the dappled light toward the cathedral.
A bortsi , Chatham thought, and slowed his pace.
His shoulder began to ache from the weight of the suitcase.
As Chatham slowed, the man in front of him seemed to hesitate.
Footsteps sounded from behind. Chatham turned to see another bortsi bearing down on him. Chatham hurried along the path. The suitcase banged against his leg and the sounds all around him seemed to be magnified—footsteps behind him quickening, moving in on him, bushes beside the path crackling with snarling dogs fighting for scraps.
The bortsi behind him seemed to speed up. I must be imagining it, Chatham thought. Irena wouldn’t do that.
The man in front stopped, hands on hips, arms bent at the elbow, and blocked the path. He turned to face Chatham, powerful legs spread, smiling, arms open as if in welcome, while from behind the footsteps accelerated, closer, closer.
Dimitar, that’s who it must be, Dimitar did this.
Just for a moment, heart thumping, Chatham hesitated, then took his chances with the feral dogs. He ducked into the bushes, swinging the suitcase in a wild arc at the man blocking the path as he went. The man went down with a soft whimper of surprise.
The dogs bayed at Chatham. One gripped his ankle. He felt a sharp pain and tried kicking at the dog. He swung the suitcase again, this time at the dog. It fell back with a yelp. Chatham careened out of the bushes, his heel landing on the bortsi in front of him, still splayed on the path. Chatham kicked him, heard the man groan. He swung the suitcase again, this time behind him. He felt the impact, heard a contact thump, then a grunt and a moan.
The man in front struggled to rise. Holding the suitcase out at arm’s length, Chatham flayed in wide arcs, banged against the temple of the man in front, swung at the bortsi behind. Without looking to see what happened, Chatham sprinted out of the park, gripping the suitcase to his chest, his breath coming in agonized puffs, listening for the sound of pursuit.
He reached the bank of taxis and started toward the first in the rank. No, Dimitar may have set that one up in case he got away from the bortsi in the park. Not the second one, too obvious.
The driver of the third taxi in the rank opened the door and Chatham jumped in and fell onto the back seat.
“Lock the doors,” he ordered.
The driver reached for the button on the panel next to him and all four doors locked with a satisfying snap. Outside, the drivers of the first two taxis shouted and shook their fists at Chatham.
“The airport. Hurry,” Chatham said.
The driver turned to look over his shoulder as he backed up and Chatham recognized his steely eyes and his scar.
“I know you,” Chatham said. “You’re the driver who brought me to Ulitza Rakovsky.”
The driver maneuvered the taxi out of the parking space and started away from the square. Chatham contemplated the back of the driver’s head.
“You owe me ten leva,” the driver said.
Black and gray hairs stood out on rolls and folds of fat below the cap on the back of the driver’s head.
“I’ll pay you. Just get me to the airport on time.”
The taxi snaked in and out of traffic, along broad boulevards lined with square apartment blocks.
Chatham’s leg began to throb. He looked down and noticed that his cuff was torn and his ankle was bleeding.
“You cheated me,” the driver said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay you,” Chatham told him.
The traffic was lighter now, and the taxi accelerated. The blocks of apartments were thinning out.
“This isn’t the way to the airport,” Chatham said.
His ankle was getting more painful.
“Take me to the airport.” He took ten leva from his pocket and tossed it on the seat in front of him. “Here’s your ten leva.”
The cab speeded up.
Chatham reached into his pocket again and threw ten more leva on the seat. “Here’s twenty.”
They passed villas with broken balconies and sagging roofs, speeding faster and
A bortsi , Chatham thought, and slowed his pace.
His shoulder began to ache from the weight of the suitcase.
As Chatham slowed, the man in front of him seemed to hesitate.
Footsteps sounded from behind. Chatham turned to see another bortsi bearing down on him. Chatham hurried along the path. The suitcase banged against his leg and the sounds all around him seemed to be magnified—footsteps behind him quickening, moving in on him, bushes beside the path crackling with snarling dogs fighting for scraps.
The bortsi behind him seemed to speed up. I must be imagining it, Chatham thought. Irena wouldn’t do that.
The man in front stopped, hands on hips, arms bent at the elbow, and blocked the path. He turned to face Chatham, powerful legs spread, smiling, arms open as if in welcome, while from behind the footsteps accelerated, closer, closer.
Dimitar, that’s who it must be, Dimitar did this.
Just for a moment, heart thumping, Chatham hesitated, then took his chances with the feral dogs. He ducked into the bushes, swinging the suitcase in a wild arc at the man blocking the path as he went. The man went down with a soft whimper of surprise.
The dogs bayed at Chatham. One gripped his ankle. He felt a sharp pain and tried kicking at the dog. He swung the suitcase again, this time at the dog. It fell back with a yelp. Chatham careened out of the bushes, his heel landing on the bortsi in front of him, still splayed on the path. Chatham kicked him, heard the man groan. He swung the suitcase again, this time behind him. He felt the impact, heard a contact thump, then a grunt and a moan.
The man in front struggled to rise. Holding the suitcase out at arm’s length, Chatham flayed in wide arcs, banged against the temple of the man in front, swung at the bortsi behind. Without looking to see what happened, Chatham sprinted out of the park, gripping the suitcase to his chest, his breath coming in agonized puffs, listening for the sound of pursuit.
He reached the bank of taxis and started toward the first in the rank. No, Dimitar may have set that one up in case he got away from the bortsi in the park. Not the second one, too obvious.
The driver of the third taxi in the rank opened the door and Chatham jumped in and fell onto the back seat.
“Lock the doors,” he ordered.
The driver reached for the button on the panel next to him and all four doors locked with a satisfying snap. Outside, the drivers of the first two taxis shouted and shook their fists at Chatham.
“The airport. Hurry,” Chatham said.
The driver turned to look over his shoulder as he backed up and Chatham recognized his steely eyes and his scar.
“I know you,” Chatham said. “You’re the driver who brought me to Ulitza Rakovsky.”
The driver maneuvered the taxi out of the parking space and started away from the square. Chatham contemplated the back of the driver’s head.
“You owe me ten leva,” the driver said.
Black and gray hairs stood out on rolls and folds of fat below the cap on the back of the driver’s head.
“I’ll pay you. Just get me to the airport on time.”
The taxi snaked in and out of traffic, along broad boulevards lined with square apartment blocks.
Chatham’s leg began to throb. He looked down and noticed that his cuff was torn and his ankle was bleeding.
“You cheated me,” the driver said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay you,” Chatham told him.
The traffic was lighter now, and the taxi accelerated. The blocks of apartments were thinning out.
“This isn’t the way to the airport,” Chatham said.
His ankle was getting more painful.
“Take me to the airport.” He took ten leva from his pocket and tossed it on the seat in front of him. “Here’s your ten leva.”
The cab speeded up.
Chatham reached into his pocket again and threw ten more leva on the seat. “Here’s twenty.”
They passed villas with broken balconies and sagging roofs, speeding faster and
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