Children of The Night

Chapter Twenty-three

KATE knew the Orient Express from the Agatha Christie book and from countless movies: plush cars, elegant dining, luxurious fittings everywhere, and stylish but mysterious passengers.

This was the Orient Express, but not that Orient Express.

She and O'Rourke had arrived early for the seven P.m. departure from Budapest's Keleti Railway Station. The place had been bustling and echoing, a huge, outdoor, ironandglass open shed that reminded Kate of etchings of train stations from the previous century. She knew the terminal at the opposite end of this tripBucharest's Gara de Nord Stationbecause she and other World Health Organization workers had gone there in May to document the hundreds of homeless children who lived in the station itself, sleeping in broken lockers and begging from hurrying passengers.

She and O'Rourke had prepaid lbusz, the Hungarian state tourism agency, for two firstclass apartments on this Orient Express, but when they checked in there was only one apartment available for them, and “first class” meant a narrow, unheated cubicle with two bunks, a filthy sink with printed warnings that the waterif availablewas dangerous and undrinkable, and only enough room for O'Rourke to sit on the low sink while Kate slumped on the bunk, their knees almost meeting. Neither complained.

The train started with a jolt, leaving the station on time. Both watched in silence as they sped out of Budapest, past the rows of Stalinist apartments on the outskirts, then through sparsely lighted cinderblock suburbs, and then into the darkness of the countryside as the train barreled south and east. Wind whistled through the loosely fitted windows and both Kate and O'Rourke huddled in overcoats.

“I forgot to bring food,” said the priest. “I'm sorry.”

Kate raised her eyebrows. “There's no dining car?” Despite the squalor of the “firstclass apartment,” she still had an image of elegant dining amid linen and porcelain vases holding fresh flowers.

“Come,” said the priest.

She followed him into the narrow corridor. There were only eight apartments in this “firstclass” car and all the doors were shut. The train rocked and bounced as they careened around curves at twice the speed of an American train. The sensation was that the car was going to leave the narrow-gauge rails at every turn.

O'Rourke slid back the heavy, scarred door at the end of the compartment; rows of heavy twine had been tied across the entrance. “The other end is the same,” said the priest.

“But why . . . “ Claustrophobia surged in Kate like nausea.

O'Rourke shrugged. “I've taken this train from Bucharest west, and it's the same coming the other way. Maybe they don't want the other travelers mixing with first class. Maybe it's some security precaution. But we're sealed in . . . we can get off the train when it stops, but we can't go from car to car. But it doesn't matter, because there's no dining car.”

Kate felt like crying.

O'Rourke rapped on the first door. A heavyset matron with a permanent frown answered.

“Egy uveg Sor, kerem, “ said the priest. Kate heard the first word as “edge.” O'Rourke looked over his shoulder at Kate. “I think we need a beer.”

The frowning woman shook her head. “Nem Sor . . . CocaCola . . . husz Forint. “

O'Rourke made a face and handed across a fifty-forint bill. “Keno CocaColas, “ he said and held up two fingers. “Change? Ali . . . Fel tudya ezt valtani?”

“Nem, “ said the frowning woman and handed across two small Coke bottles. She slid her door shut.

Back in the compartment, Kate used the Swiss Army Knife that Tom had given her to open the bottles. They sipped Coke, shivered, and watched black trees whip by the windows.

“The train gets into Bucharest about ten in the morning,” said O'Rourke. “Are you sure you don't want to stay on it?”

Kate bit her lip. “It seems nuts to get off in the middle of the night, doesn't it? Do you think I'm nuts?”

The priest drank the last of his soft drink and then paused another thirty seconds. “No,” he said at last. “I think the border crossing, might well be the end of the trip. Lucian warned us.”

Kate looked out at darkness as the train lurched around another bend at high speed. “It's paranoid, isn't it?”

O'Rourke nodded. “Yes . . . but even paranoids have enemies.”

Kate glanced up.

“Joke,” said the priest. “Let's follow the plan.”

