Children of The Night

Chapter Twenty-four

Kate was on the Orient Express again, but she could not remember how she got there or why. The compartment was even smaller than the one they had ridden in from Budapest to Lokoshaza, and this one did not even have a window. She and O'Rourke were squeezed together even more tightly than before, their legs all but interlocked as he sat across from her on the low shelf. The bunk she sat on was larger, however, and it was made up with the gold duvet cover and oversized pillows that she and Tom had bought in Santa Fe years ago. And the compartment was warmer than before, much warmer.

She and O'Rourke said nothing as the motion of the train rocked them back and forth and from side to side. With each motion, their legs touched more fullyfirst their knees, then the inside of their knees, and finally their thighsnot rubbing against one another of their own volition, but making contact passively, inexorably, insistently, through the gentle rocking of the train.

Kate was very warm. She was wearing not the wool trousers she had actually traveled in, but a light tan skirt she had treasured in high school. The skirt had ridden up as their legs rubbed. She realized that each time she rocked forward her knee lightly brushed Father O'Rourke's groin, and each time the rhythm of the train rocked him forward, his denimclad leg brushed gently up her inner thigh until his knee almost touched her there as well. His eyes were closed although she knew that he was not asleep.

“It's warm,” she said and took off the blouse her mother had made for her when she entered junior high at a private Boston academy.

There was a rap at the carved wooden door and the conductor came in to collect their tickets. Kate was not embarrassed that she was wearing only a bra and that her skirt was hiked up to her hipsafter all, it was their cramped and overheated compartmentbut she was a bit surprised to notice that the conductor was Voivoda Cioaba. The Gypsy punched their tickets, winked at her, and showed his gold teeth. Kate heard the lock click shut when he left.

Father O'Rourke had not opened his eyes while the Gypsy conductor was in the room, and Kate was sure that the priest was praying. Then Mike O'Rourke did open his eyes and she was sure that he had not been praying.

There was no upper bunk, merely the queensized lower berth. Kate sank back into the pillows as O'Rourke stood, leaned forward, and laid his body half atop hers. His eyes were very gray and very intense. She wondered what her own eyes were revealing as O'Rourke rolled her skirt the final few inches to her waist and deftly slid her underpants down her thighs, past her knees, off her ankles. She did not remember him undressing, but now realized that he was wearing only Jockey shorts.

Kate set her fingers in O'Rourke's hair and pulled his face closer to hers. “Are priests allowed to kiss?” she whispered, suddenly fearful that she would get him in trouble with his bishop, who was riding in the next compartment.

“It's all right,” he whispered back, his breath sweet on her cheek. “It's Friday.”

Kate loved feeling his mouth on hers. She let her tongue slide between his teeth at the same instant she felt him grow hard against her thigh. Still kissing him, she lowered both hands to his sides, slid fingers beneath the elastic of his shorts, and tugged out and down with a movement so smooth that it was as if both had rehearsed it for years.

She did not have to guide him. There was the slightest second of hesitation and then the slow, warm moment of his entering and her encircling him. Kate ran her hand down his muscled back and spread her palm on the warm crease of his buttocks, pulling him closer even when he could come no closer.

The train continued to rock them so that neither had to move, merely surrender to the gentle swinging of their bed in the car on the clacking rails as the rocking grew quicker, the moist warmth more insistent, the gentle friction more urgent.

Kate had just opened her mouth to whisper Mike O'Rourke's name when the door slid open with a crack of the broken lock and Voivoda Cioaba stepped in with his golden grin. Behind him were four of the night men dressed in black hoods.

Someone was shaking her by the arm.

Kate awoke slowly, each sense responding sluggishly, sense impressions arriving separately like tourists with watches tuned to different time zones. For a moment she was awake and technically aware but also totally disoriented, her mind stranded in that egoless void which the mind allows for only scant seconds upon awakening from the deepest of sleeps.

Lucian was bending over her, his youthful face illuminated by the small oil lamp he carried.

“It's time to go to the Arab Student Union,” he whispered. Then he set the lamp down and left her small room.

Kate sat up, feeling tiredness pull at her even as the physical echoes of her dream grew fainter and fled. She could not quite remember . . . something about Tom? Or had it been O'Rourke or Lucian? The cold air in the dark room made her shiver.

Memory pressed on her like a cold and unwelcome suitor. Tom. Julie. Joshua! She felt the pain of her left arm and the sir was suddenly rank with the smell of smoke and ashes. Sorrow threatened to push her into the cold darkness that surrounded her. The memories of the past few weeks were not discrete images, but a single, inseparable mass with a terrible weight which she kept at bay only by concentrating on the next thing that had to be done.

The Arab Student Union.

