by Ben Bequer
Sipping at my coffee, I tried to ignore the curiosity, but it clawed at me as I saw those poor people shambling around the station. I thought about taking a direct approach and just asking, but I wanted zero contact with law enforcement. With my luck it would be the sole overachiever who memorized wanted lists and faces before work. Instead, I looked for gaps in their coverage, which were tiny, and present only when they changed shift, which took place every other hour.
I almost let it go, but I looked at the hole in the ceiling, and decided I had to know. The coffee had grown lukewarm as I slow played it, so I waited until the guard’s shift changed to down the rest of it and toss the cup, walking towards a large tinted sliding glass door that showed Vienna. The duffel bag swished at my side as I came within view of the outside, and I half expected to be stopped. That was when I heard a mechanical stomp from behind me.
Turning, I saw the armored soldiers moving towards me, flanked by the police I had seen on the train platform, along with half a dozen more armored soldiers and even more of the rank and file in their dark olive uniforms. They were bearing down on me, and I tensed, my fists balling up tight enough to stretch the skin across my knuckles taut.
I scanned the station and found it conspicuously barren. I’d been sitting the whole time, and they cleared the area. Probably put the people on the train platforms. Shit, the trains probably weren’t delayed. That was for my benefit, and I had been arrogant enough to fall for it. Now they were coming to collect me.
Fine.
Fuck it.
They wanted me?
They were going to wish they had left it alone.
I let the duffel bag slip off my shoulder and drop to the ground, the laptop hitting hard on the tiled floor. I planted one foot and slid the other forward, trying to spread my weight evenly, and bent my knees. The movement was mercifully pain free, even the aftertaste fading to nothing. I felt the winter coat strain on me, the seams pulling with my movements. It would tear away easily enough once the dance started.
I could close the twenty paces separating us in one leap, and one of the armored soldiers had been helpful enough to lead the pack, with everyone else a step behind him. Same scenario as the train, except more targets, more chaos. I was about to bear down for my jump, but paused. Something wasn’t right. They weren’t fanning out, or calling for backup, though I knew there were at least another dozen soldiers in the station. I turned around, expecting a firing squad lined up for the kill, and found the doors open.
The air was thick with smoke and silt, blown away from the station’s entrance by powerful fans used to scatter unwary insects looking to enter. Soldiers and police were pouring out of the station in pairs or small groups, most carrying bulky containers between them. None of them were barefaced, donning either a full-headed gas mask or a hospital grade filter mask before exiting to the street.
I turned to see the same young police officer who had empathized with my pain a few hours before break rank and favor me with a cautious wave, her expression an unspoken question that I answered with a tentative thumbs-up. Her features turned to relief and without a word, she stepped back into line. They were ten paces from me when I scooped my duffel off the floor, and stepped out of their path.
They passed me by without a glance. Even the young officer paid me no mind as she slipped a mask over her face. They walked through the doors, and I gave them a wide berth, allowing the last of their group to leave before following. I understood the need for the masks as my first full breath of the outdoor air irritated my throat. I hacked a loud cough that was swept up in the bustle of activity surrounding me. I drew the scarf tight over my mouth and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Police and military vehicles were parked along the street where the constant pulse of traffic should have been ferrying people to and from the station. It was late afternoon, and the sun was behind the station, but there was enough light to see thick particles floating in the air. Firefighters were spraying down an overturned car, burnt to the charred metal frame. The pavement was melted in places the painted yellow lines oozed into a formless, sickly blob, and there was a dip in the middle of the road reminiscent of a sinkhole, but on closer inspection turned out to be a spot where the sewer pipe had been exposed, the liquid asphalt having spilled in before solidifying.
A bus lay on its side, impaled by a light pole, the side split in a gaping wound filled with jagged metal edges. The churn of diesel engines drew my attention as a small caravan of military vehicles drove away from the scene, passing me on their way. In their wake the police vehicles remained, along with what looked like an entire medical pavilion. Three boxy ambulances flanked a tent that might otherwise be used to host an outdoor party. A flap opened and a person dressed in a full radiation suit came out, moving to one of the ambulances with long, exaggerated steps, as if moving through low gravity. Despite the distance, I could see the well-lit space inside the tent was lined with cots, like a triage unit on the battlefield.
I wanted to explore further, but I heard a loud braying from inside the station. Hurrying back through the doors, I heard a recorded message playing over the public address system. It was in German, but it was short. The recording paused for a moment, then began again in English: The trains were going to start running again.
An hour later, I was in a private cabin headed to Bucharest. I tried to relax, but every nerve was alight, as if all of my neurons were firing simultaneously. My breathing was a raspy staccato that I couldn’t steady, my pupils the size of dinner plates, my fists bunched in my lap for fear of accidentally damaging the train. Digging into the duffel bag, I grabbed one of the burner cell phones, tweezing it carefully between my fingers, worried I would break it. I had memorized Annit’s twelve digit phone number, dialing slow, and waiting as the call connected.
