The Hunted

Alex plucked two passports out of the stack, then carefully shoved the rest under his leg. Elena pumped the brakes and the car bounced and wrenched to a squealing halt. They held their breath and prayed.

The road was a two-lane, sparsely trafficked one surrounded by countryside and a light sprawl of quaint villages. The checkpoint itself was little more than a yellow crossbar, lightly manned, with a wood shack and a few flickering lampposts-nothing more than a hastily erected shelter placed there in the aftermath of the abrupt Soviet withdrawal and the helter-skelter opening of the borders.

A skinny young man in an ill-fitting green customs uniform approached from the passenger side. The sound of an angry generator, spitting and sputtering, came from behind the shack. No words were exchanged. He stuck out a hand and Alex, trying to match his air of lethargy, yawned and casually handed him two passports. Eugene shoved his out from the backseat as well.

The guard studied Eugene's first, then in awful English prodded, "You are American?"

"No, I'm from Brooklyn," Eugene replied with a stupid grin. The guard eyed him suspiciously, obviously unable to match a citizen from Brooklyn to the American passport. Just cool it with the wisecracks, Alex and Elena wanted to scream at him.

Eugene stuck his face out the window and smiled broadly. "Of course I am. Why, do you like Americans?"

"Oh yes. Americans good. Ronald Reagan is big hero for me. Every Slovakian loves this Reagan. He tells the Russians to go kiss his ass. You know him?"

The young guard was now smiling pleasantly. Not many Americans used this backcountry crossing-in fact, none ever had, come to think of it. The heavy man in the backseat was the first American he'd ever encountered in person. He was obviously delighted and enthusiastic to try out his very limited English. Under improved lighting he looked barely old enough to be in high school, much less securing his nation's boundaries, with a lanky frame, pimply-faced, a pumpkin-sized head his features hadn't yet grown to fit. America was such a small land, of course everybody knew everybody.

"Oh… well, he's a dear old friend of mine. A dear, dear friend," Eugene rambled. "Ronnie and I… his pals call him Ronnie, by the way. Anyway, yeah, you could say we're big buddies."

"Ronnie. Yes, is better I think than Ronald. More friendly, yes?" The young guard was flipping through the back pages of Elena's passport, for no particular reason, since a Russian passport didn't require a visa. "He is really your friend?"

"I love him," Eugene declared loudly, anxious to like anything this kid liked. Stalin?-adore him. Liver?-my favorite meal. But it helped that it was true. He was a rich Wall Streeter and lifelong Republican without an ounce of guilt over the fortunes he'd made. He had no kind thoughts for those traitors from his tribe of millionaires who called themselves Democrats and did their best to get those tax-gobbling thieves back into the White House. Besides, it seemed like a great topic to keep this young guard's mind on other matters. Eugene told him truthfully, "I was one of his biggest contributors. Gave him lots of moolah. He had me down to the White House a few times. Nice place."

The guard was now measuring Alex's passport photo against his face. It was totally unnecessary. He was obviously dawdling to drag out the conversation. Why couldn't Eugene keep his mouth shut? Freedom was only ten yards ahead of them-if only Eugene would shut his yap.

The boy began thumbing through Alex's passport again, visibly more attentive to Eugene's ramblings about his hero than his work. He asked, not all that casually, "So you are big friend of Reagan's. Why then, you must tell me, you are traveling with these Russians?"

"Russians" spat out of his lips loaded with enough contempt to make it sound like he wanted to pull his pistol and blow Alex and Elena back to the gates of Moscow.

"They're old friends," Eugene replied, thinking fast.

A troubled look on the boy's face. He scratched his unwashed hair, shuffled his feet, and stared glumly at the passport. "This name, Konevitch, I think I have heard before."

"No surprise there," Eugene conceded in a quick rush of words. "Alex is… was… a dissident, a very famous one. He wrote brilliant essays about the rot of communism, they were smuggled out and published in the West." Eugene pushed his face closer and confided, "Guess how we met? Come on, guess."

Bunched shoulders. No idea.

"Ronnie introduced us. Get this-he told me personally that Alex's essays inspired him to tell the Russians to haul their asses out of East Europe."