Sirens sounded from somewhere. She saw Artkin erupt from the van, propelled awkwardly onto the tracks, off balance, like a skater out of control, careening wildly. Antibbe followed him, tripped as he emerged from the van, his huge body crashing to the tracks, his gun squirting from his hand like a bar of soap.
The bus gained momentum. Grinding, roaring, jouncing. Kate gripped the steering wheel tightly, holding on frantically as the bus staggered backward, the motor magnificent now in its power. She urged the bus on, pumping the accelerator. Miro continued to pound at the door. She could not see Artkin, but Antibbe had gotten to his feet and scrambled now toward the bus, moving fast for such a huge man. She saw, horrified, that he had jumped on the bumper and was now trying to get onto the hood, one leg seeking purchase there, the gun aimed directly at Kate. Would he fire at her point-blank to stop the bus?
“Kate!”
Miro’s voice reached her, a scream, an animal in the scream. His hand was prying between the accordion pleats of the door as he ran alongside the bus. Antibbe was now on the hood, on his hands and knees, balancing precariously, the gun somehow still pointing at her. The kids were crying, screaming. What about herself? Was she screaming, too?
She poured all the strength at her command into keeping the accelerator against the floor—and the bus stalled.
Whined and fell silent.
Stopped without warning as if it had crashed against a brick wall.
Kate pitched forward and had to clutch the wheel tightly to avoid hitting the windshield. Antibbe was flung helplessly from the hood, the gun in his hand like a wand waved by a mad conductor. The children’s screams seemed to rise an octave. She looked back at them. They had tumbled around the bus like loose change in a pocket.
Kate saw with dismay that the van was only thirty or forty yards away, not far at all, not far enough. She thought she had driven farther than that, might have almost made it to the end of the bridge. Slumping in the driver’s seat, she lowered her head. She was close to tears, tears of frustration and anger. Anger at her own ineptitude. Damn it. She had failed. Failed utterly, failed the children and herself, missed her best—maybe only—chance of escaping, getting out of here. Had done nothing but make things worse. May have brought on retaliation, doomed them all.
And she was oozing down there.
Her migraine returned.
These things she hated about herself.
Miro pounded at the door, each blow like a nail into her flesh.
Without looking up, she swung the lever that admitted Miro into the bus.
For a split second, she thought: This is it, I am going to die. She closed her eyes, waiting. Then she opened them again, the darkness somehow worse than Artkin’s fury: darkness too much like death itself.
Artkin’s eyes were flat and cold and black. The mask emphasized their coldness, their mercilessness. Anger would have been better. Instead, this cold fury was directed at her, the eyes of a snake measuring the distance the fangs must travel to strike. She was also conscious for the first time of Artkin’s teeth. The thick sensuous lips had hidden them before, but now his teeth were bared. They were discolored, gray, uneven.
He had ignored her until this moment of confrontation. When the bus stopped, he had gone to Antibbe’s aid, helping the huge man hobble across the tracks to the van. Kate waited for sniper bullets, but none were fired. Miro stood at the doorway of the bus in answer to Artkin’s command: “Watch her. If she moves, kill her,” the words like doors slamming. Kate held on to the steering wheel for dear life. The children called to her, but she didn’t answer. Not daring to move. The innocence of the children’s voices filled her with sadness. More than sadness. Far beyond. She had let them down, betrayed them.
She felt Miro’s presence at the doorway. Only once since the abortive escape attempt had she looked at him. And he had turned away, refusing to meet her eyes. She knew that he was now her true enemy. She had drawn the line between them.
Within a few minutes, Artkin returned to the bus, darting swiftly from one vehicle to another, crouched, wary. And still no sniper fire. He handed Miro a wrinkled paper bag. “Give it to the children. This is the last one,” he said.
He turned to Kate.
“Stand,” he commanded.
She rose to her feet and stood tentatively near the doorway. Artkin turned the key in the ignition and drove the bus to its former position near the van. The motor ran smoothly and, as if to mock her, did not stall. Artkin slipped the key into his pocket. Standing up, he faced her.
