Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [139]
“In my absence?” repeated Colette. “Why?”
“He improves when away from you,” answered Freud. “Younger, did the boy communicate with you when you were traveling with him?”
“Yes—he wrote me notes.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Colette said to Younger.
“It’s natural, Miss Rousseau, for the boy to do better outside his immediate family—and natural on your part to resent it.”
“I don’t resent it.”
“No? Well, I can tell you nothing else right now, but you are almost certainly involved in his symptoms. Your behavior for the last six years and his are intertwined in some fashion. You may even be the cause of his condition.”
Younger could see that Colette was distraught. “Can I speak with Stratham for a moment?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Freud.
They withdrew to the stairwell. “Tell me I’m not the cause,” she whispered, desperately. “Am I the cause?”
“I don’t know.”
“What should I do?”
“Leave him here, without question,” said Younger. “We may not make it out of Austria. If we’re caught and he’s with us, they’ll put him in some kind of Czech institution—an orphanage or worse. He could be there for years.”
“But how will we get him back?”
“If we get out?” said Younger. “Easily. We’ll send someone for him.”
Colette steeled herself, and they returned to the courtyard. She hesitated—then put the question to her brother, asking what he wanted to do. The boy looked at Younger.
“You want my opinion?” asked Younger.
The boy nodded.
“Stay behind.” Younger decided to put it in terms of the courage Luc would need: “It will be hard on you, but you’ll be helping your sister and me. After we reach safety, you’ll follow.”
Luc thought about it. His eyes were deep—deep enough, Younger suspected, to have seen through his tactic. Then the boy took a few steps until he was standing between Freud and his wife. He looked up at Colette, his expressionless face indicating that he had made his decision.
“Wire us the moment you can,” said Freud.
Outside the Westbahnhof railway station, policemen stood guard, demanding papers from everyone who went in.
“It’s worse than I thought,” said Oktavian. “I don’t see how you’ll get through.”
“The Czechs hold an anti-Semitic riot, and it’s we whom they want to arrest,” said Younger disgustedly. They were still inside Oktavian’s carriage. “Is there another train station?”
“Several,” replied Oktavian, “but the police are sure to be there too. There is another way, Doctor, if you’re willing. Aeroplane. A French company began service just last month. The airstrip is small and nearly always deserted. The police may not think of it. The aeroplanes are quite safe, they say, but very dear.”
“What would you think of flying?” Younger asked Colette.
“Luc looked happy to be left behind, didn’t he?” she answered. “Almost as if he were glad to be away from me.”
Vienna’s airport—the only one in Austria—consisted of a dirt landing strip with a single craft on it: a double-winged monoplane with the largest propeller on its nose Younger had ever seen. Oktavian was right: there were no policemen. Neither, however, was there anyone else, so far as they could see. No passengers, no ticket agents, no crew. The only building was locked.
Venturing around the back, they found two men drinking coffee and schnapps. One turned out to be the pilot, a Frenchman, who jumped eagerly from his chair when Oktavian inquired about the possibility of two passengers flying immediately to the nearest port.
“We’re supposed to fly to Paris,” said the pilot with a Gallic shrug, “but we’re not particular. I could take you to Bremen.”
“Bremen would be fine,” replied Younger.
They agreed to a price. The pilot downed his schnapps and clapped his hands. “Off we go then,” he said.
The aircraft boasted eight passenger seats. When the pilot had settled into the cockpit, he took an additional swallow from a hip flask and signaled a thumbs-up