Death Train

Six

Largo Antiks was a small, nondescript antiques shop on the corner of Beethoven and Dreikönigstrasse in Zurich. It was run by two balding, bespectacled men in their late thirties, neither of whom was called Largo, whose extensive knowledge of antiques had made it one of the most popular and profitable shops of its kind in the whole canton. Both men worked for UNACO. The shop was a front for UNACO’s European headquarters. It had been bought with a United Nations grant of 1980 on the understanding that all the profits would be channelled discreetly into a numbered Swiss bank account to be used exclusively by UNICEF.

A bell jangled above the door when Philpott entered the shop, followed by Sabrina and Kolchinsky. The assistant behind the counter acknowledged them with a curt nod and his eyes flickered towards an area of the shop hidden from the entrance. Philpott understood the gesture and browsed through the antiques until the lone customer had left the shop. The assistant then ushered them through the doorway behind the counter, removed a sonic transmitter from his pocket and pointed it at the empty bookcase against the opposite wall.

He activated the transmitter and the bookcase swivelled outwards to reveal a concrete passage behind. Sabrina always got a kick out of the swivelling bookcase; it was like something out of a Boris Karloff film. So much more interesting than Philpott’s drab wall panels at the United Nations headquarters. They set off down the passage and the assistant sealed them in before returning to the shop.

Half a dozen unmarked doors lined the passage, behind each of which was a soundproofed room where highly skilled UNACO personnel operated some of the world’s most advanced and sophisticated computer systems in the struggle to put a stop to the alarming rise in international crime. Philpott led them to a pale-blue door at the end of the passage. He pressed a buzzer. An overhead camera panned each face in turn before the door was opened.

It led into the plush office of Jacques Rust, head of UNACO’s European operation.

Rust closed the door by remote control then activated his mechanized wheelchair and approached them. He was a forty-two-year-old Frenchman with a distinctly handsome face and sparkling blue eyes. He had spent fourteen years with the French Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage before becoming one of Philpott’s first field operatives when UNACO was founded in 1980. He had been paired off with Whitlock. When Philpott received official permission to increase his field operatives from twenty to thirty he put Sabrina with them to form the original Strike Force Three.

Less than a year later Rust and Sabrina were on a routine stakeout at the Marseilles docks when they had come under heavy fire from a gang of drug smugglers and Rust was hit in the spine, leaving him paralysed from the waist down. He was initially given a senior position at the Command Centre in the United Nations but when the head of the European operation died in a car crash (which was subsequently proved to have been an accident and not sabotage as originally thought) Philpott surprised many of his team by appointing him, and not Kolchinsky, as the dead man’s successor. It had been a shrewd, but wise, choice and the ties between Zurich and New York had never been stronger.

‘Colonel, I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,’ Rust said as he shook hands with both men. ‘You should have let me know you were coming earlier, I’d have had a car waiting at the airport for you.’

Philpott eased himself into an armchair, leaning his cane against the wall. After graduating from Sandhurst Military College with the coveted Sword of Honour he had first seen active duty in Korea where he suffered a serious leg injury while attempting to rescue a wounded colleague. It had left him with a pronounced limp in his left leg. ‘We took the morning flight on SwissAir. Sabrina was there to meet us.’

Sabrina kissed Rust on both cheeks then ran her hand lightly over his hair. ‘How many times must I tell you, don’t cut your hair so short. It shows up your receding hairline.’

‘Still as complimentary as ever,’ Rust added drily.

‘Oh, I’ve got something for you,’ she said, handing him the FN FAL magazine clip now sealed in a plastic bag. ‘There’s a set of prints on it. Your boffins shouldn’t have too much trouble in coming up with a name.’

Rust phoned out on his internal line for someone to fetch the clip. He replaced the receiver and looked up. ‘Anyone for coffee before we start?’

All three declined.

‘There’s been a new development since I received your telex yesterday. An avalanche’s blocked the track outside Sion and first reports say it won’t be cleared before daybreak. That means the train’s going to be delayed there overnight.’

‘Why do I get the feeling this is more than just coincidence?’ Philpott asked as he tapped the dottle from his pipe into the ashtray beside him.

Rust smiled. ‘The snow’s very loose on the Wildhorn at this time of year and all it took was a small charge to start the ball rolling, if you’ll excuse the pun. I thought we might need the extra time to help consolidate our position. Although judging by the telex you’ve already tracked down the plutonium.’

