The Tatra dump truck scraped the stones in the tunnel between the courtyard and the street with the left edge of its bumper.
A little harder than usual, Eric Fulmar, riding against the cab in the bed of the truck, thought idly. And then there was immediately another proof that it was going a little harder than usual. Instead of squeaking on through, the truck jerked to a stop and, with a clash of gears, backed up.
Oh, Christ, now what?
Then the gears clashed again, and the truck moved forward, and they were through the tunnel and onto the street.
It had snowed again overnight, not much, just a white dusting over the slush. Fulmar had hoped for freezing rain. That made the ride to the mine more interesting. He had concluded that all the truck drivers he had met since they had been locked up shared one quality: They had all learned how to drive last week and tried to hide this by driving as fast as the trucks would go.
On the slippery cobblestone streets on the way to the mines, they often skidded the truck into a ditch or into something hard enough to bend the fenders into the tires. This was routinely followed by marvelous displays of Hungarian temper and absolutely marvelous attempts to get the trucks out of the ditches by doing precisely the wrong thing.
Sometimes, as much as two hours would be lost. It was more pleasant than handling a donkey in the mines, and Fulmar looked forward to icy road conditions.
He was disappointed this morning when the driver managed to negotiate a turn that had several times seen the truck skid into a ditch so steep that the rear wheels of the truck left the ground.
They were maybe a kilometer away from the mine when he felt the brakes lock, and the truck skid, and then jolt to a halt.
He could not see over the cab, so he had no idea what they'd hit.
A moment later, there was a call in Hungarian for everybody to get out.
Getting everybody out to push was routine, too. And while it wasn't as interesting as watching the Hungarians try to get the wheels of a dump truck back on the ground by swearing and throwing stones at it, it would still delay the journey into the mines.
It wasn't until he had slid from the truck bed and turned around that Eric saw that whatever was happening was not routine.
There were men behind the truck, Hungarian civilians with pistols; and the two Keystone Kops on the motorcycle who trailed the truck were on the ground, spreadeagled As Fulmar watched, the driver and his assistant were brought to the rear of the truck and forced onto the ground beside the cops.
One of the men with pistols motioned the prisoners into a line, and then into two lines, then three, prodding the slow ones with the barrel of his pistol.
And then another man came down the line and rudely jerked people out of line by grabbing their shoulders.
If I wasn't so afraid, this would be funny.
The man reached him, jerked Fulmar out of line, and marched him toward the front of the truck. Fulmar saw what had stopped the truck. A tree lay across the road. At first he thought it had been sawed, but then he saw that it had been taken down by somebody who knew how to use Primacord.
Standing near the cab of the truck were more Hungarians. One of them, in a large soft black woolen hat, looked somehow familiar
"You do not recognize me," Canidy ordered quietly when Fulmar was dragged before him.
Fulmar shook his head in wonderment and smiled, but said nothing.
"We don't have much time," Canidy said.
"Just tell me which of the others would escape if they had half a chance?"
Fulmar looked confused.
"You heard me," Canidy said.
"I need to know who are the serious criminals."
Fulmar was as much confused by the question as he was surprised to see Canidy. But he finally understood that the question -was important for reasons he could not imagine.
"These guys are petty criminals," Fulmar said.
"If they weren't in jail, they'd probably starve. No real criminals, if that's what you're asking."
"Damn," Canidy said.