Zoltán alerted us to Nicholas’s approach. “Here he comes. Get ready.” The sedan had parked a short distance ahead and I could see the Soviet agent weaving through the stream of refugees. He was going against the current and by the time he reached the Škoda, he’d been forced out into the road. Approaching the driver’s-side window, he motioned for my brother to roll it down.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, all too aware of his audience of refugees.
“We’ve run out of gas.” Our brother spoke across Gray, pointing to the gauge as if Nicholas could read it from outside the car.
The ploy worked. “Oh, for God’s sake! Come out here so I can talk to you.”
Zoltán got out and made his way around the front of the car to meet Nicholas by the driver’s side.
“Change places with me, najdr
