Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [118]
Younger’s eyes were bloodshot. He had driven through the night. Next to him, slumped over in the sidecar, Luc lay sleeping.
On a wide avenue bordering the slow and turbid river Vltava, Younger pulled up outside a café showing signs of life. He got out, lit a cigarette, and crossed the avenue to a parapet where he could look out at the water. Downriver, boats passed into tunnel-like vaults below a medieval stone bridge. Yawning, Luc—awakened by the vehicle’s halt—joined him. Across the river, the land sloped up to a considerable height, at the summit of which, reflecting the glinting rays of a morning sun, stood the sprawling Pražský hrad, the castle of Prague.
“It’s the largest castle in the world,” Younger said to Luc. “Before the war, it was home to emperors and kings. It’s empty now—being rebuilt, they say. Renovated for government use. Smell that? Something’s baking in that café. Let’s go have a look.”
It took them another hour to find the street that old Frau Gruber in Braunau had written down for Younger. The Czech language was incomprehensible to him; even when he found someone with whom he could get by in German, no one recognized the street name. This may have been because the street was located in the oldest quarter, which was a maze of labyrinthine alleys, or because Younger couldn’t make its pronunciation intelligible.
At last they found the little street, near an ancient stone gunpowder tower. From surrounding rooftops, a tribunal of life-size saints, carved from centuries-darkened marble, gazed down on them in postures twisted in either bliss or agony. Two- and three-story houses, hundreds of years old, lined the narrow street, their opposing balconies so close that the occupants might almost have been able to shake hands across them.
Younger knocked at the house posted with the number he was looking for. He wasn’t sure what he would do if someone answered, but no one did. He tried the door; it was locked. He also tried questioning passersby, asking for Hans Gruber. They had no idea what he was saying—or if they did, the name meant nothing to them.
“We’ll just have to wait,” he said to Luc. A short way down the street, he parked the motorcycle in a space between two old buildings and lit a cigarette.
By early afternoon, Colette still had not appeared. Nor had anyone fitting the description of Hans Gruber. It occurred to Younger that old Frau Gruber might have lied to him about the address. He didn’t think so. Another possibility was that she had made a mistake about the address, but if that were true, then Colette would make the same mistake and eventually turn up—assuming she hadn’t beaten them there, which Younger considered very unlikely, given the propensity of the Austrian trains to break down and arrive at their destinations up to twenty-four hours late.
At a nearby store, Younger bought a loaf of bread and some thick slices of ham. When he returned with these goods, the boy handed him another message: “Am I a coward?”
Younger fixed a sandwich for the boy and another for himself. “I’m going to answer you with a bromide,” said Younger. “In English, a bromide is a platitude, a commonplace—something everybody knows. Actually, it’s also a bromine salt, but never mind that. Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. That’s the bromide—but it happens to be true.”
Luc wrote on a new card: “You’re never afraid.”
“Oh, yes I am,” said Younger. “I’ll tell you a secret. Bravery consists of not letting anyone else know how scared you are. Sorry to have to tell you, but by the time they’re your age, some boys have already proven they’re heroes. You might as well know the truth. I knew a boy once—no older