‘Perhaps,’ Kolchinsky said, entering the conversation for the first time. ‘The Geiger counter picked up levels of radiation but we already knew those kegs had been stored in that particular freight car. Now it contains a sealed crate belonging to Werner Freight. What we don’t know is whether that crate contains the kegs. If we jump the gun and point a finger at Stefan Werner without sufficient evidence and it turns out we were in the wrong he’s got enough sway to splash UNACO across the front page of every newspaper in Europe.’

A light flashed on the desk and after checking the video camera Rust activated the door. He handed the plastic bag to the white-coated technician and asked to be told the moment the fingerprints were identified.

‘I don’t think he would,’ Sabrina said after the technician had left.

‘What?’ Philpott asked, the lighter poised over the mouth of his pipe.

‘Stefan. He’s not a vindictive person. If he knew it was a matter of international security I’m certain he wouldn’t object to having the crate opened.’

‘Stefan?’ Rust said raising his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know we were on first-name terms.’

‘I went out with him a couple of times when I was at the Sorbonne.’

‘You never said you knew him,’ Philpott said sharply.

‘I went to a couple of parties with him, that’s all.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘I never slept with him if that’s what you mean, sir,’ she shot back angrily. ‘We were friends, that’s all. I haven’t seen him since I left Switzerland five years ago.’

‘What kind of person was he?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘Ambitious,’ she replied. ‘Very ambitious. His work was his life.’

The telephone rang and Rust snatched up the receiver. He gave a thumbs-up sign then replaced it and manoeuvred his wheelchair round behind his desk where he tapped his security code into the IBM computer linked up to the central data bank elsewhere in the building.

‘We’re in business,’ he said when the relevant entry appeared on the screen. ‘The fingerprints check out to one Kurt Rauff.’

‘What have you got on him?’ Philpott asked.

‘You British have a term for him. An international milk thief.’

‘A petty villain in other words,’ Philpott replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘What was he mixed up in?’

‘This and that. He had a number of convictions, all small sentences. Pickpocketing, cheque fraud, embezzlement.’

‘Hardly your gun-toting sniper,’ Sabrina said.

‘Not so quick, chérie?’ Rust replied, holding up a finger. ‘It seems he’s elevated himself into the big league these past four years. He was involved in gunrunning for the likes of Dauphin, Giselle and Umbretti.’

‘It’s audacious enough for any of them,’ Philpott said, biting the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. ‘Any luck yet with the two men Mike saw on the train?’

‘We’ve come up with a few names. Most of them correspond with the list your boys drew up at the UN. I’ve got men asking around.’

‘May I see that telex?’ Sabrina asked.

Rust pointed to it lying on his desk.

She read it through then looked up at Philpott. ‘You haven’t mentioned that the black-haired man has different coloured eyes.’

‘What?’ Philpott replied in bewilderment.

‘Didn’t C.W. tell you, sir?’

‘I didn’t speak to him. He called at night and spoke to the duty officer. That’s the description he passed on to me.’

‘Jacques, you might–’ she trailed off seeing Rust’s grim expression.

‘One brown, one green, n’est-ce pas?’

She nodded slowly.

Rust stared at the screen. ‘His name’s Joachim Hendrique.’

‘Balashikha,’ Kolchinsky whispered, ashen-faced.

‘Balashikha? The KGB’s training school for Third World terrorists?’ Philpott asked, staring at Kolchinsky.

Kolchinsky nodded. ‘Run by Directorate S, the most feared division within the KGB itself.’

‘There’s no mention of Balashikha here,’ Rust announced after scanning the screen.

‘I’m not surprised. The true identity of Balashikha graduates is known only to the most senior members of Directorate S. The whole place is shrouded in secrecy.’

‘So how do you know about him?’ Philpott asked.

‘Hendrique was reputed to have been the best student ever to graduate from Balashikha. That kind of information tends to leak out to other members of the KGB hierarchy. Accidentally-on-purpose, if you get my meaning.’

‘Was he one of the names on the list?’ Philpott asked Rust.

Rust shook his head. ‘The only known photographs of him are a series of blurred snapshots taken by the CIA official in Nicaragua. The features must have been too indistinct to program into the computer. The identikit can only match faces already stored in the memory bank.’

‘Yet you knew who he was the moment I mentioned his eyes,’ Sabrina said, sitting forward, her interest stimulated.

‘He once tried to kill me. It happened while I was still with the SDECE. We’d received a tip-off about a shipment of cocaine due in at Nice aboard a South American freighter, so when it was unloaded we were able to apprehend the gang without much of a struggle. A couple of them made a break for it. I chased one into a warehouse where he managed to double back and attack me from behind. He knocked my gun from my hand then pushed me up against the wall, pressing his own gun into my stomach. He was wearing a balaclava so all I could see was his eyes. One brown, one green. He pulled the trigger but the chamber was empty. Most criminals would have panicked at that moment. He just laughed. Then he hit me with the butt of his gun and the next thing I remember is coming round to find my colleagues crouched anxiously beside me. He’d escaped. I’ll never forget those eyes as long as I live.’