As full consciousness returned, Kate remembered that it was not her first night in Bucharest, despite the strangeness of the basement room she was sleeping in, but her third. It was raining. Pellets of sleet pounded against the small window set high on the wall. She remembered now that it had been raining for each of the three days and nights she had been back in Bucharest.

She looked down and realized that she had fallen asleep that afternoon in her corduroy pants and dark sweater. There was a small frameless piece of mirrored glass propped on the battered dresser near the door and Kate used it to pull a brush through her hair until she finally gave up. She slung a purse over her shoulder and went to join Lucian in the other room.

The medical student had found Kate and O'Rourke a basement apartment on a narrow street in an old section west of Cismigiu Gardens. The apartment consisted of Kate's tiny bedroom and the roughwalled “sitting room” where O'Rourke slept on a couch during the few hours he was there. The toilet upstairs was “private” in the sense that no one lived on the ground floor or first floor because of “renovations,” although Kate had seen no workers or signs of recent work on the gutted rooms up there. The massive metal radiators in the basement were as cold and dead as steel sculptures; the only heat came from a small coalburning fireplace in Kate's bedroom. Lucian had brought a heavy sack of coal along with a warning that the burning of it was still illegal, and Kate tried to restrict her need for warmth to one lump in the morning while getting dressed and to a tiny fire in the evening.

It was very cold.

Kate was still shivering as Lucian led her out to the Dacia.

“Where's O'Rourke?” she asked. The priest had left shortly after breakfast that morning without saying where he was going.

Lucian shrugged. “Probably still hunting for Popescu.”

Kate nodded. The inaction during the past three days had driven her close to madness. She had not been sure what they would find upon returning to Bucharesta clue perhaps, some sign of Joshua's forced returnbut in the absence of any immediate clue she had done little but huddle in the basement rooms while O'Rourke made forays into the city. It made sense on the face of it; neither of them had visas, the assumption was that the authorities were on the lookout for her, and they could not go to the American Embassy, UNICEF, the WHO, or any other familiar organizations for help.

But O'Rourke could use the few local Catholic churches and the Bucharest headquarters for the single Franciscan order in Romania to make contacts. And their first goal had been to find Mr. Popescu, the administrator of the hospital where Kate had worked and discovered Joshua. There was no compelling reason to believe that the greasy little administrator was part of the plot to kidnap her adopted child, but finding Popescu was a place to start.

But O'Rourke had not found himqueries from priest friends at the hospital had resulted only in the information that Popescu was on leaveand the frustration after three days was driving Kate out of hiding, if not ,actually to the brink of insanity.

The Dacia started after much fiddling with the choke and they bounced out onto the bricks of Bulevardul Schitu Magureanu along the west side of Cismigiu Gardens. Despite the fact that it was only the second week in October, most of the trees bordering the street were bare of leaves. The icy rain pelted against the windshield and only the wiper on the driver's side worked, squeegeeing back and forth with a screech of a single, long fingernail against a blackboard.

“Tell me again about the Arab Student Union,” said Kate.

Lucian glanced at her. His face was mottled with shadowstreaks from the occasional streetlight shining through the rainsplattered windshield. There were few functional streetlights in Bucharest this autumn, but the Dacia had come onto the wide Bulevardul Gheorghe GheorghiuDej and there was some light here. The avenue was all but empty.

“The Arabs attend the university on full scholarship,” said Lucian, “but almost none of them go to classes. They spend their years here changing money and being brokers in the black market. The Arab Student Union is the center for much of this.”

Kate tried to peer out at the street, but the windshield in front of her was a shifting mass of icy rain. She glanced at the dark canal on her right as they turned onto the even broader avenue of Splaiul Independenlei. The incredible mass of the unfinished presidential palace was just visible across nibbled fields and behind tall fences. There were one or two lights on in the huge structure, but these only served to accentuate the hopeless and inhuman scale of the place. Kate shivered. “And the guy we're seeing might know something about Joshua?”

Lucian shrugged. “My contacts say that Amaddi keeps tabs on the Nomenclature. He certainly serves their needs when they deal with the black market. It may be worth our time talking to him . . .” Lucian glanced at her. “It's foolish for you to come along though, Kate. I can“

“I want to talk to him,” said Kate. Her tone left no room for debate.

Lucian shrugged again. He pointed out the University Medical School as they drove past it and they turned north again, past a row of dilapidated dormitories, then down a long alley lined with dark and decaying Stalinist apartment blocks. Ragged curtains blew from shattered windows, and there were holes in the masonry large enough for a person to step through. The rain had let up a bit and Kate could see large rats fleeing from the beam of the headlights. The entrance to the building they stopped in front of had a torn steel mesh dangling from the doorway.

“These are empty, aren't they?” asked Kate.

Lucian shook his head. “No, these are the Arab dormitories. “

Kate cranked down her window and could make out a feeble glow of what might be lantern light behind some of the tattered curtains.