“Do not move,” he said.
His hands reached out and gripped her shoulders. Hard. His touch repelled her. His hands began to move down both sides of her body, probing, inquiring.
“Turn out your pockets.”
She turned them out, removing her wallet and the pathetic, bunched-up panties. Artkin slipped the wallet into his pocket. He unfolded the panties and shook them out. Was he expecting still another key to be hidden somewhere?
She became aware of the children’s voices. In protest now. And Miro’s voice, answering the protests. “Take the candy, take it.” She heard one of the children retching, and another crying out, “I don’t want any more.” And still another: “I don’t feel good.”
Artkin ignored the developing clamour as his hands moved relentlessly across her body, over her stomach, down her thighs, his mained hand obscene, causing her to shudder. Up her legs, across her buttocks, impersonal, businesslike, the impersonality somehow more threatening and scarier than if his hands lingered, caressed, acknowledged that this was a woman’s body he was searching. His hands moved up again, reached into her armpits, scuttled across her breasts. Her breasts might have been objects on a shelf.
“Your shoes,” Artkin said.
She removed her sneakers. He looked into them, shook them and dropped them to the floor. She bent down, put them back on, left them untied. She stood again and realized that since that first cold look into her eyes, Artkin had not looked directly at her. He had avoided her eyes. And this was worse than his fury. She’s heard that jurors, bringing in a guilty verdict, were unable to look into the eyes of the accused. It’s difficult to look into the eyes of someone you will be responsible for killing. Miro had turned away from her. And Artkin averted his eyes. If she didn’t feel so exhausted, so bankrupt, so utterly spent, she’d be dissolving in panic.
Now the children’s cries were louder. Just as they’d been docile together as if taking the cue from each other, now they were protesting in unison, complaining of stomach aches, crying for their mothers, calling to Kate. She hazarded a glance toward them. Miro was holding out the bag of candy helplessly, uncertain how to proceed. One of the children, blond little Karen, leaned out of her seat, retching, on the verge of vomiting. Kate resisted an impulse to run to the child, to find the pail, to let the child get all the dope out of her system, to hold her while it all came up.
“Quiet,” Miro yelled at them. “Be quiet.”
But the clamour continued, wails and cries and moans.
“That was a serious mistake, miss,” Artkin said, his face a breath away from her face. “It was a foolish mistake. Foolish because we are in negotiations now and your delivery is almost complete. Your stupidity might have ruined everything, touched off an attack.”
She did not say anything. But a small hope flowered within her. If he was talking to her, giving her hell, then he probably wouldn’t kill her. Not now, not yet.
“You are still useful to us, to a certain extent. Because of the children. They are getting the last of the drugs.” He glanced in their direction. “And they are also upset now. You must take care of them, keep them quiet. We are in a delicate time with the negotiations. There must be no upsets. We are pledged to kill a child if the people out there take any kind of action. But they are also watching us, to see what might happen.”
Hope was blossoming now. Time. She was getting more time. Little Karen was still retching, huge gasps surprising from suc
h a small child.
“One of the children is sick. Let me go to her,” Kate said.
“No more tricks, miss. One more trick and you die. Believe me, this mission is worth more than your life.”
“No more tricks,” Kate promised.
Artkin stepped aside. Kate rushed to the nauseated child, arriving in time for the child to vomit all over the floor of the bus, a pinkish sickening fluid that splashed on Kate’s hands and jeans, causing Kate herself to get sick to her stomach, even while she held the gasping, miserable child close to her and murmured whatever words of consolation she could muster.
“Miro.”
Artkin’s voice was flat, cold, deadly.
Miro hesitated, then stepped past the pool of vomit on his way to the front of the bus. Kate was able to squeeze out a small measure of compassion for him. Miro was about to get a bit of his own hell, and Kate knew she was to blame.
He felt the lash of Artkin’s words. The sting.