‘If you never saw his face–’

‘Having differently coloured eyes is rare enough but he also had the distinctive physique of a bodybuilder,’ Rust said, cutting in across Kolchinsky’s words. ‘It’s the same man, Sergei, I’d stake my career on it.’

‘What does it say about him?’ Philpott asked, pointing to the VDU.

Rust read through the text, translating the salient points from French into English. ‘He was born in Chad in 1947 and raised by missionaries. He ran away to sea at fifteen and made a name for himself as a good, but sadistic, fist fighter. He next surfaced in Amsterdam in 1969 as an insurrectionist amongst the more seditious members of the hippy community and was instrumental in provoking clashes between them and the police. He was never caught. He went to ground and wasn’t heard of again until 1975 when word reached the CIA that he was training the Marxist MPLA soldiers in Angola. After Angola he went to Nicaragua where he fought with the Sandinistas until the downfall of Somoza in 1980. Since then he’s become involved in illegal gunrunning operations across Europe. He’s also known to deal in drugs in and around Amsterdam where it’s rumoured he lives on a houseboat somewhere in the Jordaan area. His favourite weapons are a .357 Desert Eagle, which he always carries on his person, and a Franchi SPAS shotgun. There’s one point that isn’t in his dossier. He never works for himself. He merely employs the muscle and makes sure the whole operation runs according to plan.’

‘You have to give him credit for his choice of weapons, especially the Desert Eagle,’ Sabrina said.

‘Can you put a name to his accomplice?’ Kolchinsky asked.

Rust opened the file on his desk and ran his finger down the list of suspects. One name caught his eye and he programmed it into the computer. ‘Akkid Milchan. Thirty-seven years old. Six feet five. Egyptian. Mute. His face was scarred in an explosion aboard a Liberian tanker in 1979. He also lives in Amsterdam and has been working, off and on, for Hendrique since 1981.’

‘At least now we’ve got an idea who we’re up against. Jacques, you said this Rauff has been mixed up with the likes of Dauphin, Giselle and Umbretti. Find out if any of them has been linked to Hendrique over. the past few months. I also want Werner checked out, but for God’s sake be discreet.’ Philpott crossed to a map of Europe on the wall as Rust reached for the telephone to relay the orders. ‘Sabrina?’

She sprang nimbly to her feet and approached him, her hands thrust into the pockets of her baggy camouflage pants.

‘The train’s stuck at Sion,’ he said, prodding the name on the map with the end of his pipe.

‘And will be until morning,’ she added.

‘Precisely,’ he said, giving her the kind of look a great thespian might give an impish soubrette who had just delivered his punchline. ‘I know it’s been a long day but I want you to drive to Sion tonight. You’ve got a berth reserved on the train so you’ll be able to get some sleep once you get there. Mike needs to be filled in on the latest developments.’

‘You think Stefan’s involved, don’t you?’

‘Not necessarily, but I do think the crate contains the kegs.’

‘What makes you so sure, sir?’

‘Instinct.’

She smiled. ‘You sound like Mike.’

Rust manoeuvred his wheelchair out from behind the desk and stopped it in the centre of the room. ‘Anyone hungry? I know this little restaurant round the corner that serves a delicious choucroute garnie.’

‘I’m famished,’ Philpott said, then turned to Sabrina. ‘Have something to eat with us before you go–’

‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll grab a bit on the way there.’

‘Friture de perchettes served in butter sauce? Your favourite, chérie.’ Rust said, then kissed the tips of his bunched fingers.

‘Another time, Jacques. I want to get to Sion as soon as possible.’

Rust pulled on his jacket, then led the way out into the passage and through a side door into the street, the antiques shop now being closed. Sabrina zipped up her anorak as she stepped out into the cold night air and rummaged in her pockets for the keys to the Audi Coupé.

‘Come on, I’ll escort you to your car.’

Philpott gave her a reassuring smile, then he and Kolchinsky disappeared around the corner in search of the restaurant.

‘Want a push?’

‘It’ll be like old times again with you watching my back,’ Rust replied with a grin.

‘And look what happened,’ she said bitterly.

He looked round at her. ‘Why can’t you accept that it wasn’t your fault? If you’d stuck your head out to give me covering fire you wouldn’t be pushing this wheelchair. You know damn well I’ve never blamed you for what happened that night; it was one of those risks we had to take. Anyway, why must this discussion always crop up whenever we see each other?’

