CHAPTER SEVEN
A full day passed without word on the gypsies. Trudy was relieved, as it forced Illya to rest. He was unusually quiet and seemed to accept the down time. His condition didn't improve, though. When he allowed her to probe the swollen arm, she suspected that it was a compound break, and probably needed to be set. It wasn't healing as quickly as she expected. The head wound and ribs were better, but she could tell the bullet wound was probably infected. It refused to close, and drained constantly. That was the wound that worried her.
Finally, almost two days after their arrival, Gregory roused Illya with the information that the gypsies were packing to move.
"They will come to the area south of town," he said. "They always camp there."
Now somewhat alert, Illya spoke rapidly to the priest, obviously giving him a list of what he needed. Gregory smiled. Their visit was probably the most excitement the priest had seen in years, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. When Trudy mentioned this to Illya, he replied drily, "Entertainment is a self-produced thing out here. The establishment frowns on fun."
She didn't know if he was serious or not.
Illya sat up, obviously with difficulty, and outlined his plan. "The gypsies will be set up by this afternoon. I plan to ride with them to a train station further down the line, away from the cities. They are heading that direction anyway, I'm sure. Asikov will be looking for the two of us together, so we will split up. Father Gregory is getting some parishioners he trusts to help. I was against that part, but he insisted." Illya looked rather pained when he said that. "You, along with the Father and a couple of other women, will go to the camp together, and I shall go alone."
"Wait a minute. You can't walk all that way the shape you're in."
Illya glared at her with his sparkling blue eyes. "I'll be fine. I'll be disguised, as will you." He indicated a bundle of clothes in the corner that he had been studying. "We'll start with that."
By the time the priest came back, Trudy was wearing a traditional black dress and boots, which were falling apart, but useable. Gregory had with him more items, and soon she was properly attired, her hair up and hidden in a traditional head covering.
Illya's get up was more interesting. He was dressing as an old man, which would fit his gait. There was even a walking stick to top off the outfit. Illya removed the splint from his arm. "It's too obvious," he mumbled. With some ashes from the fire, and some wood splinters, he was able to make his hair look gray rather than blond, and added aged wrinkles to his face.
Trudy laughed. "I hope they don't look too closely! It's believable from a distance, though."
Illya put on a ratty old hat. "That should help," he added. "And it will be dusk." He and Gregory had a few words, and Illya nodded. "I think Gregory's plan will work. You need to learn a few words in Russian to make sure you stay safe."
Gregory left for a moment, and then came back with two other women about Trudy's age and similarly dressed. They each had a basket filled with bread rolls, and an extra for Trudy.
"Here," Illya said quietly. "Take this, too." He showed her the grenade from the truck, then buried it in Trudy's basket of rolls, and buried the green box in another. The women looked blasé, as if this happened every day. With a little coaching, Trudy was able to make out and repeat the words 'bread for the heathens,' and understand the word 'what'. It would have to do for now.
As they were getting ready to go, a young man strode into the room with a grin, chatting happily. Trudy saw Illya's eyes get a little larger, and saw him begin to argue with Gregory. Even without understanding the language, Trudy could tell that Illya was losing the argument. Gregory was a rock, and it amused her to see Illya having to give in. The young man stepped up to Illya with a smile, undaunted by the agent's glare and terse response.
"What's going on?" Trudy asked finally.
Illya snorted, leaning heavily on the cane. "Apparently I now have a son to guide me."
"Good." She replied, ignoring the withering look. "Let's go."
Trudy, the women and Gregory went first. Trudy was well aware of the teams of men patrolling the street but managed to keep her pace with the other women, her head down. As Father Gregory lead them down the winding streets, she noticed the poor condition of the roads and the quietness on the street. There were numerous people out and about, but they seemed to quietly hurry along to avoid the attention of the patrols.
When the reached the edge of the town she could see some bright canopies in the distance.
"There they are," Gregory said. Although she didn't understand the words, she understood the body language.