Lucian pointed toward a lower building with no windows, its walls and single doorway spraypainted with graffiti. “That's the Student Union. Amaddi said that he would meet us there.” .

There were no lights in the foyer or outside corridor. Lucian flicked on a lighter and Kate could make out chipped and filthy tile and an inner hallway almost filled with cardboard boxes and crates. Following Lucian as he squeezed past the crates, she realized that the boxes were marked PANASONIC and NIKE and SONY and LEVI'S. At the end of the corridor was a closed metal door. Lucian rapped twice, waited a second, and then rapped once. The door squeaked open and Lucian clicked the lighter shut and stepped aside to let Kate go first.

The room was large, at least twenty meters square, and the perimeter was stacked with more cartons and boxes. Dining tables and plastic chairs lay tossed in a heap to one side, and only a single table with a lantern on it was set out near the far end of the room. The dark and bearded man who had opened the door for them gestured toward the table and stepped back into the shadows.

Three men sat at the table; two were obviously enforcer typesleather coats, necks broader than their skulls, flat staresbut the third was a small man with a poor excuse for a beard and acne scars visible even at a distance. He beckoned Kate and Lucian to the table.

“Sit,” he said in English and waved them toward two folding chairs.

Kate remained standing.

“This is Amaddi,” said Lucian. “He and I have . . . done business before.”

The little man grinned, showing very white teeth. “A Sony Discman . . . an Onkya stereo receiver . . . five pairs of 501 Levi's . . . four pairs of Nike shoes, including the new Nike Air crosstrainers . . . a subscription to Playboy magazine. Yes, we have done business.”

Lucian made a face. “You have a good memory.”

The young Arab's gaze moved to Kate. “You are American. “

It was not a question and Kate did not try to answer.

“What would you like to buy, Madame? Money, perhaps? I can give you a rate of two hundred fifty lei to the dollar. Compare that to the official rate of sixtyfive lei to one dollar American. “

Kate shook her head. “I want to buy information. “

Amaddi raised an eyebrow. “Good information is always a scarce commodity.”

Kate shifted her purse. “I'm willing to pay for this particular commodity. Lucian says that you serve the Nomenclature.”

Amaddi's eyebrow had remained arched. Now he smiled slightly. “In this country, Madame, everyone serves the Nomenclature.”

Kate took a step closer to the table. “I have reason to believe that members of the Nomenclature have kidnapped my adopted child and brought him from America to Bucharest. Or at least to Romania. I want to find him.”

For a long moment Amaddi did not blink. Finally he said, “And why . . . in this land of too many unwanted children . . . why would anyone, Nomenclature or peasant . . . steal another child?”

Kate held the young man's gaze. The light made it seem as if his irises were completely black. “I'm not sure why. My son . . . Joshua . . . was born in Romania a year ago. Although he was an orphan, someone wanted him back. Someone important. Someone with the money and power to send their agents to America. If you have heard about a child brought back here, I will pay for the information.”

Amaddi steepled his fingers. The two men seated beside him stared impassively. The room was very quiet and smelled of cooking spices and strong aftershave lotion.

“I know of no such child,” Amaddi said slowly. “But I have a client who is very high in the . . . how shall we say it? The unofficial Nomenclature. If anyone had knowledge of such an improbable event, my client would be that person.”

Kate waited. She was marginally aware of Lucian trying to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze locked with the young Arab student's. He spoke first.

“My client is a very powerful man,” he said softly. “Giving you his name would entail much risk on my part.”

Kate waited another thirty seconds before saying, “How much?”

“Ten thousand,” Amaddi said, his face impassive. “Ten thousand American dollars.”

Kate shook her head almost sadly. “This information is not the commodity I need. It guarantees me nothing. This man may know nothing about my child.”

Amaddi shrugged.

“I would pay five hundred American dollars for his name,” said Kate. “To show my willingness to do business with an honest man such as yourself. Then, if other information became available to you . . . information of some real value . . . we would discuss such serious amounts.”

Amaddi took out a matchbook, opened the cover, and cleaned between his side teeth. His gaze darted toward his companions for an instant. “Perhaps I have understated the importance of this person,” he said. “Few others . . . if any . . . know that he is a member of the Nomenclature. Yet he is so highly placed that no action of the Nomenclature occurs without this person's approval. “

Kate took a breath. “Is this man then a member of the strigoi as well as the Nomenclature The priculici?” She struggled to keep her voice level. “The vrkolak?”

Amaddi blinked and lowered the matchbook. He snapped something in Romanian at Lucian. Kate heard the word strigoi. Lucian shook his head and said nothing.

“What do you know of the Voivoda Strigoi?” Amaddi demanded of her.

