hotel?” she asked.
“Credit card,” he said, and in the stunned, accusing silence that followed he saw his James Bond fantasies sink slowly beneath the slack, oily surface of a dismal lake.
Because credit cards leave trails. The Transnistrians would have checked the hotel registry, and the credit card impression taken by the hotel, and now they knew who he was. And it wouldn’t be long before they’d trace him at this hotel.
“Shit, I should have warned you to pay cash.” Stephanie stalked to the window and peered out cautiously. “They could be out there right now.”
Terzian felt a sudden compulsion to have the gun in his hand. He took it from the bedside table and stood there, feeling stupid and cold and shirtless.
“How much money do you have?” Terzian asked.
“Couple of hundred.”
“I have less.”
“You should max out your credit card and just carry euros. Use your card now before they cancel it.”
“Cancel it? How could they cancel it?”
She gave him a tight-lipped, impatient look. “Jonathan. They may be assholes, but they’re still a government. ”
They took a cab to the American Express near the Opéra and Terzian got ten thousand Euros in cash from some people who were extremely skeptical about the validity of his documents, but who had, in the end, to admit that all was technically correct. Then Stephanie got a cell phone under the name A. Silva, with a bunch of prepaid hours on it, and within a couple of hours they were on the TGV, speeding south to Nice at nearly two hundred seventy kilometers per hour, all with a strange absence of sound and vibration that made the French countryside speeding past seem like a strangely unconvincing special effect.
Terzian had put them in first class and he and Stephanie were alone in a group of four seats. Stephanie was twitchy because he hadn’t bought seats in a smoking section. He sat uncertain, unhappy about all the cash he was carrying and not knowing what to do with it—he’d made two big rolls and zipped them into the pockets of his windbreaker. He carried the pistol in the front pocket of his jeans and its weight and discomfort was a perpetual reminder of this situation that he’d been dragged into, pursued by killers from Trashcanistan and escorting illegal biotechnology.
He kept mentally rehearsing drawing the pistol and shooting it. Over and over, remembering to thumb off the safety this time. Just in case Trashcanian commandos stormed the train.
“Hurled into life,” he muttered. “An object lesson right out of Heidegger.”
“Beg pardon?”
He looked at her. “Heidegger said we’re hurled into life. Just like I’ve been hurled into—” He flapped his hands uselessly. “Into whatever this is. The situation exists before you even got here, but here you are anyway, and the whole business is something you inherit and have to live with.” He felt his lips draw back in a snarl. “He also said that a fundamental feature of existence is anxiety in the face of death, which would also seem to apply to our situation. And his answer to all of this was to make existence, dasein if you want to get technical, an authentic project.” He looked at her. “So what’s your authentic project, then? And how authentic is it?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
Terzian couldn’t stop, not that he wanted to. It was just Stephanie’s hard luck that he couldn’t shoot anybody right now, or break something up with his fists, and was compelled to lecture instead. “Or,” he went on, “to put this in a more accessible context, just pretend we’re in a Hitchcock film, okay? This is the scene where Grace Kelly tells Cary Grant exactly who she is and what the maguffin is.”
Stephanie’s face was frozen into a hostile mask. Whether she understood what he was saying or not, the hostility was clear.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“What’s in the fucking bag?” he demanded.
She glared at him for a long moment, then spoke, her
“Credit card,” he said, and in the stunned, accusing silence that followed he saw his James Bond fantasies sink slowly beneath the slack, oily surface of a dismal lake.
Because credit cards leave trails. The Transnistrians would have checked the hotel registry, and the credit card impression taken by the hotel, and now they knew who he was. And it wouldn’t be long before they’d trace him at this hotel.
“Shit, I should have warned you to pay cash.” Stephanie stalked to the window and peered out cautiously. “They could be out there right now.”
Terzian felt a sudden compulsion to have the gun in his hand. He took it from the bedside table and stood there, feeling stupid and cold and shirtless.
“How much money do you have?” Terzian asked.
“Couple of hundred.”
“I have less.”
“You should max out your credit card and just carry euros. Use your card now before they cancel it.”
“Cancel it? How could they cancel it?”
She gave him a tight-lipped, impatient look. “Jonathan. They may be assholes, but they’re still a government. ”
They took a cab to the American Express near the Opéra and Terzian got ten thousand Euros in cash from some people who were extremely skeptical about the validity of his documents, but who had, in the end, to admit that all was technically correct. Then Stephanie got a cell phone under the name A. Silva, with a bunch of prepaid hours on it, and within a couple of hours they were on the TGV, speeding south to Nice at nearly two hundred seventy kilometers per hour, all with a strange absence of sound and vibration that made the French countryside speeding past seem like a strangely unconvincing special effect.
Terzian had put them in first class and he and Stephanie were alone in a group of four seats. Stephanie was twitchy because he hadn’t bought seats in a smoking section. He sat uncertain, unhappy about all the cash he was carrying and not knowing what to do with it—he’d made two big rolls and zipped them into the pockets of his windbreaker. He carried the pistol in the front pocket of his jeans and its weight and discomfort was a perpetual reminder of this situation that he’d been dragged into, pursued by killers from Trashcanistan and escorting illegal biotechnology.
He kept mentally rehearsing drawing the pistol and shooting it. Over and over, remembering to thumb off the safety this time. Just in case Trashcanian commandos stormed the train.
“Hurled into life,” he muttered. “An object lesson right out of Heidegger.”
“Beg pardon?”
He looked at her. “Heidegger said we’re hurled into life. Just like I’ve been hurled into—” He flapped his hands uselessly. “Into whatever this is. The situation exists before you even got here, but here you are anyway, and the whole business is something you inherit and have to live with.” He felt his lips draw back in a snarl. “He also said that a fundamental feature of existence is anxiety in the face of death, which would also seem to apply to our situation. And his answer to all of this was to make existence, dasein if you want to get technical, an authentic project.” He looked at her. “So what’s your authentic project, then? And how authentic is it?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
Terzian couldn’t stop, not that he wanted to. It was just Stephanie’s hard luck that he couldn’t shoot anybody right now, or break something up with his fists, and was compelled to lecture instead. “Or,” he went on, “to put this in a more accessible context, just pretend we’re in a Hitchcock film, okay? This is the scene where Grace Kelly tells Cary Grant exactly who she is and what the maguffin is.”
Stephanie’s face was frozen into a hostile mask. Whether she understood what he was saying or not, the hostility was clear.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“What’s in the fucking bag?” he demanded.
She glared at him for a long moment, then spoke, her
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