 |
 |
The information from the Hungarian and Romanian border posts that Radler was still on the train was much welcomed and served to quell the discomfort in Drexler’s stomach. Three and a quarter hours later, the news that he no longer was, had brought on an acid attack that made Hans think his boss was having a heart attack.
The Securitate were certain. When the passengers, in Cluj-Napoca, transferred to the Bucharest train he was nowhere to be seen; he must have got off in Oradea. Drexler was apoplectic. This was exactly what he’d tried to avoid. “Where the hell could he go from there?” Max demanded then drank the antacid Hans placed before him.
“Well, Budapest.”
“You mean he’s halfway to Budapest by now?”
“No,” the voice laughed. “He can’t get there until this train turns around and does the return trip.”
“So, you’re telling me he’s going to be standing on the platform at this place, Oradea?” Max was becoming desperate. Hans brought a glass of milk.
The voice at the other end paused for thought. “Well, not really. He’d probably get the train to Arad, that’s what I’d do. It’s another border town and from there you can get an express to Budapest.”
Max took a deep breath. “Can you call your office in this place you speak of and have someone go to the station and arrest Herr Radler? He’s trying to defect.”
“Who to? The Hungarians?”
Drexler spoke carefully and with as much control as he could muster; head down and resting in the palm of his left hand. “Not the Hungarians. No, he’s trying to defect to the West through Austria. Now, can you phone your colleagues and have him arrested?”
“I could but it wouldn’t do much good. Both trains will have already arrived.” A check of the wrist. “To be honest, the Budapest train probably left at least ten minutes ago.” The voice thought on then said, “The first stop in Hungary is Szolnok in about two and a half hours. Try calling the Hungarians.”