“fine.”
At last, the van halted and she braked the bus. She looked across the ravine to the old pavilion building. The building, abandoned, lopsided as if frozen in a drunken sway, was perched on the edge of land that was as high as the bridge. It seemed far away, the length of three or four football fields.
“Turn off the motor,” the man said.
When she complied, the man reached over and took the key out of the ignition. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. “You did excellently,” he said. Then he turned away. “Miro,” he called.
But Miro didn’t answer. In fact, he heard Artkin’s voice as if from a great distance. He was looking at one of the children, a boy. The boy was alone in a seat, not paired off like most of the others. He lay full-length across the seat, as if he were sleeping. But his skin was bluish, as if someone had injected the veins of his face with blue dye. His chest did not rise or fall.
“Artkin,” Miro cried, unable to take his eyes away from the child.
“Yes?” Artkin replied, voice sharp, impatient.
Miro managed to tear his eyes away from the boy. He beckoned to Artkin. A flash of annoyance crossed Artkin’s face as he walked down the aisle toward Miro. “It’s your time,” he said, as he approached. Miro pointed at the boy.
Artkin swore, in the old language, swore softly, an ancient word of dismay and disgust. Miro had never heard such a word from Artkin’s lips before. Then Artkin acted quickly, feeling the boy’s chest for signs of life, checking the pulse in the frail wrist, placing his ear against the boy’s lips. The boy was still, unmoving.
“Is something the matter?” the girl called, her voice anxious. “Is one of the children sick?”
“Check the other children,” Artkin told the boy. “See if they are all right.” To the girl, he called: “One moment, miss.”
Miro made a quick tour of the children. Some were half awake, reposing in partial slumber. Others slept, their faces slack with sleep, bodies limp and loose. But they all seemed normal. All seemed to be breathing regularly. He reported his findings to Artkin, who was working on the boy, massaging his chest, breathing into his mouth.
Miro looked toward the girl. She had turned in her seat and was regarding Miro and Artkin with apprehension. Miro felt his anger rising. If this had not happened with the child, he would now be carrying out his assignment. First, the girl had appeared as the driver instead of the man as planned. And now this delay. He felt his stomach muscles tightening. Looking at the dead child once more, he pondered how quickly death could arrive. He looked away from the child, that blue flesh, the body so still. Why should this death concern him? He had seen death more violently, more sickening. He remembered the man in the Detroit operation who had soiled his trousers the moment before he died, the stench filling the car. But this child seemed so defenseless, and his death was without purpose. Artkin had planned the death of some children if it became necessary, when the greatest effect could be obtained. Another thing: Artkin did not like unexpected happenings, unplanned developments. One of the most important parts of an operation, he said, was anticipation. So that there would be no surprises, or at least a minimum, and minor ones, at that.
“Miro,” Artkin said, “come closer.”
The girl called again: “What’s going on? Is somebody sick?”
“One moment, please,” Artkin told the girl. And then to Miro, although he wasn’t looking at Miro. He was looking at the dead child and when he spoke, it was in a whisper. “The child is dead, Miro, and we have to take that death into account. But we can turn this to our advantage. In fact, this may be more effective than the girl’s death. It will shock them, the death of a child, but it will also show them that we are not bluffing, that we are adamant.”
He stood up and faced Miro. “We must improvise, Miro. For