“I don't think you're completely crazy,” he said. “Not completely. “

Kate simulated a smile. “Tell me something,” she said.

“Sure.”

“Why do you know so much about so many things? Were you always this smart?”

The priest laughedan easy, sincere sound that Kate realized she loved to hearand scratched his short beard. “Ahh, Kate . . . if you only knew.” He looked out the window a moment. “I grew up in a small town in central Illinois,” he said at last. “And several of my childhood friends were really smart. “

“If these smalltown buddies include Senator Harlen and that writer, they must've been,” said Kate.

O'Rourke smiled. “I could tell you a few things about Harlen, but yeah, you're right, our little group had some pretty smart kids in it. I had a friend named Duane who . . . well, that's another story. Anyway, I was the dummy of the group.”

Kate made a face.

“No, seriously,” said the priest. “I realize now that I had a learning disability=probably a mild case of dyslexiabut the result was that I flunked fourth grade, was left behind all my buddies, and felt like a moron for years. Teachers treated me that way, too. “ He folded his arms, his gaze turned inward at some private memory. He smiled. “Well, my family didn't have enough money to get me into college, but after 'Namafter the Veterans' Hospital I should sayI was able to use the G.I. Bill to go to Bradley University, and then to seminary. I guess I've been reading ever since, sort of to make up for those early years.”

“And why the seminary?” Kate asked softly. “Why the priesthood?”

There was a long silence. “It's hard to explain,” O'Rourke said at last. “To this day I don't know if I believe in God.”

Kate blinked in surprise.

“But I know that evil exists,” continued the priest. “I learned that early on. And it seemed to me that someone . . . some group . . . should do its best to stop that evil.” He grinned again. “I guess a lot us Irish think that way. That's why we become cops or priests or gangsters.”

“Gangsters?” said Kate.

He shrugged. “If you can't beat them, join them.”

A woman's voice announced over the intercom that they were approaching Budapest. Kate watched as the farms and villas began appearing, to be superseded by larger buildings and then the city itself. The hydrofoil throttled back and came off its forward planes; they began to bounce along in the wakes of barges and other river traffic.

Budapest had perhaps the most beautiful riverfront Kate had ever seen. O'Rourke pointed out the six graceful bridges spanning the Danube, the wooded expanse of Margitsziget Margaret Islandsplitting the river, and then the glory of the city itselfold Buda rising high on the west bank, younger, sprawling Pest stretching away to the east. O'Rourke had pointed out the beautiful parliament building onthe Pest side and was describing Castle Hill on the Buda side when exhaustion and dismay suddenly washed over Kate like a great wave. She closed her eyes a second, overwhelmed by sorrow, a sense of futility, and the sure knowledge. that she had been displaced forever in space and time.

O'Rourke quit talking at once and gently touched her forearm. The hydrofoil's engine rumbled as they slowed and backed toward a pier on the Pest side of the river.

“When do we meet the Gypsy representative?” asked Kate, her .,yes still closed.

“Seven tonight,” said O'Rourke. He still touched her arm.

Kate sighed, forced the tide of hopelessness back far enough that she could breathe again, and looked at the priest. “I wish it were sooner,” she said. “I want to get going. I want to get there.”

O'Rourke nodded and said nothing else while the hydrofoil rumbled and bumped its way to the end of this leg of their voyage.

O'Rourke had booked rooms for them in a Novotel in the Buda side of the city, and Kate marveled at the island of Western efficiency in this former Communist country. Budapest made Kate think of Bucharest, Romania, in twenty-five yearsperhapsif capitalism continued to make inroads there. Never very interested in economic theory, Kate nonetheless had a sudden insight, however naive, that capitalism, or at least the individual initiative component of it, was like some of the life forms that found a foothold in even the most marginal of ecological niches until eventuallyvoila proliferation of life. In this case, she knew, the proliferation would grow and multiply until the balance of old and new, public and commercial, aesthetically pleasing and standardized mediocre would be lost and all the tiresome, leveling byproducts of capitalism would make Budapest look like all the other cities of the world.

But for now Budapest seemed a pleasant balance of respect for antiquity and interest in the Almighty Dollaror Forint, whichever the case might be. CNN and Hertz and all the usual pioneer buds of capitalism were present, but even a glimpse of the city in the cab had shown Kate a rich mix of the old and the new. O'Rourke mentioned that all of the bridges and the palace on Castle Hill had been blown up by the Germans or destroyed in fighting during World War II, and that the Hungarians had rebuilt everything lovingly.

In her room, staring out the window at a stretch of autobahn that could have been any American Interstate, Kate rubbed her head and realized that all of this apparent interest in travel trivia was just a way to distract herself from the dark tide that continued to lap at her emotions. That, and a way to avoid the anxiety at the coming entry into Romania.

She was surprised to realize that she was afraid of what lay aheadafraid of the Transylvanian darkness which she'd glimpsed from the hospitals and orphanages of that cold nationand in that sudden, sharp realization of fear, she had the briefest glimmer of hope that there was a path she could follow to a place where there were some emotions other than sorrow and shock and hopelessness and grim resolve to recover what could not be recovered.

There was a knock at the door.

“Ready?” said O'Rourke. His bomber jacket was cracked and faded with use, and for the first time Kate noticed that the web of laugh lines around the priest's eyes contained small scars. “I figure we can get a light dinner here at the hotel and then go straight to the rendezvous.”

Kate took a deep breath, gathered up her coat, and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Ready,” she said.

They did not talk during the brief cab ride to Clark Adam Ter, the traffic circle at the west end of the Chain Bridge and just below the walls of Castle Hill. O'Rourke said nothing as they rode the funicular railway up the steep hillside to the ramparts of the Royal Palace itself.

“Let's sightsee,” he said softly as they stepped out of the cog railway. He took her arm and led her past glowing streetlamps toward a huge equestrian statue farther south along the terrace.

Kate knew from going over city maps that the Matthias church was in the opposite direction, and she had no urge whatsoever to sightsee, but she could tell from the tone of O'Rourke's voice and the tension in his hand on her arm that something was wrong. She followed without protest.

“This is Prince Eugene of Savoy,” he said as they circled the giant statue of a seventeenthcentury figure on horseback. The view beyond the balustrade was magnificent: it was not quite six-thirty in the evening, but the city of Pest was ablaze with lights and traffic, brightly lit boats moved slowly up and down the Danube, and the Chain Bridge was outlined with countless bulbs that made the river glow.

“That man near the steps is following us,” whispered O'Rourke as they moved into the lee of the statue. Kate turned slowly. Only a few other couples had braved the chill evening breeze. The man O'Rourke had indicated was standing near the steps to the terrace near the cog railway; Kate caught a glimpse of along, black leather jacket; glasses and beard beneath a Tyrolean hat. The man was studiously looking out over the railing at the view.