As soon as their feet stepped on to the dirt road leading from town they were approached by two military men. The women huddled together, heads down, and appeared calm as Gregory spoke pleasantly to the men. One of them used his rifle muzzle to flip back the napkins covering the rolls in the baskets. Trudy tried not to think about the grenade buried in her basket.
After a moment, she realized that the man was speaking to her. She looked up at him, recognizing the word 'what'. Automatically, she rattled off the sentence taught to her, hoping it would work. The soldier flipped back the napkin on her basket, then turned to the other soldier. He said something that made the other soldier laugh, and plucked a roll from the pile. As he took a bite, he waved the group on. Gregory blessed them and continued on. Trudy let out a huge sigh and realized her heart was pounding like a drum.
Just as Trudy's group was allowed to pass, Illya and his guide started out, winding around to approach the same guards from a different direction. Luckily, they weren't the only people heading to the camp. Some merchants, knowing the gypsies' habits, were hauling some items out to sell. Illya and his 'son' Joseph walked casually to the edge of town.
It wasn't much of a stretch for Illya to hobble like an old man. His ribs still hurt, as did his arm, which he held snugly against his body, and the edge of the hat rubbed the wound on his forehead. They were all minor annoyances, and all handy for him to use to add believability to his demeanor. When they reached the hard-packed dirt road, the soldiers stopped them.
"Where are you going?" The soldier asked, studying Joseph. Illya had warranted a fast glance only.
"My father here wants to see the gypsy healer." Their story had been thought out before they left the church.
The soldier raised his eyebrow. "Why?" he asked, not so much with suspicion, but now curious and looking for a way to relieve his boredom.
"Warts," Illya said gruffly. "I heard they have a cure."
"Warts?" The soldier was grinning now, and motioned his partner over. "Hey, this old man says the Gypsies can cure warts."
The second soldier released the woman he was speaking with and came over, grinning. "Really? What else do they cure?"
Joseph laughed, too, while Illya remained passive. "I'll find out for you."
"So you aren't getting warts removed, too?" The soldier asked, amused.
"Oh, no!" Joseph replied, and then he leaned towards the soldiers in a conspirital manner. "Actually, my momma insisted I go to keep him away from the wiley ways of the gypsy women. You know."
That made the guards laugh out loud and they motioned for them to pass. "I hear you may have your work cut out for you, boy!" One soldier said as he clapped Joseph on the back.
Joseph nodded with a smile, and Illya scowled at him in a fatherly way as they moved along. The handgun and flares in Illya's waistband felt particularly heavy as they walked down the path to the bright canopies. "We didn't rehearse that last part," Illya said sourly.
The young man's sunny smile never wavered. "I know. The lady gave me the idea. I speak English!"
Illya set his jaw and logged the information away for future revenge. She has to be related to Napoleon somehow, he thought as he hobbled along.
*************
The truck bumped along the decrepit street and Ivan Bratsk cursed his luck silently once again at the loss of his device. Once Thrush had clued him in to the identity of the blond agent, he was sure his luck couldn't get much worse as he miserably set out to find him. At the same time, he had to avoid General Asikov. Bratsk knew he wasn't cut out for this kind of work, but the device was his only opportunity to get somewhere in this world and he was determined to find it before the General.
Bratsk was an army engineer, but was able to carry himself with enough command presence to slide through the street patrols. He just couldn't run into Asikov. This little town was one of two possibilities the escapees would head towards, he figured. Although his gut told him he was on the right track, his systematic search of the town had yielded nothing. He stopped at the edge of town and pulled out the tattered, outdated map from his pocket to figure his next move when a motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
The gypsy tents were once brightly colored, but now were faded due to the elements. The wagons in the background were in the same shape. Bratsk at first dismissed the bunch as lowlife undesirables and went back to his map when a thought struck him. He turned back to the camp, and smiled. Why not? he thought. I've had no luck in town. Stuffing the map back in his pocket, he coaxed the sputtering engine back to life.