It rang half a dozen times before she picked up, her voice crisp, “Hello Mr. DelPiero, it’s good to hear from you.” There was an audible pause that lasted long enough for her to say, “Mr. DelPiero, is that you?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, recalling my cover identity, and wondering if I should have fumbled through it with an Italian accent, but deciding it would have been butchery to even try. “I’m having second thoughts about Bucahrest. I don’t think a place with that kind of population is what I am looking for. I don’t know. I’m honestly having second thoughts about the whole thing.”
“I see,” she said. “Please hold one second.” I expected the line to shift, maybe some filler music while I waited, but what I heard was a thick clicking noise followed by three short beeps. “There, now we can talk safely. Tell me what’s going on.”
I filled her in about the devastation of Westbahnhof, including my encounter with the authorities and how close I had come to attacking them. She listened quietly, taking in the events with only the occasional grunt serving as a verbal nod. I finished with having to show my passport again as I boarded the train to Bucharest. I didn’t mention the pain. Always hold something back.
She digested the story in silence, much as she had when I revealed my identity, before saying, “You did well in not antagonizing the authorities. Austria has taken a rather hard line with super criminals.”
“I didn’t see the actual bad guys, but if the train station was a clue, they were powerful. Then again, their cops were better armed than the army types who were supposed to guard my prison transfer. Bucharest is going to be the same thing. Someone is going to recognize me. I stand out from normals.”
“Bucharest will not be the same thing. Romania has little in the way of super criminals, or superhuman activity at all for that matter. What they have is deep seeded corruption scaling their entire infrastructure from their faux democracy down to local police. Keep a low profile and pay well with your bribes. You will be fine.”
“No, I need an island,” I said. “I need someplace far from the things of man, a place where people aren’t going to notice me.”
“Island bases are so blasé,” she said.
“You don’t want to be that person. Besides tracking you will be a matter of simply pointing a satellite in your direction, and that is nothing compared to the logistics and increased cost of importing the things you need to an island. We would need another shell to pay the legitimate shippers, and hope we pay them well enough that they don’t report your movements. Trust me, a big man like you will disappear in a crowd in Romania.”
“Dammit, it’s not that,” I said, my gruff tone a reaction to her patronizing lecture. “Bucharest is full of people, and I’m going to poke the bear. And the bear has a goddamn gorilla working for him. I don’t want people getting hurt on my account. Not anymore.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she said, her tone softer. “There are vast tracts of undeveloped land that we can easily acquire. More than enough space for you to do what you need in solitude.”
“How vast are we talking,” I said, my mind wandering to the server hive sketched out on four pieces of paper.
“I can’t be certain, but I will do some research for you.”
Maybe something underground, to contain the amount of damage Haha’s team could do. “Something near the mountains,” I said. “But with room to expand downwards without mutating anyone’s water supply.”
“Understood, I will get my people on it immediately.”
I said nothing, noting how heavy my breathing was.
“Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah. I’m fine. Hey, thanks for talking me off the ledge.”
“It’s the least I could do,” she said. “I am sorry about the other night. It was wrong of us to judge you. Vandela felt awful the next morning. She sends her regards as well.”
“Can’t say I blame you. It was terrible when I lived it, and mass murder was probably not the best icebreaker.”
“Maybe, but we pressed you for a story. We shouldn’t have balked at the details.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been amazing. “
“Thank you,” she said. “I will contact you soon regarding those property questions.”
“Okay, but we’re probably going to need a short period of radio silence after this. I’ll find a way to contact you when I’m settled. It’s going to get dangerous, Annit.”
“I understand,” she said, her voice firm. “Enjoy Bucharest Mr DelPiero.”
Chapter Six
The next step was tricky.
Pulling into Bucharest’s Gara de Nord train station I knew that choosing the right person mean the difference between success and failure. I stayed on the train long after we had arrived, letting everyone debark before me, letting all the overeager taxi drivers get their fares to weed out the more desperate fellows. I hopped off, the last passenger on the train and headed toward the exit.
The first thing I noticed was how wrong Annit had been about my purported ability to blend in with these people. They were much more colorful than she had intimated, and despite the coming winter, most folks were dressed for brisker weather, with plenty of yellows and reds represented. People had darker skin than I, and their hair color was so richly black it made mine look pale in comparison. Annit had painted the picture of a bunch of tall, pale people, but I pretty much towered over everyone.
The place was bustling as well. The station was filled with thousands of people coming and going, most carrying bags and dragging suitcases behind them, moving faster than seemed possible. They were swarming around and through me, all with such purpose that I drew little attention in the end.
The cabbies were in a mob near the main entrance, their cars strewn throughout the area, not a single person passing them without being solicited. Beyond the frenzy, a small group of men huddled near their cars, steam rising from the idling engines. The icy wind pulled at their coats, and the smoke drifting from their cigarettes. They spoke to one another while still looking over the crowd, sharing a laugh.