Kate set her bottle down and shivered. She could not imagine traveling in this nightmare train during the dead of winter. The only illumination was from a single, sickly 10watt bulb set into the ceiling. “What's to keep the Gypsies from robbing and killing us?” she said.

“Nothing,” said O'Rourke. “Except for the fact that Janos has done business with them before and would tell the authorities if we just disappeared. I think we'll be all right.”

The headlight on the train illuminated trees passing in a strobe effect. Suddenly a pasture opened up into blackness and the sudden absence of trees made Kate dizzy. “Tell me about the Gypsies, O'Rourke. “

The priest rubbed his hands and blew into them for warmth. “Ancient history or recent?”

“Whichever.”

“European Gypsies or our Romanian variety?”

“Romanian.”

“They don't have an easy time of it,” said O'Rourke. “They were slaves until eighteen fifty-one.”

“Slaves? I thought European countries outlawed slavery long before that.”

“They did. Except for Romania. Except for Gypsies. They haven't fared much better during modern times. Hitler tried to solve the `Gypsy Question' by murdering them in concentration camps all over Europe. Over thirty-five thousand were executed in Romania during the war just for the crime of being Gypsies.”

Kate frowned. “I didn't think that the Germans occupied Romania during the war.”

“They didn't.”

“Oh,” she said. “Go on.”

“Well, about a quarter of a million Gypsies identified themselves as Gypsies during the last Romanian census. But the majority don't want the government to know their background because of official persecution, so there are at least a million in the country.”

“What kind of persecution?”

“Officially,” said the priest, “Romania under Ceausescu didn't recognize Gypsies as a separate ethnic strainonly as a subclass of Romanian. The official policy was `integration' which meant that Gypsy encampments were destroyed, visas were denied, Gypsy workers were given secondclass citizenship and thirdclass jobs, Gypsy ghettos were created in the cities or Gypsy villages in the country were denied tax money for improvement, and Gypsy people were treated with contempt and viewed with stereotypes reserved for blacks in America seventy years ago.”

“And today?” said Kate. “After the revolution?”

O'Rourke shrugged. “Laws and attitudes are about the same. You saw yourself that a majority of the `orphaned babies' that the Americans were adopting were Gypsy children. “

“Yes,” said Kate. “Children sold by their parents.”

“Yeah. Children are the one commodity that Gypsy families have in abundance.”

Kate looked out at the darkness. “Didn't Vlad Tepes have some sort of special relationship with the Gypsies?”

O'Rourke grinned. “That was a while ago, but yes . . . I've read that, too. Old Vlad Dracula had Gypsy bodyguards, an allGypsy army at one point, and frequently used them for special assignments. When the boyars and other officials rose up against Dracula, his only allies were the Gypsies. It seems that they hated authority even then.”

“But Vlad the Impaler was authority.”

“For a few years,” said O'Rourke. “Remember, he spent more time fleeing for his life before and after his princely days than he did ruling. The one thing Dracula never failed to give his Gypsy followers was the one thing they have always responded togold.”

Kate made a face and tugged her purse closer. “Let's hope that two thousand American dollars is the kind of gold they still obey.”

Father Michael O'Rourke nodded and they sat in silence as the train rocked and clattered and roared toward the Romanian border.

Lokoshaza was a border town, but O'Rourke said the actual Customs inspections were in Curtizi, a Romanian town a few miles down the track. He said that it was evocative of the bad old dayssuspicious passport control officers banging on your compartment door at midnight or sunrise, depending upon which direction the train was. headed, guards with Sam Browne belts, automatic weapons, dogs sniffing under the train, and other guards tossing mattresses and clothes around the compartment as they searched.

She and O'Rourke did not wait for Customs. Most of the remaining Hungarian passengers were disembarking in Lokoshaza and she and O'Rourke joined them, hustling down the platform with the crowd, moving away from the streetlights when they got beyond the station. It was a small station and a small town, and two blocks from the railway they were nearing the edge of the village. It was very dark. A cold wind blew in from the fields beyond the empty highway. Dogs in the neighborhood were barking and howling.