He was afraid the girl could hear them, which would cause even greater humiliation and embarrassment.
But although Artkin’s words were harsh, he spoke in whispers, furious whispers, full of anger, but whispers at least. And the children were still fussing, still crying, still seeking the girl’s attention.
Miro was hardly aware of the background noise, however, because Artkin’s words flayed him. He shriveled inside his clothes, his face was flooded with shame inside the mask. He wished he could cover his eyes, to escape Artkin’s anger.
You neglected your duty. You turned your back on the girl. You did not win her confidence. You almost wrecked this operation.
Miro winced, grimaced, glad that Antibbe and Stroll were in the van and were not witnesses. And yet it was Artkin who mattered, Artkin whom he did not wish to disappoint, Artkin whose praise he’d always sought.
I accept mistakes because humans make mistakes. And the young are expected to make mistakes. But to be careless is different. To be outside the bus with the girl inside, that was more than a mistake.
Artkin had scolded him before. But always with understanding. As a teacher scolds a pupil. But this was worse than a teacher reprimanding a student. Much worse. He was rebuking him as he would rebuke any other fighter, any other soldier. And Miro was plunged into despair. He had gained manhood on this operation. Artkin had confided in him. Treated him as a man. And he had failed Artkin. He had had no time to know pride in his manhood before he had made a mockery of it.
“One thing has saved you,” Artkin said.
Miro did not move, did not breathe, tried in fact to even stop his blood moving in his veins. What? he wondered and dared not ask.
“I myself should have searched the girl. Or asked you to search,” Artkin said. “I, too, was careless. I share the blame.”
A sharing with Artkin? Even of guilt? Could this, too, be a source of pride? Or did it curdle pride?
And then Artkin told him to be on guard, more alert than before. “Learn by your mistakes,” he said, a warning in his voice. “We are entering a crucial stage now. Stay on guard.”
It wasn’t until Artkin had returned to the van that certain words echoed in Miro’s mind. Artkin had said: One thing has saved you.
And Miro wondered miserably: Saved me from what?
Night penetrated the bus without Kate being aware of it, the mysterious border between dusk and night dissolved by the darkness. Actually, night only deepened the dimness of the bus, and yet it brought with it a kind of weariness that settled on its occupants like a comforting blanket. The air of the bus was stained with smells: urine (maybe my own, Kate thought dismally) and sweat and vomit. But somehow they seemed less pungent in the darkness, a trick of the senses maybe. Because the bus had been so dim throughout the day, Kate’s eyes quickly became accustomed to the night’s darkness. The children, with only one or two exceptions, responded gratefully to the arrival of night, falling into what seemed now to be a more natural slumber, breathing regularly, sleeping comfortably without the fits and starts and sudden harsh awakenings of the drugged sleep. One or two had vomited, gushing into the plastic pail, and some had complained of stomachaches. But Kate had been able to soothe their complaints, promising them that tomorrow things would be better, they’d be back home again with their mothers and fathers. The heat was still oppressive, no place for it to escape with the doors and windows closed. Kate felt she could bear the heat or anything else. The fact that she was alive, had survived the futile attempt to escape without any retaliation by Artkin against her or the children, made her feel that she could withstand anything, heat or cold, hunger or thirst. She realized that she’d hardly eaten all day long, except for small bites from the children’s sandwiches. Her stomach now revolted at the thought of food. As far as thirst was concerned, she could put up with it, put up with anything.
Delicately, so as not to disturb little Karen who slept beside her, curled up on the seat, Kate raised herself to look out the window through the narrow untaped slit. Across the ravine, the windows of the pavilion were squares of yellow light. A bluish light flickered inside. The woods were quiet, suspended in the dark. No moon, no stars. A stand of birches gleamed like pale bones. She couldn’t understand why nobody had fired when she started to drive the bus from the bridge. Was Artkin telling the truth? Were negotiations really going on? Would this mean their freedom was at hand?
