was sinking below the rim of the runway as they left the plane.
The Potter spotted the welcoming committee the instant he stepped onto the top of the ramp. Any idiot could have. One was a little man who gripped a black umbrella by the middle and pinned his black homburg to his head with the curved handle so the hat wouldn't be carried off in the wind. The second, probably the junior of the two, judging by his position several steps behind and to the left of the little man, wore a long trench coat and black galoshes. The passengers filing off the plane were steered toward a waiting bus. When Svetochka and the Potter reached the tarmac, the little man with the homburg pinned to his head by the umbrella handle stepped forward. "Delighted you could come," he announced in an English thick with a guttural Bavarian drawl.
"What does he say?" Svetochka asked, dutifully pronouncing her memorized lines. "With his accent, I can't understand-"
"He wants us to follow him," the Potter whispered in Russian. Steering Svetochka by an elbow, he followed the little man toward a small pickup truck parked on the other side of the plane.
The procession passed under the plane. Water glistened on the silver belly; to the Potter, it looked as if the plane was sweating. Two other Germans in trench coats were waiting next to the open rear doors of the small pickup truck. The Potter and Svetochka climbed into the back and sat down on a low metal bench. Outside, the man wearing the homburg and the two others talked in undertones. Ten minutes went by. Eventually Galoshes arrived and hefted the two American valises plastered with labels into the pickup. Then he and Homburg took their places on the metal bench across from the Potter. Nobody said a word. The rear doors were slammed closed and locked. The other two Germans climbed into the front scats. The motor turned over. The pickup was thrown into gear and began to crawl across the runway toward the other side of the airport.
They rolled along for several minutes. They must have passed close to the end of the runway, because they heard the stutter of propeller engines revving up for a takeoff, and saw, through the small scarred rear window, the flashing green of a starboard wing light. After a while the pickup came to a stop. The Potter could make out men talking quietly in German, then the sound of an entrance in a chain-link fence being pulled back.
Svetochka looked at him in bewilderment. "And Paris?" she asked plaintively. Inhibited by the silent stares of the two Germans, she shivered and drew closer to the Potter.
The pickup stopped before the giant doors of an enormous hangar. The driver came around and opened the back door. Svetochka started to slide out, but Galoshes put a restraining hand on her arm. "Only him," he said. Looking the Potter in the eye, Homburg nodded toward the open door.
"You will wait for me here," the Potter told Svetochka in Russian. He patted her knee on his way out of the pickup.
"What is happening?" she called after him in fright. "Why can't Svetochka come with you?"
Dusk was settling over the distant runway like soot. Some mechanics in overalls were working on the motor of an airplane nearby, but they didn't look up. The driver put his shoulder to the giant door and rolled it back enough for the Potter to slip into the hangar. Then he pulled the door closed with a resounding clang.
The hangar- was empty; not a person, not a plane, not a vehicle of any kind was in sight. The Potter had a sudden urge to yell and hear his voice come back at him from a far corner. A narrow steel staircase climbed up one wall to a balcony with half a dozen small offices on it.
The doors of the offices were made of frosted glass. A light burned in the second office. Mounting the steps, listening to his own footfalls echoing through the hangar, the Potter homed in on the light. He reached the door, pushed it open and entered.
Hunched behind a metal desk, a thin young man with
The Potter spotted the welcoming committee the instant he stepped onto the top of the ramp. Any idiot could have. One was a little man who gripped a black umbrella by the middle and pinned his black homburg to his head with the curved handle so the hat wouldn't be carried off in the wind. The second, probably the junior of the two, judging by his position several steps behind and to the left of the little man, wore a long trench coat and black galoshes. The passengers filing off the plane were steered toward a waiting bus. When Svetochka and the Potter reached the tarmac, the little man with the homburg pinned to his head by the umbrella handle stepped forward. "Delighted you could come," he announced in an English thick with a guttural Bavarian drawl.
"What does he say?" Svetochka asked, dutifully pronouncing her memorized lines. "With his accent, I can't understand-"
"He wants us to follow him," the Potter whispered in Russian. Steering Svetochka by an elbow, he followed the little man toward a small pickup truck parked on the other side of the plane.
The procession passed under the plane. Water glistened on the silver belly; to the Potter, it looked as if the plane was sweating. Two other Germans in trench coats were waiting next to the open rear doors of the small pickup truck. The Potter and Svetochka climbed into the back and sat down on a low metal bench. Outside, the man wearing the homburg and the two others talked in undertones. Ten minutes went by. Eventually Galoshes arrived and hefted the two American valises plastered with labels into the pickup. Then he and Homburg took their places on the metal bench across from the Potter. Nobody said a word. The rear doors were slammed closed and locked. The other two Germans climbed into the front scats. The motor turned over. The pickup was thrown into gear and began to crawl across the runway toward the other side of the airport.
They rolled along for several minutes. They must have passed close to the end of the runway, because they heard the stutter of propeller engines revving up for a takeoff, and saw, through the small scarred rear window, the flashing green of a starboard wing light. After a while the pickup came to a stop. The Potter could make out men talking quietly in German, then the sound of an entrance in a chain-link fence being pulled back.
Svetochka looked at him in bewilderment. "And Paris?" she asked plaintively. Inhibited by the silent stares of the two Germans, she shivered and drew closer to the Potter.
The pickup stopped before the giant doors of an enormous hangar. The driver came around and opened the back door. Svetochka started to slide out, but Galoshes put a restraining hand on her arm. "Only him," he said. Looking the Potter in the eye, Homburg nodded toward the open door.
"You will wait for me here," the Potter told Svetochka in Russian. He patted her knee on his way out of the pickup.
"What is happening?" she called after him in fright. "Why can't Svetochka come with you?"
Dusk was settling over the distant runway like soot. Some mechanics in overalls were working on the motor of an airplane nearby, but they didn't look up. The driver put his shoulder to the giant door and rolled it back enough for the Potter to slip into the hangar. Then he pulled the door closed with a resounding clang.
The hangar- was empty; not a person, not a plane, not a vehicle of any kind was in sight. The Potter had a sudden urge to yell and hear his voice come back at him from a far corner. A narrow steel staircase climbed up one wall to a balcony with half a dozen small offices on it.
The doors of the offices were made of frosted glass. A light burned in the second office. Mounting the steps, listening to his own footfalls echoing through the hangar, the Potter homed in on the light. He reached the door, pushed it open and entered.
Hunched behind a metal desk, a thin young man with
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