“That's the cafe Cioaba described,” said O'Rourke, nodding toward a closed and shuttered building. The large sign in the window read ZARVA, which O'Rourke translated as “closed”; a smaller sign said AUTOBUSZ MEGALLO, but Kate did not really believe that any buses would be along that night.

They moved into the shadows of an abandoned cinderblock building across the street from the cafe and stood there, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. “It feels more like December than early October,” whispered Kate after ten or twelve minutes had passed.

O'Rourke leaned closer. Kate could smell the soap and shavingcream scent of his cheek above the neatly trimmed beard. “You haven't sampled a Hungarian or Romanian winter,” he whispered. “Trust me, this is a mild October in Eastern Europe.”

They heard the train start up and move out of the station with much venting of steam and clashing of cars. A minute later a police car moved slowly down the highway, but Kate and O'Rourke were far back in the shadows and the vehicle did not pause.

“I think maybe Voivoda Cioaba decided that four hundred was enough,” Kate whispered a moment later. Her hands were shaking with cold and frustration. “What do we do

O'Rourke touched her gloved hand. The van was old and battered, one headlight askew so that it illuminated fields instead of the highway, and it pulled into the closed cafe's parking lot and blinked its lights twice.

“Onward,” whispered O'Rourke.

Voivoda Nikolo Cioaba drove them only ten or so kilometers from Lokoshaza before leaving the paved highway and bouncing down a rutted lane, past a huddle of Gypsy caravan wagons that Kate recognized from storybooks, and then down to the edge of a gulley where the rough track ended.

“Come,” he said, his gold teeth gleaming in the glow from a flashlight he held. “We walk now.”

Kate stumbled and almost fell twice during the steep descentshe had the insane image of walking all the way into Romania through this boulderstrewn darknessbut then they reached the bottom of the gulley, Voivoda Cioaba turned off the flashlight, and before her eyes could adapt, a dozen shielded headlights were turned on. Kate blinked. Six almost new Land Rovers were parked under camouflage netting hung from wooden poles. Twenty or more menmost dressed like Cioaba in heavy sheepskin coats and tall hatssat in the vehicles or lounged against them. All eyes were on Kate and O'Rourke. One of the men came forward: a tall, thin man with no beard or mustache; he wore a heavy wool blazer with a ragged sweater beneath it.

“My . . . chavo . . . son,” said Voivoda Cioaba. “Balan. “

“Pleased to meet you,” said Balan with a vaguely British accent. “Sorry I wasn't able to accompany my father to the meeting last night.” He extended his hand.

Kate thought that there was something salesmanlike in the handshake. Voivoda Cioaba showed his gold grin and nodded, as if proud of his son's language ability.

“Please,” said Balan, holding open the door of the lead Land Rover. “It is not a long voyage, but it is a slow one. And we must be many kilometers from the border by sunrise.” He took their bags from them and tossed the luggage in the rear of the vehicle as Kate and O'Rourke clambered into the backseat.

The other men had gotten in their Land Rovers with a great banging of doors. Engines roared. Kate watched as women in long robes appeared from the rocks and pulled down the poles and camouflage netting with practiced speed. Balan sat behind the wheel, his father in the leather passenger seat, as their vehicle led the way down the gulley and then out onto a flatter stretch of river valley. There was no road. Kate glanced over her shoulder but the other Land Rovers' headlights were almost completely covered with black tape, allowing only a thin crescent of light to escape.

The rest room on the Orient Express had been miserable, one of the filthiest lavatories Kate had ever seen in her travelsbut after a mile or two of kidney jarring, spineprodding travel, she was very glad that she had used it before reaching Lokoshaza. It would be embarrassing to have this caravan stop while she ran behind some boulder.

Kate was half asleep, the rhythmic bouncing and jarring almost hypnotic now, when Balan said, “If I may be so bold to ask . . . why do you choose to enter the People's Paradise in such a manner?”

Kate tried to think of something clever and failed. She tried to think of something merely misleading, but her mind had moved beyond fatigue to some region where thought flowed like cold molasses.

