Free Dark Star by Alan Furst Page B

twisted a button; a windshield wiper scraped across the dry glass. Both men laughed and the driver turned it off. Another button did nothing at all. Then the dome light went on.
    The fat man leaned over and rummaged through the open satchel between his feet. He drew out a sheet of paper and squinted at it. “I'm told you're sly as a snake,” he said to Szara. “Haven't been hiding anything, have you?”
    “No,” Szara said.
    “If I have to, I'll make you tell.”
    “You have all of it.”
    “Don't sound so miserable. You'll have me weeping in a minute.”
    Szara said nothing. He shifted in the seat to make his hands more comfortable and looked out the side window at the cloudy silhouette of the moon.
    “Well,” the fat man said at last, “this is just the way life is.” A shrill whine reached them from around a bend in the road and the single light of a motorcycle appeared. It shot past them at great speed, a passenger hanging on to the waist of the driver.
    “Crazy fools,” the young man said.
    “These Germans love their machines,” the fat man said. “Drive on.”
    They went around the bend where the motorcycle had comefrom. Szara could see more woodland on the horizon. “Slowly, now,” said the fat man. He reached over and turned off the dome light, then stared out the side window with great concentration. “I wonder if it's come time for eyeglasses? ”
    “Not you,” the driver said. “It's the mist.”
    They drove on, very slowly. A dirt track for farm machines broke away from the road into a field that had been harvested to low stubble. “Ah,” the fat man said. “You better back up.” He looked over the seat at Szara as the car reversed. “Let's see those hands.” Szara twisted around and showed him. “Not too tight, are they?”
    “No.”
    “How far? ” said the driver.
    “Just a little. I'm not pushing this thing if we get stuck in a hole.”
    The car inched forward down the dirt path. “All right,” said the fat man. “This will do.” He struggled out of the car, walked a few feet, turned his back, and urinated. Still buttoning his fly, he walked to Szara's door and opened it. “Please,” he said, indicating that Szara should get out. Then, to the driver: “You stay here and keep the car running.”
    Szara shifted himself along the seat, swung his legs out, and, leaning forward in a crouch, managed to stand upright.
    “Let's walk a little,” said the fat man, positioning himself just behind Szara and a little to his right.
    Szara walked a few paces. As the car idled he could hear that one cylinder was mistimed and fired out of rhythm. “Very well,” said the fat man. He took a small automatic pistol from the pocket of his coat. “Is there anything you would like to say? Perhaps a prayer?”
    Szara didn't answer.
    “Jews have prayers for everything, certainly for this.”
    “There's money,” Szara said. “Money and gold jewelry.”
    “In your valise?”
    “No. In Russia.”
    “Ah,” said the fat man sorrowfully, “we're not in Russia.” He armed the automatic with a practiced hand, the wind gusted suddenly and raised a few strands of stiff hair so that they stood up straight. Carefully, he smoothed them back into place. “So …” he said.
    The whine of the motorcycle reached them again, growing quickly in volume. The fat man swore softly in a language Szara didn't know and lowered the pistol by the side of his leg so that it was hidden from the road. Almost on top of them, the cyclist executed a grinding speed shift and swung onto the farm track in a shower of dirt, the light sweeping across Szara and the fat man, whose mouth opened in surprise. From somewhere near the car an urgent voice called out, “Ismailov?”
    The fat man was astonished, for a moment speechless. Then he said, “What is it? Who are you?”
    The muzzle flare was like orange lightning—it turned the fat man into a photographic negative, arms spread like the wings of a bird as a wind