She remained silent.

‘How’s Mike these days?’ he asked, broaching the silence.

‘Fine,’ she answered absently.

‘Send him my regards,’ he said as they reached the Audi Coupé.

‘I will.’ She unlocked the driver’s door, hugged him and quickly climbed inside.

He waited until the Audi Coupé had merged with the evening traffic before making his way to the restaurant. Philpott and Kolchinsky were seated at the table nearest the trellised entrance of the small cocktail bar.

‘You didn’t have to sit here just because of me,’ he said, giving the barman the customary wave. It meant he would have his usual.

‘It saves you weaving through all those tables and chairs,’ Kolchinsky replied.

‘This is my very own Monza,’ Rust said, extending his arms.

‘How long before you get some feedback on Werner and the others?’ Philpott asked.

‘It’ll be brought to me as soon as it comes through. You suspect Werner, don’t you?’

‘I certainly think his company’s involved somewhere along the line. If it does turn out he’s personally involved I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be difficult as hell trying to prove it.’

‘Herr Stefan Werner.’

Heads automatically turned to look when the toastmaster made the announcement.

Werner was in his late forties with a short, stocky physique, thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed russet moustache that tapered down over the corners of his mouth. He had a charismatic quality about him that had long made him one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors.

He entered the palatial ballroom and took in his surroundings, mentally assessing the wealth of his hosts. He ignored the mottled marble floor, the neo-Doric pillars and the intricately carved oak ceiling. His only interest was in the collection of paintings lining the oak-panelled walls.

Houses could be paid off gradually; paintings had to be bought outright. He regarded it as a fairly accurate way of weeding out the pretenders from the cream of Europe’s opulent elite.

The hostess broke away from a clique of friends and bustled towards him, arms outstretched. They embraced fleetingly. She was the granddaughter of some forgotten Prussian nobleman and she and her husband had once owned a beautiful sixteenth-century castle overlooking the town of Assmannshausen in the Rhine Valley before selling it in favour of their present mansion on the outskirts of Berlin. They insisted it had been a step up the social ladder; he secretly disagreed.

‘I’m so glad you could make it tonight, Stefan. You know how popular you are with the single ladies.’

‘You flatter me, Marisa,’ Werner replied with an affected smile. ‘You know how much I enjoy your parties. I’m only sorry I had a prior engagement, otherwise I’d have been here much earlier.’

He had long since mastered the art of tactful lying.

‘You’re here, that’s the main thing. I believe you were at the theatre?’

‘At the Philharmonic actually. A recital of Handel’s Messiah by the Berlin Philharmonic and the Schönberg Boys’ Choir. I missed it the last time round.’

‘It sounds as if you enjoyed it,’ she said, leading him across the room.

‘It’s not enjoyment, it’s ecstasy,’ he replied, and helped himself to a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

He caught the tail end of a whispered discussion behind him regarding his worth and was horrified to hear the group settle on a figure of 150 million pounds. Had they trebled it they would have been nearer the truth. Not only did he own Werner Lines, a worldwide shipping empire with more than vessels in commission, but he had also branched out into the freight industry over the past four years and succeeded in cornering an important section of its competitive market by buying out a succession of small, struggling companies and amalgamating them under an experienced board of directors answerable only to him. With his freight company working hand-in-hand with his shipping line he was able to undercut his competitors by offering their clientele the kind of package deals no company director could resist. His success rate was obvious by the number of struggling competitors, many of whom he subsequently bought out to add to his ever growing empire

‘Stefan, I nearly forgot to tell you. There’s someone here to see you.’

Another of her unattached friends who always seemed to find their way on to the invitation list whenever she was certain he would be at one of her soirees. He knew she only had his best interests at heart but he had yet to meet one of these women whose interest in him stemmed beyond his bank balance. Anyway, his standing in society was far too high to have it blackened by the indiscreet infidelities of a wife bored with her husband’s success. He had seen too many prominent European industrialists toppled from their pedestals by tabloid revelations of the pathetic vanity of their wives, frivolously whittling away the family money on a succession of oversexed gigolos. Bachelorhood suited him perfectly.

‘He arrived half an hour ago and said he wanted to see you urgently. He said I should say “Brazil, 1967” and you’d understand.’

‘Where is he, Marisa?’ he asked, gripping her arms.

‘I put him in the study. Is he Russian?’ she asked, stressing the last word.

‘Yes, an old friend of mine.’

‘I suppose he’s with the KGB,’ she said, chuckling.