In truth, Kate knew nothing. When she had asked O'Rourke the meaning of the Romanian and Slavic words he had used when bargaining with the Gypsies for their money and lives, the priest had answered, “Strigoi translates roughly as warlocks, although it also implies evil spirits, vile ghosts or vampires. Priculici and vrkolak are Romanian and Slavonic for vampires.” When Kate had pressed O'Rourke on why the naming of these words had impressed the Gypsies, the priest had said only, “The Rom are superstitious folk. Despite rumors that they have served the strigoi for centuries, they fear these mythical rulers of Transylvania. You heard Voivoda Cioaba say Devel when I suggested that Joshua was of the strigoi. “

“And he gave me the sign to ward off the evil eye,” Kate had said. “And then he let us go.” O'Rourke had only nodded.

Amaddi stood up and smashed his palm flat on the table, shaking Kate out of her reverie. “I asked, what do you know of the Voivoda Strigoi, woman?”

Kate resisted the urge to flinch in the face of the young Arab's intensity. “I think they have' stolen my child,” she said, her voice steady. “And I will have him back.”

Amaddi glared at her a long minute and then laughed, the sound echoing off cement walls. “Very well,” he said. “In the face of such courage, you will have the person's name for five hundred American dollars. And we shall do further business in the future . . . if you live.” He laughed again.

Kate counted out the five hundred dollars and held it until Amaddi took a Cross fountain pen from his pocket and wrote a name and address on a slip of paper. Lucian looked at the name, glanced at Kate, and nodded. Kate released the money.

Amaddi walked them to the door: “Tell your American friend the old Romanian proverb,” he said to Lucian. “Copilul cu mai multe moase ramana cu buricul ne taiat.”

Lucian nodded and led the way down the dark corridor.

In the Dacia, with the rain falling heavily again, Kate let out a breath. “You recognized the name he wrote?”

“Yeah,” said Lucian, his usual smile absent. “He's well known in Bucharest. My father knew him.”

“And you think he might actually be a member of this secret Nomenclature?”

Lucian started to shrug but visibly stopped himself. “I don't know, Kate. I just don't know. But it gives us a place to start.”

She nodded. “And what was the proverb that Amaddi threw at me?”

Lucian started the car and rubbed his cheek. “Copilul cu mai multe moase romana cu buricul ne taiat . . . it's sort of like, what is it? `Too many cooks spoil the soup'? Only this one translates as, `A child with too many midwives remains with his navelstring uncut.' “

“Haha,” said Kate.

They drove back through the empty streets in silence.

O'Rourke was waiting in the cold and shadowed basement room when they entered. He looked redeyed and unshaven, although still dressed in his black priest suit and Roman collar. He sat sprawled in the sprung armchair and only stared at Lucian as the two bustled around to light the coal fire in the other room and put a pan of soup on the hot plate.

“Did you find Popescu?” asked Kate.

“No. I was in Tirgoviste all day.”

“Tirgoviste?” Then Kate remembered that the city about fifty miles northwest of Bucharest had been the site of the orphanage from which Joshua had been transferred. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes,” said O'Rourke. His voice was thick with fatigue. “The officials at the orphanage still don't have any information about Joshua's parents. He was found in the alley near the orphanage.”

“Too bad,” said Lucian, tasting the soup with a wooden spoon. He made a face. “I hope you two like your swill on the bland side.”

“But I did bribe a custodian there to give me a description of the two men who arranged Joshua's transfer from Tirgoviste to Bucharest,” said the priest. “The custodian could describe the two men because they came in person to make the transfer.”

“And?” said Kate. She pulled the slip of paper from her coat pocket. If the gods were kind, Lucian would be able to tell if the man named there matched this description.

“One was middleaged, short, overweight, officious, with slickedback hair and a penchant for Camel cigarettes.”

“Popescu!” said Kate.

“Yes,” said O'Rourke. “The man with Popescu was young, also Romanian, but with a flawless American accent. The custodian said that he heard the younger man joke in English with the orphanage administrator. He said that this younger man wore expensive Western jeans . . . Levi's . . . and the kind of American running shoe with the curving wave on the side. Nikes. He and Popescu drove Joshua away in a blue Dacia.”

Kate turned and stared at Lucian.

The young man set the wooden spoon back in the soup. “Hey,” he said. “Hey. There are a million blue Dacias in this country.”

O'Rourke stood up. “My custodian eavesdropped on part of the conversation while they were getting Joshua ready to travel,” he said softly. “The young Romanian with the flawless American English said that he was a medical student. The joke in English was that if he couldn't find a rich American to buy the baby, he would sell the child to the vivisectionists at the University Medical School.”

Lucian backed away from the hot plate, toward the door. Kate blocked his way.

“The custodian said that Popescu called the younger man by name when they were counting the money to bribe the orphanage administrator,” said O'Rourke. “He called him Lucian. “