A full day passed without word on the gypsies. Trudy was relieved, as it forced Illya to rest. He was unusually quiet and seemed to accept the down time. His condition didn't improve, though. When he allowed her to probe the swollen arm, she suspected that it was a compound break, and probably needed to be set. It wasn't healing as quickly as she expected. The head wound and ribs were better, but she could tell the bullet wound was probably infected. It refused to close, and drained constantly. That was the wound that worried her.
Finally, almost two days after their arrival, Gregory roused Illya with the information that the gypsies were packing to move.
"They will come to the area south of town," he said. "They always camp there."
Now somewhat alert, Illya spoke rapidly to the priest, obviously giving him a list of what he needed. Gregory smiled. Their visit was probably the most excitement the priest had seen in years, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. When Trudy mentioned this to Illya, he replied drily, "Entertainment is a self-produced thing out here. The establishment frowns on fun."
She didn't know if he was serious or not.
Illya sat up, obviously with difficulty, and outlined his plan. "The gypsies will be set up by this afternoon. I plan to ride with them to a train station further down the line, away from the cities. They are heading that direction anyway, I'm sure. Asikov will be looking for the two of us together, so we will split up. Father Gregory is getting some parishioners he trusts to help. I was against that part, but he insisted." Illya looked rather pained when he said that. "You, along with the Father and a couple of other women, will go to the camp together, and I shall go alone."
"Wait a minute. You can't walk all that way the shape you're in."
Illya glared at her with his sparkling blue eyes. "I'll be fine. I'll be disguised, as will you." He indicated a bundle of clothes in the corner that he had been studying. "We'll start with that."
By the time the priest came back, Trudy was wearing a traditional black dress and boots, which were falling apart, but useable. Gregory had with him more items, and soon she was properly attired, her hair up and hidden in a traditional head covering.
Illya's get up was more interesting. He was dressing as an old man, which would fit his gait. There was even a walking stick to top off the outfit. Illya removed the splint from his arm. "It's too obvious," he mumbled. With some ashes from the fire, and some wood splinters, he was able to make his hair look gray rather than blond, and added aged wrinkles to his face.
Trudy laughed. "I hope they don't look too closely! It's believable from a distance, though."
Illya put on a ratty old hat. "That should help," he added. "And it will be dusk." He and Gregory had a few words, and Illya nodded. "I think Gregory's plan will work. You need to learn a few words in Russian to make sure you stay safe."
Gregory left for a moment, and then came back with two other women about Trudy's age and similarly dressed. They each had a basket filled with bread rolls, and an extra for Trudy.
"Here," Illya said quietly. "Take this, too." He showed her the grenade from the truck, then buried it in Trudy's basket of rolls, and buried the green box in another. The women looked blasé, as if this happened every day. With a little coaching, Trudy was able to make out and repeat the words 'bread for the heathens,' and understand the word 'what'. It would have to do for now.
As they were getting ready to go, a young man strode into the room with a grin, chatting happily. Trudy saw Illya's eyes get a little larger, and saw him begin to argue with Gregory. Even without understanding the language, Trudy could tell that Illya was losing the argument. Gregory was a rock, and it amused her to see Illya having to give in. The young man stepped up to Illya with a smile, undaunted by the agent's glare and terse response.
"What's going on?" Trudy asked finally.
Illya snorted, leaning heavily on the cane. "Apparently I now have a son to guide me."
"Good." She replied, ignoring the withering look. "Let's go."
Trudy, the women and Gregory went first. Trudy was well aware of the teams of men patrolling the street but managed to keep her pace with the other women, her head down. As Father Gregory lead them down the winding streets, she noticed the poor condition of the roads and the quietness on the street. There were numerous people out and about, but they seemed to quietly hurry along to avoid the attention of the patrols.
When the reached the edge of the town she could see some bright canopies in the distance.
"There they are," Gregory said. Although she didn't understand the words, she understood the body language.