His eyes narrowed menacingly but he quickly checked himself and smiled. ‘You’ve been watching too many late-night movies. No, we’re in the same line of business.’

‘Is he married?’ she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

‘No, but I doubt you’d find too many takers here willing to give up the delights of the West for a Russian dacha.’

‘Perhaps we could get him to defect, is that the word they use?’

‘I doubt you’d get him to do that.’

‘I’ll get one of the staff to show you the way.’

The butler led him down the hall to a veneered door which he opened. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

‘No, thank you.’

The butler bowed curtly and closed the door behind him.

Benin embraced Werner then held him at arm’s length. ‘You’re looking well, my friend.’

‘I can afford to,’ Werner answered with a smile. He crossed to the sideboard. ‘Scotch?’

‘Please.’ Benin eased the velvet curtains apart and looked out over the brightly lit garden. ‘Is it safe to talk here?’

Werner poured two measures of scotch and handed one of the tumblers to Benin.

‘Quite safe. Any news of the man Hendrique saw? Or the one at the Mainz plant?’

‘Nothing yet, but I’ve got a team working around the clock so it should only be a matter of time before they come up with the answers.’ Benin moved to the writing desk and stared absently at the framed family photograph then turned back to Werner. ‘I’ve come here to ask you to direct operations from on board the train.’

‘And Hendrique?’ Werner asked.

‘He’ll take orders from you.’

‘You know how independent–’

‘He’ll do as he’s told!’ Benin cut in sharply, then lowered his voice. ‘I’ve tolerated his insubordination in the past but he knows exactly what will happen to him if he doesn’t toe the line this time. I think you’ll find him very cooperative.’

‘That will be a first,’ Werner said with surprise. ‘How did you manage it?’

‘I’ve built up a dossier on his drug and arms deals over the past few years. If he steps out of line this time I’ll see to it that the dossier falls into the appropriate hands.’

‘The authorities?’

‘Since when has he ever been frightened of the law? You no doubt heard about the raid on a Venezuelan freighter outside Amsterdam a couple of years ago when a gang impersonating the harbour police impounded over a million pounds worth of acapulco gold?’

‘Hendrique?’

‘Correct. He thought the cannabis was being shipped in by a small-time Dutch gangster trying to muscle in on the Amsterdam syndicate. He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was a Mafia shipment.’

Werner whistled softly.

‘The Mafia immediately put out a contract on the gang. It’s still valid.’ Benin watched Werner light a cigarette before continuing. ‘I spoke to Hendrique on the phone before I left East Berlin. The train’s due out of Sion at nine tomorrow morning. It’s next stop’s Brig, the last station before the Simplon Tunnel. Board the train there, he’s expecting you.’

‘I’ll have a company helicopter refuelled and ready for takeoff within the hour.’

‘There is one more thing,’ Benin said, and picked up an attaché case from beside his chair.

He handed it to Werner.

Werner knew what it contained even though he had never seen it before. He swallowed nervously and unlocked it. Then, almost reluctantly, he opened it. It contained a silver box no bigger than a pocket calculator, cushioned in the centre of a layer of spongy foam.

‘There’s a miniature computer built into the roof of the lid.’

Werner squinted at it. A narrow blank screen above a row of the numbers one to nine. ‘What are the coordinates?’

‘One-nine-six-seven,’ Benin replied.

‘I should have guessed,’ Werner replied, and reached for the numerical keys.

‘Don’t touch it!’

Werner jerked his hand away as though the keyboard had given him an electric shock.

Benin smiled apologetically. ‘It can only be opened once.’

Werner felt a drop of perspiration trickle out from under his hairline and he wiped it away before it could run down the side of his face.

‘It must only be used as a last resort.’

‘I’ll buy that,’ Werner said, then closed the case and locked it, after memorizing the combination.

Benin held out his hand. ‘Good luck, my friend.’

Werner shook it firmly.

Benin left the room. Werner placed the attaché case beside the chair then poured himself a stiff Scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.

Graham tossed the paperback on to the opposite couchette and made his way to the dining car. It was deserted except for a sleepy-eyed steward who glared at him as though he were trespassing.

‘Coffee,’ Graham said as he sat down.

The steward gave him a look of indifference then disappeared through one of the swing doors.

The train had already left Sion when the avalanche struck and with the possibility of further minor falls it had retreated to the sanctuary of the station where the passengers were told it would remain for the rest of the night. The station restaurant had promised to remain open until midnight and the dining car would be open all night for light snacks and beverages, all courtesy of the company.

Graham glanced at his wristwatch. Almost one o’clock in the morning. The steward deposited the steaming hot cup of coffee on to the table in front of him, slopping some into the saucer in the process.

