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“The dog is going?” Fernando asked.
“Absolutely,” Castillo said.
“I’ll call for the weather,” Torine said. “Somebody order up some breakfast. And—can we do this, Charley?—some in flight rations.”
[SIX]
Danubius Hotel Gellért
Szent Gellért tér 1
Budapest, Hungary
0720 7 August 2005
Eric Kocian, visibly in a foul mood, was rolled into his apartment in a wheelchair by Sándor Tor. He was accompanied by three security guards and Dr. Czerny. Czerny, the reason for Kocian’s foul mood, had made his personal approval of where Kocian would be resting in bed a condition to discharge the old man from the hospital.
Castillo wondered if Czerny’s concern was based on friendship for the old man or was a manifestation of his professional concern for Kocian’s health, and when the doctor came out of Kocian’s bedroom Castillo took him aside and told him that he planned to leave Budapest immediately if Kocian’s physical condition would make that possible.
“Ordinarily, I’d say no,” Czerny replied, “but I know—Tor told me—not only what happened on the bridge but what happened here earlier this morning. So with my priority being keeping my patient alive, I prescribe getting him as far away from Budapest as possible as quickly as possible.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Castillo said. “I think it’ll be a day or two before these people realize he’s gone. And there will be no record—no airline tickets, no rail tickets, etcetera—to give them an idea where he might be. I’m hoping they think Vienna or Fulda.”
Dr. Czerny nodded his agreement.
Czerny said, “I just wish those bedlike seats on airplanes were really beds. What he should be doing is lying down.”
“There are real beds—actually, couches—on the airplane where he could lie down and be strapped in. That is, if I can get him to lie down, much less get him to allow me to strap him down.”
Dr. Czerny reached in his pocket and came out with a plastic vial.
“Give him one of these air-sickness pills. In ten minutes, he’ll get drowsy.”
“And if he won’t take one?”
“Break open the capsule and mix the powder with anything he’ll drink.”
Three minutes after Dr. Czerny had checked Kocian a final time—to make sure he was in bed in his pajamas—and had given Castillo a package of bandages and medicines and then left the apartment, and as Castillo was wondering how soon he could get Kocian to dress, Kocian appeared in the sitting room, awkwardly trying to button the sleeves of his shirt. Castillo went to help him.
“What time’s the plane?” Kocian demanded, casually.
“Just as soon as we can get your files and to the airport.”
“Have you thought about Argentine regulations about taking a dog into their country?” Kocian asked, and, when he saw the look on Castillo’s face, added: “I didn’t think you would have, Karlchen. I have looked into the matter. What we have to do is go to Dr. Kincs—Max’s veterinarian—and get a certificate of health and a copy of his inoculations record.”
“Can we send Tor?”
“I’ll call and find out,” Kocian said.
Five minutes later, Tor was on his way to the veterinarian’s office.
“What about your files, Eric?” Castillo asked after Tor had left.
“Oh, yes, those,” Kocian replied and walked over to a bookcase.
He took a book from the shelf and handed it to Castillo.
Castillo had read the book title—Ot Pervovo Litsa (First Person)—a collection of interviews with Russian president Vladimir Putin that Putin authorized to be published as a sort-of autobiography.