As soon as their feet stepped on to the dirt road leading from town they were approached by two military men. The women huddled together, heads down, and appeared calm as Gregory spoke pleasantly to the men. One of them used his rifle muzzle to flip back the napkins covering the rolls in the baskets. Trudy tried not to think about the grenade buried in her basket.
After a moment, she realized that the man was speaking to her. She looked up at him, recognizing the word 'what'. Automatically, she rattled off the sentence taught to her, hoping it would work. The soldier flipped back the napkin on her basket, then turned to the other soldier. He said something that made the other soldier laugh, and plucked a roll from the pile. As he took a bite, he waved the group on. Gregory blessed them and continued on. Trudy let out a huge sigh and realized her heart was pounding like a drum.
Just as Trudy's group was allowed to pass, Illya and his guide started out, winding around to approach the same guards from a different direction. Luckily, they weren't the only people heading to the camp. Some merchants, knowing the gypsies' habits, were hauling some items out to sell. Illya and his 'son' Joseph walked casually to the edge of town.
It wasn't much of a stretch for Illya to hobble like an old man. His ribs still hurt, as did his arm, which he held snugly against his body, and the edge of the hat rubbed the wound on his forehead. They were all minor annoyances, and all handy for him to use to add believability to his demeanor. When they reached the hard-packed dirt road, the soldiers stopped them.
"Where are you going?" The soldier asked, studying Joseph. Illya had warranted a fast glance only.
"My father here wants to see the gypsy healer." Their story had been thought out before they left the church.
The soldier raised his eyebrow. "Why?" he asked, not so much with suspicion, but now curious and looking for a way to relieve his boredom.
"Warts," Illya said gruffly. "I heard they have a cure."
"Warts?" The soldier was grinning now, and motioned his partner over. "Hey, this old man says the Gypsies can cure warts."
The second soldier released the woman he was speaking with and came over, grinning. "Really? What else do they cure?"
Joseph laughed, too, while Illya remained passive. "I'll find out for you."
"So you aren't getting warts removed, too?" The soldier asked, amused.
"Oh, no!" Joseph replied, and then he leaned towards the soldiers in a conspirital manner. "Actually, my momma insisted I go to keep him away from the wiley ways of the gypsy women. You know."
That made the guards laugh out loud and they motioned for them to pass. "I hear you may have your work cut out for you, boy!" One soldier said as he clapped Joseph on the back.
Joseph nodded with a smile, and Illya scowled at him in a fatherly way as they moved along. The handgun and flares in Illya's waistband felt particularly heavy as they walked down the path to the bright canopies. "We didn't rehearse that last part," Illya said sourly.
The young man's sunny smile never wavered. "I know. The lady gave me the idea. I speak English!"
Illya set his jaw and logged the information away for future revenge. She has to be related to Napoleon somehow, he thought as he hobbled along.
*************
The truck bumped along the decrepit street and Ivan Bratsk cursed his luck silently once again at the loss of his device. Once Thrush had clued him in to the identity of the blond agent, he was sure his luck couldn't get much worse as he miserably set out to find him. At the same time, he had to avoid General Asikov. Bratsk knew he wasn't cut out for this kind of work, but the device was his only opportunity to get somewhere in this world and he was determined to find it before the General.
Bratsk was an army engineer, but was able to carry himself with enough command presence to slide through the street patrols. He just couldn't run into Asikov. This little town was one of two possibilities the escapees would head towards, he figured. Although his gut told him he was on the right track, his systematic search of the town had yielded nothing. He stopped at the edge of town and pulled out the tattered, outdated map from his pocket to figure his next move when a motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
The gypsy tents were once brightly colored, but now were faded due to the elements. The wagons in the background were in the same shape. Bratsk at first dismissed the bunch as lowlife undesirables and went back to his map when a thought struck him. He turned back to the camp, and smiled. Why not? he thought. I've had no luck in town. Stuffing the map back in his pocket, he coaxed the sputtering engine back to life.