“We're not sure we'd be welcomed properly via the usual routes,” said O'Rourke. Kate could feel his leg against hers in the cramped rear bench. There were boxes piled on the floor and seat next to him.

“Ahhh,” said Balan, as if that explained everything. “We know that feeling. “

O'Rourke rubbed his cheek. “Have things gotten better for the Rom since the revolution in Romania?”

Balan glanced at his father and both men looked over their shoulders at the priest. “You know our name for ourselves?” said Balan.

“I've read Miklosich's research,” said O'Rourke. His voice sounded ragged with fatigue. “And I've been to India, where the Romany language probably originated.”

Balan chuckled. “My sister's name is Kalian ancient Gypsy name. The man who wishes to purchase her for a wife is named Angar, also an honorable Gypsy name. India . . . yesss. “

“What do you usually smuggle?” asked Kate. She realized too late that it was not a diplomatic question, but she was too tired to care.

Balan chuckled again. “We smuggle whatever will bring us the best price in Timisoara, Sibiu, and Bucharest. In the past we have smuggled gold, Bibles, condoms, cameras, guns, Scotch whiskey . . . right now we are carrying X-rated videotapes from Germany. They are very popular in Bucharest, these tapes.”

Kate glanced at the boxes next to O'Rourke and under their bags in the back.

Voivoda Cioaba said something in rapidfire Magyar.

“Father said that we have frequently smuggled people out of Romania,” added Balan. “This is the first time we have smuggled anyone in.”

They were crossing rolling pastureland. The dim lights illuminated only the slightest trace of ruts between rocks and eroded gullies.

“And this route is secure?” said O'Rourke. “From the border guards, I mean.”

Balan laughed softly. “It is secure only as far as the baksheesh we pay makes it secure.”

They bounced along in silence for what seemed like hours. It began to rain, first as an icy drizzle and then hard enough that Balan turned on the single wiper blade in front of him. Kate snapped awake as the Land Rover suddenly bounced to a stop.

“Silence,” said Balan. He and Voivoda Cioaba stepped out and closed the doors without slamming them.

Kate craned but could barely make out the other vehicles pulled in behind low shrubs. A river was nearby: she could not see it in the dark, but could hear the water running. She cranked down her window and the cold air lifted a little of the fog of fatigue that hung over her.

“Listen,” whispered O'Rourke.

She heard it then, some sort of massive diesel engine. Sixty feet above them, an armored vehicle suddenly came into sight along a highway or railway bridge. A searchlight joggled on its forward carapace, but it did not sweep left or right. Kate had not even known the bridge was there in the rain and darkness.

“Armored personnel carrier,” whispered the priest. “Russianbuilt. “

Another vehicle, some sort of jeep, followed, its headlights illuminating the gray flank of the armored car ahead of it. Kate could see the rain as silver stripes in the headlight beams: One of the men in the open door of the jeep was smoking; she could see the orange glow.

They must see us, she thought.

The two vehicles rumbled on, the sound of the diesel audible for a minute or more.

Voivoda Cioaba and Balan got back in the Land Rover: Without speaking, the young man engaged the fourwheel drive and they bounced down into the river itself. The water rose only to the hubs. They rocked and teetered along on unseen rocks, passing under the bridge. Kate could see barbed wire running down to the water to their right and left and then the fence was behind them in the darkness and then they were roaring up a grade so steep that the Land Rover spun wheels, slid, and almost rolled before Balan found traction and brought them over the lip of the bank.

“Romania,” Balan said softly. “Our Motherland.” He leaned out his open window and spat.

Kate did sleep for what might have been hours, awakening only when the Land Rover stopped again. For a terrible second she did not know where she was or who she was, but then the sadness and memory rolled over like a black wave. Tom. Julie. Chandra. Joshua.

O'Rourke steadied her with a strong hand on her knee.

“Get out,” said Balan. There was something new and sharpedged in his voice.

“Are we there?” asked Kate but stopped when she saw the automatic pistol in the Gypsy's hand.

