, had hinted that these people were some sort of wild émigré sect — Russian and religious, anti-Semitic and anti-Soviet? There was no reason why this shouldn't be true; in fact, there are Russian émigré groups like this all over the world. But what was the connection to Brightman, to Dimitrov, to May — and why did the KGB take it so seriously that they were prepared to murder its members inside the United States?
When I arrived back in Berlin, I had no idea what the answers to these questions might be, and not much certainty that the questions themselves made any sense. In fact, I didn't have any ideas at all, and later that afternoon, when I returned to my customary position near the camp gate, I was really admitting that I couldn't think of anything better to do.
I got there about half past three and for the next couple of hours bored myself with the futility of my own thoughts. But finally, as dusk began to concentrate into full night, headlights swept over the gate. A man emerged, his shadow stretching over the road. The red-haired man — I could now tell them apart by their shape, bearing, stance. But there was someone else in the car with him, which made me curious, for I'd never known them to travel in pairs. It was the short, stocky one who usually drove the pickup… But now I was well into my little trick, pulling out and heading up the road, and once again I hadn't timed it right. Forty seconds passed. There were still no lights in my mirror, so I U-turned and doubled back. The road was empty, but as I came through the curve I could see their taillights way up ahead. They were driving the Scirocco and traveling fast: away from Berlin, toward Route 26. This wasn't the usual pattern-most of the time they headed for town — but then I'd never before followed them this late in the day. We came up to the highway. Left turn. North. Which was also rare. As the road twisted into the hills, I fumbled along the dash for my map. North of here was a place called Colebrook, very small; then the Vermont border; then Canada.
The highway curved and climbed higher, then swooped down through the Dixville Notch. Hanging on to the wheel, I kept my mind on my driving; the Scirocco sprinted ahead— your glorified Rabbit — while my Ford drifted clumsily through the curves and grumbled up grades. Still, the further we went, the more content I was to hang back; on a road with so many hills and curves, it was unlikely that they'd spot me, but there was no sense taking chances, especially since there were so few places where they might turn off. Even so, I almost made a mistake. We passed through Colebrook, where I closed up a little, and the border, eight or ten miles beyond, came up quicker than I expected. The border post here is very small— Canaan on the U.S. side; a tiny Quebec village, whose name I never did learn, on the Canadian — so there's just one small hut and a single guard. I only realized what was happening at the very last minute — if I hadn't pulled over, I would have been sitting right behind their car as they went through. As it was, I gave them five minutes before coming up and they were just pulling away as I arrived. Once I was cleared, I took after them. The road here was gravel, twisting along the shore of a lake, and no matter what you were driving you couldn't go very fast. No one seemed to live in this district; there was an abandoned farm, a few scruffy cottages, "The Christian Frontier Camp." At last I bumped up onto asphalt and then I picked up their lights. They led me to a town called Coaticook, then further west along the same narrow road. There were hills in the distance, big lumps of darkness, but rolling countryside stretched away on either side of the double-barreled sweep of the headlights. Now there were more houses, and farms whose floodlit silos were painted with the blue fleur-de-lys. I hung back — there wasn't much traffic — and when the Scirocco turned down a still smaller road, I put out my lights. The night was like ink. Driving blind, I edged out to the center line, guessing the curves by the twitch of their taillights. Entering woods, we started to climb. I had to slow down, but every time they went round a curve, I flicked on my lights and shot ahead, before dousing them again. Finally, a mile further on, they swung right. I slowed right down, watching them across an open field. Their lights poked down this side road about two hundred yards and then stopped; and then backed up a bit before turning sharp left. That had to mean a house or farm. I waited till they were gone, and then followed, my wheels crunching over the gravel. Passing the spot where they'd turned, I could see a lane leading up through some trees, with a glimmer of light just beyond. Keeping straight on for a hundred yards or so, I backed around and pulled over.
With the motor idling, I rolled down my window. A soft, rustling night spread around me. The air was cool, full of the smell of grass and wet earth. After those miles in the dark, I needed a break and lit up a cigarette, but as soon as my nerves had knit back together I got out of the car. Silently, staying on the grass at the edge of the ditch, I walked up to the lane. There was a mailbox, of course — I wondered if the damn things wouldn't haunt my dreams in future years as banal symbols of hidden identity. This was an old one, with a name crudely painted in red: N. Bern.
I went up the drive a few steps, but all I could see was a vague pattern of lights beyond some maple trees. My nose quivered then. There was an odd, strange smell in the air. Presumably this place was a farm, but it wasn't manure. Chickens? Pigs? It was different, stronger. Something like skunk, but not that either. The breeze shifted, the smell wafted away… I hesitated. I wanted to go further down the road, but I knew I couldn't. The two men in the Scirocco plus this N. Berri — that made it three against one, and if they caught me skulking around, what explanation could I possibly give?
I went back to the Ford.
An hour passed.
Then, around eight-thirty, a terrible howl cut through the night, ending with the most pitiful whimpering sound I'd ever heard in my life.