‘Are acts of God designed to show us just how mortal we really are?’

Graham glanced round, startled by the voice behind him.

Hendrique, having rejoined the train at the previous station, Vetroz, was staring out of the window behind Graham. ‘Sorry if I startled you. I take it you are English-speaking?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Hendrique asked, indicating the two chairs opposite Graham.

‘Sit down.’

Hendrique snapped his fingers to wake the dozing steward. ‘Cameriere! Un cappuccino, per favore.’

The steward scrambled off the bar stool and disappeared through the swing door.

‘You Italian?’

Hendrique pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat down. ‘No, but it’s one of the languages I’ve learnt to speak over the years.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Graham said with a thinly veiled sarcasm. ‘How many in all?’

‘A handful,’ Hendrique replied with a shrug. ‘I find I can blend in better with the locals if I understand their language. How about you? Are you interested in languages?’

‘Just one. American.’

Hendrique waited until the steward had deposited the coffee and left the dining car before speaking. ‘You look like the sort of man who enjoys a challenge.’

Graham was intrigued. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I’ve devised a board game to alleviate these kind of boring situations. The object is to bluff your opponent into submission. There is a catch, however. We play for pain, not money. The squeamish would doubtless see it as sadistic; I see it as a test of character and inner strength. Interested?’

‘As you said, I look like the sort of man who enjoys a challenge.’

‘Excellent.’ Hendrique got to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch it from my compartment. I won’t be a moment.’

Graham had barely finished his coffee when Hendrique returned with a brown leather attaché case. He put the case on the table and opened it. After removing the contents he closed the lid again and placed the case on the floor beside his chair.

It consisted of a two-inch-thick wooden board, its fifteen-by-eight-inch surface divided into two equal sections by an indicator running the length of the board with the figures one to ten printed on it. On either side of the indicator was a set of three lights positioned equidistantly beneath each other and a metallic pressure pad raised fractionally above the level of the board. A metallic bracelet was attached to a circuit underneath each of the pads by a length of flex on opposite sides of the board. Hendrique, using two paper napkins to protect his hands, removed the strip light from its socket on the ceiling of the carriage directly above the table then unravelled a length of flex and secured the two crocodile clips at the end of it to the respective overhead power points. He fitted the plug at the other end of the flex into the socket at the side of the board.

‘The rules are quite simple. We each attach a bracelet to our wrist then press the palm of our other hand on to the metal pad. Once the pad’s level with the board it activates the electrical circuit and the game begins.’ Hendrique ran his finger the length of the indicator. ‘This monitors the level of current passing through the circuit at any given time. The number one will automatically light up as soon as we activate the circuit and the current increases gradually as the numbers get progressively higher. One to five light up in green, six to eight in amber, nine and ten in red. I think the colours are self-explanatory. The winner is the one who can out-bluff his opponent and keep his hand on the pad the longest. We play the best of three, hence the lights. As soon as the loser pulls his hand off the pad the light on his side comes on. That’s it.’

‘How much time is there between the numbers lighting up?’

‘Five, six seconds. That’s the one drawback of the game, it’s over so quickly.’

‘It’s still ingenious,’ Graham said.

‘It beats Monopoly.’

Hendrique removed the cloth and affixed the board to the table by means of its four powerful suction pads. They each snapped a bracelet around their wrist and locked it, placing the miniature keys in the centre of the board. Hendrique nodded and they pressed their hands down simultaneously on to the metal pads. Graham immediately felt a tingling sensation in his hand which quickly spread up his arm and into his chest. Although Hendrique was staring at him Graham was more interested in monitoring the progress of the indicator. As it changed from green to amber the current intensified sharply and before he could stop himself Graham instinctively jerked his hand off the pad. He wasn’t expecting the jarring shock that shot through his other arm but the shortness of the flex prevented him from pulling it more than a few inches off the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hendrique said without sounding very convincing. ‘I forgot to tell you: if you forfeit a game you incur an extra penalty of a shock transmitted through an electrode on the inside of the bracelet.’

‘It doesn’t help to be wise after the event,’ Graham said tersely.

‘There’s something else. The aftershocks intensify threefold each time. If you’ve got a heart condition we should stop now. A shock nine times stronger than the one you experienced could kill. Actually, it has in the past.’

‘Let’s play.’

‘I didn’t explain the rules properly at the outset so it’s only fair we should start again–’

‘I don’t need to be nannied,’ Graham interposed. ‘You’re one game up.’

‘As you wish,’ Hendrique replied, and placed his hand back on the pad.