The sky was growing lighter as Balan led O'Rourke and her away from the Land Rovers. A dozen of the other men stood there in a circle, their dark forms made huge by the large sheepskin jackets and caps.

Voivoda Cioaba was speaking rapidly to his son in a mixture of Magyar, Romanian, and Romany, but Kate followed none of it. If O'Rourke understood it, he did not look happy at what he heard. Balan snapped something back in sharp Romanian and the older man grew still.

Balan lifted the pistol and pointed it at the priest. “Your money,” he said.

O'Rourke nodded to Kate and she handed over the envelope with the other sixteen hundred dollars in it.

Balan counted it quickly and then tossed it to his father. “All your money. Quickly.”

Kate was thinking about all the cash in the lining of her carryon bag. More than twelve thousand dollars in American bills. She was reaching for the bag when O'Rourke said, “You don't want to do this.”

Balan smiled and the gleam of his real teeth was more eerie than his father's gold grin. “Oh, but we do,” said the thin Gypsy. He said something in Magyar and the men in the circle laughed.

O'Rourke stopped Kate from opening the bag with a touch of his hand on her wrist. “This woman is hunting for her child,” he said.

Balan stared, impassive. “She was careless to mislay him.”

O'Rourke took a step closer to the Gypsy. “Her child was stolen. “

Balan shrugged. “We are the Rom. Many of our children are stolen. We have stolen many children ourselves. It is no concern of ours.”

“Her child was stolen by the strigoi,” said O'Rourke. “The priculici . . . vrkolak.”

There was a subtle stirring in the circle of men, as if a colder wind had blown down the river valley.

Balan racked the slide of the automatic pistol. The sound was very loud to Kate. “If the strigoi have her child,” the Gypsy said softly, “her child is dead.”

O'Rourke took another step closer to the man. “Her child is strigoi, “ he said.

“bevel, “ whispered Voivoda Cioaba and raised two fingers toward Kate.

“When we meet our friends in ChisineuCris, we will pay you an extra thousand dollars because of the danger you have faced tonight,” said O'Rourke.

Balan sneered. “We leave your bodies here and we have all of your money.”

O'Rourke nodded slowly. “And you will have shown that the Rom are without honor.” He waited half a minute before going on. The only sound was the unseen river gurgling behind them. “And you will have given the strigoi and the Nomenclature bureaucrats who serve them a victory. If you let us go, we will steal the child from the strigoi.”

Balan looked at Kate, looked at the priest, and then said something to his father. Voivoda Cioaba replied in firm Magyar.

Balan tucked the automatic pistol out of sight in his rumpled blazer. “One thousand American dollars cash,” he said.

As if they had just stopped so that everyone could stretch their legs, the men returned to their vehicles. Kate found that her hands were shaking as she and O'Rourke followed Balan and his father back to the car. “What is a strigoi?” she whispered.

“Later.”

O'Rourke's lips were moving as the Land Rover began rolling toward the weak sunrise and Kate realized that he was praying.

The village of ChisineuCris lay on Romania's E 671 Highway north of Arad, but the Land Rovers did not go beyond the edge of the city.

Lucian's blue Dacia was waiting at the boardedup church on the west side of town, just where he said he would be. There was enough light to see the young man's grin as he saw Kate.

O'Rourke paid the Gypsies while Kate was engulfed in Lucian's hug. Then he shook the priest's hand vigorously and hugged Kate again.

“Hey, cool, you really did it. You got in with the Gypsy smugglers. Outstanding.”

Kate leaned against the Dacia and watched the Land Rovers bounce back into the wooded countryside. She caught a final glimpse of Voivoda Cioaba's gold grin. Then she looked at Lucian. The young medical student's haircutwas more severe, almost punk, and he was wearing an Oakland Raiders baseball jacket.

“Did you have a good trip?” asked Lucian.

Kate crawled into the backseat of the Dacia as Lucian dropped into the driver's seat and O'Rourke tossed the luggage in the rear.

“I'm going to sleep until we get to Bucharest,” she said, laying her head on the cracked vinyl of the seat. “You drive. “