Kate turned from the window. But not my freedom, she thought. She glanced toward Miro, who was sitting at the back of the bus, a black hulk in the night. She had heard Artkin giving him hell, blaming him for Kate’s attempt to escape. She hadn’t been able to understand Artkin’s words, but the sibilant whispers left no doubt in her mind about what Artkin was saying. Later, as he passed by, Miro had looked at her with such malevolence, such hate, that she had clutched the child to her chest.
She sat down again, her limbs aching, all her muscles tight, cramped. At the same time, she felt dull, her head heavy, her eyes raw and itching. If she could only sleep, get some rest, escape from this terrible place for a few moments. Yet she knew that she had to resist sleep. Sleep was like a little death, and death was probably nearer than she knew. She wanted to remain alert and awake—and alive—as long as she could.
Miro brooded in the darkness, watching and waiting. On his guard. Watching for any movement at all. Watching for whatever the girl might do next. She was bunched up with a child, sleeping perhaps. Perhaps not. Miro was unhappy. And puzzled. Puzzled because this was all new to him, being unhappy. He had never given much thought to his emotions. He was aware that other people were happy or sad. Those were the two emotions he had observed. Happy, unhappy. Like labels on a piece of luggage.
Yet, he himself was unhappy now. He was sitting in this bus with the children and an American girl and he had put a label on himself. He had never required a label before. During all the operations with Artkin, he had not thought about being happy or sad or even being afraid. He had concentrated on the operation and had known a kind of pleasure in doing well. That was all. But now he looked inside himself and knew a feeling he could only call sadness. The girl had asked: Don’t you feel anything?
Confused by the thoughts, Miro stood up to inspect the bus. He did not want to risk another mistake. The girl Kate was more intelligent, craftier than he had suspected. Artkin had said: Never trust your enemies, no matter how docile they appear to be. And he had almost trusted the girl, had let down his guard because he thought she was docile, helpless. Had he diminished his guard against the girl for other reasons? He thought of her unclothed flesh and moved through the darkness to escape the thoughts.
The girl was apparently asleep, her blond hair like a small glow in the dark. She was the source of his trouble. She had been his first target and had eluded him. She had weakened him with her soft talk, her questions, and had made him talk too much and made him become careless. Padding softly to the door, he checked the lock. On his way back, he made certain the tape was still secure on the windows, the
plastic still in place. He was careful not to wake the girl or the children. The children were a constant drain on his nerves.
He sat himself down rigidly on the back seat. He listened to the breathing and the gentle snoring of the children and the girl. Let her sleep. Tomorrow, the operation would end and he would have an opportunity to win back Artkin’s favor. The children would be released and he would hold the gun to the girl’s temple and then they would get away from this place.
He stayed awake through the night, humming to himself a Presley song. Just as he had trained his body to contain itself when there were no bathrooms, so had he trained himself to do without sleep when it was necessary, to remain awake and alert, his body on guard, his mind sharp and aware, his eyes able to penetrate the darkness and pick out any movement that might contain danger.
And that is why the girl’s voice made him leap as it reached him from the darkness, close to his ear. “I’m sorry,” the voice said, like a ghost in the night. He turned to the voice and realized with dismay that he had been betrayed again, this time by his body, which had fallen asleep even as he watched.
“Are you awake?” the voice said.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For the trouble I caused you.”
“It does not matter,” he said, feeling again the humiliation he had known when Artkin rebuked him. Suppose Artkin had seen him leap here in the dark when the girl woke him? He hated her for this, and he had never hated before, not even the enemy. “I made a mistake. We learn by our mistakes.”
“And what did you learn?” she asked, whispering, her voice hanging in the night as if apart from her body.
“To be on guard, always. To trust no one. Not even myself.”
“That’s sad,” she said.
He could see her now, the spill of hair, the gleam of flesh. “Why is it sad? And why should it have meaning for you? We are nothing to each other.” His voice was harsh beside hers, as he meant it to be. Yet he had never heard her speak so gently.