This time Graham held Hendrique’s stare. The colour on the indicator changed from green to amber and Graham’s eyes narrowed fractionally, his stare unremitting in its intensity.

Hendrique found himself unable to hold Graham’s gaze and in his disorientation he turned away, unconsciously easing the pressure on the pad. The shock seared through his arm and he grabbed at the bracelet as though trying to tear it from his wrist. He closed his eyes until the pounding in his head had subsided and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘I make that one game all,’ Graham said with evident satisfaction.

Hendrique sucked in several deep breaths but said nothing. It was the first time he had conceded a game since building the device three years earlier. He sat forward and placed his hand on the pad, his palm still tingling from the effects of the shock.

The last game had reached eight. Graham already knew he could reach ten without pulling off. Hendrique had been right: it was a test of inner strength. They both pressed down on the pads. Hendrique, having learnt from his mistake, concentrated on the indicator instead of on Graham’s face. Graham also watched the indicator and winced more out of irritation than anything else when green five increased to amber six. Had Hendrique warned him at the beginning about the current intensifying when crossing the colour boundary the game might already have been over. Seven. Eight. He clenched his jaw as the pain barrier seemed to break with every passing second. Red nine. His hand began to shudder and his eyes watered.

He felt a strange moment of camaraderie with Hendrique. Then the moment was gone. Red ten. Graham’s back arched agonizingly and he used every last ounce of inner strength to keep himself from wrenching his hand off the pad. He caught a glimpse of Hendrique through the distorting haze of pain. Hendrique’s head was tilted back, his mouth open in a silent scream. In that split second Graham knew he had won. Hendrique was on the brink of defeat. Safe in that knowledge Graham braced himself then pulled away from the pad.

He remembered nothing else.

Graham sat in the deserted dining car for some time after regaining consciousness, his trembling fingers gently massaging his temples as he tried to overcome the throbbing in his head. When he did finally get to his feet his legs were unsteady and he had to stick close to the tables for support on his way to the door. He entered the next carriage, his hand gripped tightly around the railing, and moved slowly down the corridor until he reached his own compartment. He yanked the door open and stumbled inside.

The communicating door opened immediately and Sabrina came in, the Beretta gripped in her hand. She moved to the compartment door, peered out into the deserted corridor, then closed and locked it.

‘Have you been drinking?’ was her first reaction on seeing him with his head buried in his hands.

He jerked his head up, startled by her voice, then winced at the pain resulting from the sudden movement. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m your partner, remember?’

‘You know what I mean,’ he snapped, and again the pain reverberated through his head.

‘The boss sent me back,’ she replied dismissively and crouched down in front of him. ‘What happened?’

‘My head,’ he muttered.

She disappeared back into her own compartment then returned with a glass of water and two paracetamol.

‘I thought you never touched painkillers,’ he said, staring at her open hand.

‘You do, and I bet you didn’t bring any.’

He took the tablets from her and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. Then he sat back and closed his eyes.

She sat on the opposite couchette and picked up the paperback he had been reading.

Another James Hadley Chase. Not her kind of author. She read very few thrillers; they reminded her of work.

‘You wouldn’t like it.’

‘I know,’ she replied and dropped it on to the couchette. ‘What happened to your head?’

He told her about his confrontation with Hendrique.

She shook her head in disbelief when he had finished. ‘It’s not the first time you’ve put your life at risk for the sake of a challenge and I’m sure it won’t be the last time either.’

‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s not the actual challenge that counts; it’s the psychology behind it. In that kind of one-to-one confrontation with two people of roughly the same strength, the one with the stronger willpower always wins. Take two boxers for example. Both men are the same strength and weight but it’s the one who’s psyched himself up properly beforehand who’s going to win. Expertise and experience count for nothing if a fighter isn’t mentally prepared before he enters the ring. Intimidation invariably leads to defeat.’

‘You lost, so where does that leave your theory?’

‘I didn’t lose, I let him win. There’s a big difference. I merely inverted the theory.’

‘In other words when the two of you confront each other again you know you can beat him. He only thinks he can beat you.’

‘At last,’ he said.

‘But what happens if I’m the one who ends up confronting him?’

He stared at her. ‘Only you can answer that question.’

She pondered his words then got to her feet. ‘Let’s see your arm.’

‘My arm?’

‘Where the electrode came into contact with your skin.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he muttered, but still pulled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal the inflamed area on his inner wrist.

She told him about the latest developments from Zurich while dressing the wound, filling him in on the backgrounds of Hendrique and Milchan as well as relaying Philpott’s instructions.

‘And Jacques sends his regards,’ she concluded as she secured the bandage with a strip of sticking plaster.

