Free Dark Star by Alan Furst Page A

point was made: those were excellent matches, just the thing for woodsmen, mountain climbers, and any others who might need to light a fire.
    As Szara approached the car, the man next to the driver climbed out, held the back door open and said, “Change of travel plans,” with a smile of regret.
    His Russian was elementary but clear, phrased in the slow cadence characteristic of the southeastern reaches of the country, near the Turkish border. “It won't be so inconvenient.” He was a dark man with a great belly; Szara could make out a whitening mustache and thinning gray hair spread carefully over a bald head. The driver was young—a relative, perhaps even a son of the passenger. For the moment he was bulky and thick, the extra chin just beginning, the hair at the crown of his head growing sparse.
    Szara settled himself in the back seat and the car moved forward cautiously through the night mist. “You tried to contact me in Prague?” he asked.
    “Couldn't get your attention, but no matter. Which one do we want? ”
    Szara handed the satchel over the seat.
    “Handsome old thing, isn't it,” said the man, running an appreciative hand over the pebbled hide.
    “Yes,” Szara said.
    “All here? ”
    “Except for a pistol. That I dared not take through German border control. It's at the bottom of the river.”
    “No matter. It's not pistols we need.”
    Szara relaxed. Wondered where and how he'd be put back on his way to Berlin, knew enough about such treffs not to bother asking. The Great Hand moved everyone about as it would.
    “Must keep to form,” said the man, reaching inside his coat. He brought out a pair of handcuffs and held them out to Szara over the back of the seat. The car entered a farming village, every window dark, thatched-roof stone barns, then they were again among the fields.
    Szara's heart pumped hard; he willed his hand not to rise and press against his chest.
    “What?” he said.
    “Rules, rules,” said the fat man disconsolately. Then, a bit annoyed: “Always something.” He shook the handcuffs impatiently. “Come, then …”
    “For what?” Za chto?
    “It isn't for anything, comrade.” The man made a sucking noise against his tooth. He tossed the handcuffs into Szara's lap. “Now don't make me irritable.”
    Szara held the cuffs in his hand. The metal was unpolished, faintly oily.
    “You better do what we say,” the young driver threatened, his voice uncertain, querulous. Clearly he wanted to give orders but was afraid that nobody would obey him.
    “Am I arrested? ”
    “Arrested? Arrested?” The fat man had a big laugh. “He thinks we're arresting him!” The driver tried to laugh like the other man but he didn't have the voice for it.
    The fat man pointed a blunt index finger at him and partly closed one eye. “You put those on now, that's plenty of discussion.”
    Szara held his wrist up to the faint moonlight in the back window.
    “In back—don't you know anything?” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Don't worry, nothing will happen to you. It's justone of those things that has to be done—you're certainly aware, comrade, of the many things we all must do. So, humor me, will you? ” He turned back around in his seat, dismissively, and peered through the ground mist rising from the road. As he turned, Szara could hear the whisper of his woolen coat against the car upholstery.
    Szara clicked the handcuff around his left wrist, then put it behind his back and held the other cuff in his right hand. For a time, the men in the front seat were silent. The road moved uphill into a wood where it was very dark. The fat man leaned forward and peered through the window. “Take care,” he said. “We don't want to hit an animal.” Then, without turning around, “I'm waiting.”
    Szara closed the cuff on his right wrist.
    The car left the forest and headed down a hill. “Stop here,” the fat man said. “Turn on the light.” The driver stared at the dashboard,