I squeezed through the crowd; walking past a set of pillars that reminded me that Romania had long been an Eastern Block country. The station was a testament to a time when Bucharest had been the seat of Nikola Ceausescu, the most repressive of the satellite leaders of the Soviet Union’s extended empire. The big pillars were blackened from car smoke, not cleaned in decades and the yellowed stones were lined with the same soot. Above the station tower was a clock forever stuck at 9:23.
Among the remaining drivers, a group of three looked the most promising. They studied my approach, and I had the keen feeling that I was being silently vetted. That was fine, I was doing the same. I looked their hands first; noticing one of the three had heavy calluses. I dismissed him instantly, turning my attention to the others.
“Either of you two speak English?”
One man nodded, the other took a drag of his smoke.
“I lived in UK, bro,” the English speaker said.
“You?”
The other guy shrugged, “I speak some.”
The older fellow looked decent enough, but he wore jeans and a denim jacket with a striped collared shirt, a few gold chains hanging around his neck. He was heavy set with a thick growth of facial hair that seemed to continue down his chest and back. His eyes were glazed, unmotivated, as if he was more interested in smoking a cigarette than anything I had to offer.
The other was younger but just as cheesy-looking, slicked back black hair, a thigh-length leather jacket with gray slacks, and black leather shoes. He was clean-shaven, but had the feel of a guy who was too much a fan of James Dean. His features were chiseled from stone though, a classical form of handsome that could easily translate to the cover of any magazine.
It was less his look and more his eyes that drew me in. Sharp and calculating, I could feel him studying me, figuring me out. His mind was moving, adding up how much he could take me for. The guy was a born thief.
My choice was almost made, but one final question would determine which man was the best candidate.
“You guys have a gun?”
They regarded me as if I was one of the security police, about to make an arrest. The guy with chains finally opened his coat, revealing a shoulder-rigged revolver. I looked at the guy with the leather jacket who just laughed and took a drag off his cig.
“What the fuck you want a gun for?”
The guy with the chains spoke to the younger man in Romanian, drawing a chuckle, but nothing more. Mister Chains rattled off another, longer sentence, finishing with the word “Bubu,” and the younger man rankled. It must’ve been a nickname.
“Let’s go,” I said, motioning to the young man in leather, still somewhat unsure. “Which one is your car?”
He stood there a moment, shrugging to his buddy and flicked the still smoking cigarette at the pavement, motioning to a hatchback that looked like a compact Toyota but was a brand I had never seen. He used a key to open the trunk, waiting for me to toss my bags in, before closing it, then took the driver’s seat. I sat up front because the rear of the taxi was too small for a guy my size. The front wasn’t that spacious either.
“So,” I said, putting on my seatbelt, something that he watched with curiosity. “No gun, huh?”
The taxi driver smiled, “Why do you ask?”
“Answer me.”
He started the car and threw it in gear, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
“Don’t need one,” he said, looking back at me. “Where do you want to go?”
“The most expensive hotel in town,” I said.
“What for?”
“I like good food.”
He took off into traffic, weaving through with skill that made me instantly jealous. The guy knew the car and how far he could take it through the stop and slow traffic, moving with confidence, all the while managing not to drive like an asshole.
“Grand is good,” he said absentmindedly as he drove. “Athenee is a Hilton. You know Hilton, right? Central is good too. Also Sarroglia and Rembrandt.”
He looked over at me when we were stopped waiting for some pedestrians.
“Any are good.”
I pretended not to care, shrugging with nonchalance. “Good food is all I care about,” I said.
The driver smiled, as if he knew I was still testing him. As soon as the foot traffic passed, he tore off, reaching over to the radio dial and finding some techno music.
“This bother you?”
I shook my head, waiting for him to show his hand, but he reached for his pack of cigs and held them up to me. I shrugged and he popped one in his mouth. He pressed in the car lighter, silent the whole time. He didn’t drive angry, and honked only at the more egregious examples of bad driving. Once the lighter snapped out, ready, he lit his cigarette and rolled down the window, exhaling smoke.
“If you want good food,” he said. “Don’t go to those places.”
“No?”
He shook his head in a micro gesture, the lines in his face downturned in disapproval.
“Expensive,” he said. “Lots of money for stupid fat tourist.”
“I see.”
“You’re hungry?”
I nodded.
“I’ll take you to good place.”
We drove for a bit, and I wondered if the special place was something secluded, a small warehouse, maybe, with three or four of his guys, armed with guns, eager to take every last cent from me. I chuckled to myself, thinking of their surprise when I started collecting limbs.
“What’s so funny,” he said.
“You’re Bubu?”
He flashed a nasty look, taking a long slug off his smoke.
“Not that. Don’t call me that shit, okay?”
“The other guy called you that.”
“My name is Bogdan.”
I looked out the window, watching the city. “I don’t give a shit what your name is. Just don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