He sat back and massaged his temples, his eyes closed. ‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’

‘I always have been, ever since we first started working together.’

‘Was there–’ he trailed off and opened his eyes. ‘Forget it.’

It was a side of Graham she had never seen before. He seemed more open than usual. She assumed it was only a temporary lapse in character while he nursed his head but she still determined to keep the conversation going for as long as possible.

‘Was there ever anything between Jacques and me, is that what you were going to ask?’

‘It’s none of my business.’

‘Why not? You’re my partner, for God’s sake,’ she shot back.

He winced. ‘Don’t shout.’

‘Sorry,’ she said with an apologetic smile. ‘And no, there was never anything between us. He was the brother I never had, a confidant I could turn to for advice if I ever needed it.’

‘Has there ever been a special guy in your life?’

‘Well, there was Rutger Hauer–’ she said, then giggled. ‘Never anyone special, no. I had a few casual relationships after I left the Sorbonne. These days work takes up most of my time.’

‘Do you ever see yourself getting married?’

‘It isn’t very high on my list of priorities but I guess I’d change my mind soon enough if I were to meet the right person.’

‘That’s what it’s all about. The right person.’

She knew what was going through his mind. He had never spoken to her before about his wife and son.

‘Carrie was the right person,’ he said at length.

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘At Elaine’s.’

‘The bar on Second Avenue?’

‘Yeah. I was there with a few of the guys from Delta. We’d just been given leave after the fiasco of Operation Eagle Claw, the so-called attempt to rescue the American hostages’ from our embassy in Tehran back in 1980. She was there with some of her girlfriends from Van Cleef and Arpels; that’s where she used to work. We managed to persuade them to come and sit with us and she ended up next to me. Well, we just got talking and she agreed to have dinner with me the following night. We were married five months later.’ His smile was sad. ‘She was really shy. It went back to her childhood when she had been teased by her schoolmates about her stammer. She’d overcome it by the time she was eighteen but it still surfaced when she got excited about something.’

‘And when was your son born?’

‘A year, almost to the day, after the marriage. She always wanted Mikey to go on to university and become a doctor or a lawyer. I only ever wanted him to grow up to become a pro-ball player. I took him to the first Giants game when he was three. He took to it like a duck to water and from then on he’d grill me for hours on end about the various types of plays, especially when we were watching it on TV. I’d always imagined that one day I’d be able to turn to the guy beside me at the Giants Stadium and say “That’s my kid playing down there”. I’d have been the proudest father in the history of the game.’

‘Did he look like you at that age?’

‘The spitting image according to my mother.’ He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and handed a picture to her. ‘That’s the last photograph of them I ever took. It was still in the camera when they were abducted. I nearly didn’t have it developed but now I’m real glad I did. I’ve got an enlarged print of it on my bedside table.’

She stared at the photograph and immediately saw why he had been attracted to Carrie.

She was squatting down in the photograph and Sabrina estimated her to have been a little over five feet with a slender petite figure and a pale, milky complexion. She had the kind of wide, alluring brown eyes the Fifties’ authors would have described as ‘big enough to drown a man’. Mike Junior was standing beside her in a Giants sweatshirt, a football tucked under his arm. He had a cheeky mischievous face and his fine blond hair came down almost to his shoulders.

‘He looks like he must have been pretty naughty,’ she said, and handed the picture back to him.

‘As naughty as most five-year-olds I guess,’ he replied, pocketing the wallet. ‘I still lie awake at night trying to justify the decision I made in Libya. I sacrificed my family for the sake of seven terrorists who were planning bombing raids in some of America’s major cities. My order to attack undoubtedly saved a lot of other innocent lives but it still doesn’t give me peace of mind. Morally it was right, personally it was wrong. There’s no in-between.’

‘As you said earlier, the only person who knows their true inner strength is themselves. It’s something you’ll have to come to terms with yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Thanks?’

‘For not patronizing me like everyone else. You talk more sense than all those psychiatrists put together.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Come on, time to get some sleep.’

She stood up and stifled a yawn. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Buzzing,’ he replied, turning the couchette over to get at the narrow bed.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, moving to the communicating door.

‘Sabrina?’

She paused as she was about to close the door and looked back at him.

‘The man who had Carrie and Mikey kidnapped was trained at Balashikha.’

‘It wasn’t–?’

‘No, it wasn’t Hendrique.’ The cynicism seemed to flood back into his eyes. ‘You asked me earlier what would happen if you were the one who ended up confronting him. Don’t worry, you won’t. He’s mine.’

She felt a shiver run up her spine as she closed the door behind her.