Butcher of Belgrade

Twelve

It was quite a hike to the road. Ursula did not complain, but I could tell that the strain of the past twenty-four hours was telling on her. About a half hour after we left the scene of the burning cottage, we reached the only road that passes through that part of the country.

“It looks pretty lonely,” Ursula said.

The road stretched out flat along the river valley in either direction for as far as the eye could see, but there were no cars on it. It was so quiet that it was difficult to believe that any traffic would ever come past.

“It makes me want to forget Richter and just enjoy the peace and quiet,” I said.

“Yes,” Ursula agreed. She went and sat on the grassy bank by the roadside, and I joined her there.

Ursula leaned back in the long grass with her elbows propped under her. She closed her eyes and listened to a bird in a nearby field. It was a soft, sunny spring day with an enervating magic in the balmy air. A clump of poplars, green buds decorating their lacy branches, whispered nearby, and the breeze that moved the trees also gently rippled the long grass in the field that paralleled the road. It was the kind of day and place, and the kind of company, that makes an agent wonder what the hell he is doing in his particular profession.

Ursula’s short, dark skirt was hiked up around her upper thighs, and she looked very good lying there. A bedroom is not the only perfect setting for love-making, as I had discovered on other happy occasions. Often I find a perfect place in the most unexpected circumstances. But this opportunity, considering we were hoping for a car any minute, was less than favorable.

“Nick! It’s a car!” Ursula pointed.

It was a Citroen sedan, approaching us at high speed.

“Good,” I said. “I’ll try to stop it.” I climbed out on the roadway and waved my arms in a wide arc. The car began to slow down immediately, and in a moment it had pulled over onto the shoulder beside us.

Two young Italian men were inside, and they were headed toward the border themselves.

“Are you going as far as Crveni Krst at the Dragoman Pass?” I asked.

They were both thin young men with long hair. The driver glanced at Ursula and apparently liked what he saw. “We will make a point of going to Crveni Krst,” he said in a thick accent. “Please get in.”

We did, and the car roared away down the highway. I was glad that they enjoyed driving fast, because our time was short. In fact, we might have already lost our chance to get there in time.

At first the young men made overtures to Ursula. They offered cognac and wanted to stop for a rest. But when they saw that Ursula was not one for group sex, they went back to enjoying the sunny day. We arrived at the mountain village of Crveni Krst, where Richter had undoubtedly headed, by around two p.m. The Italians took us right to the train station, and I hurriedly thanked them for the ride. Then Ursula and I went inside.

It was not a big place, and it had the stark gray look of most stations along that line in Yugoslavia. We looked quickly around the waiting room and saw that neither Richter nor his two henchmen were there. As I glanced out at the station platform, I saw a train moving away.

“Come on,” I said to Ursula.

By the time we got out there, the train was already at the end of the platform, picking up speed. It was the Orient Express.

“Damn!” I said.

I looked down to the end of the building to an open area where a couple of cars were parked, and I saw the Fiat that Richter had driven from the country house outside Belgrade.

“Look,” I said. “His car. He is aboard that train.”

I grabbed Ursula’s hand and started pulling her after me as I ran down the platform toward the car.

“What are we doing, Nick?” she asked as we ran.

“We’re going to get the Butcher of Belgrade,” I told her.

We stopped at the Fiat, and I looked down the track. I had to catch that train. If Richter got into Bulgaria, my chances of getting him and the radio were slim indeed. He would have all the KGB help he needed there.

I jumped into the low sports car and grabbed at some wires under the dashboard. The train was slowly disappearing around a bend in the track. I crossed the wires, and the engine leaped into action.

“Get in and drive!” I yelled at Ursula above the noise of the car.

I moved over to the passenger’s seat, and Ursula got in behind the wheel.

I pointed to the place where the Orient Express was disappearing around the curve of track. “Follow that damned train!” I said.

She glanced at me for just a second. Then the car shot out of the parking area and headed along the shoulder of the track.

I looked ahead of us and saw that although the bank was steep on either side of the track near the village, there was room for the narrow sports car if Ursula could steer well enough.

“Switch over to the other side of the track at this crossing up here,” I told her as we bumped along with the left wheels on the ties. “I want to be next to the train if we catch it.”

She did as I told her, and we bumped along on the left side of the track now. Ursula’s eyes were wide as she fought to keep control of the car. The ties under the wheels on the right shook the car considerably, and there were ruts under the other wheels, but Ursula kept the Fiat on the shoulder of the tracks. In just moments the train was in sight again, and we were gaining on it.

“Faster,” I urged her.

Ursula pressed the accelerator, and we shot ahead. The train was only yards away. It was gliding along smoothly in comparison to our own wild ride. We hit a bump, and the car swerved to the left. For a moment, I thought we were going over the embankment. But Ursula fought for control, and finally we were moving along well again. The rear platform of the dining car was now within twenty feet. I opened the door of the Fiat and glanced over at Ursula.

“When I get aboard, drive back to town and wait at the station for me. I’ll try to take him alive for you if he lets me.”

She nodded desperately, her knuckles white over the steering wheel. I took one last look at her and stood up on the step of the open door of the car. We were alongside the rear platform of the train. The open door of the car prevented our getting too close, but I needed another foot.

“Closer!” I yelled back at her.

The car bumped and swerved and moved away from the train. Then we were right up against the train, the open door clanging against the structure of the platform. It was now or never. I jumped across the four feet of rushing ground, grabbed at the railing of the platform, and found it. I pulled myself up on the platform and climbed over the rail. Then I looked back and saw that Ursula was already slowing the car. I gave her a wave, and she blinked the headlights at me as she drove slowly to the next crossing.

I straightened my clothing and brushed my hair back off my forehead. I had gotten aboard without killing myself or Ursula. Now I had to find Hans Richter before we reached the border.

I entered the dining car and scanned the faces of the few people who were there for an afternoon drink. None of them was Richter or his men. I moved through the car casually as if I were just taking a walk along the train. If a conductor stopped me for a ticket, I could purchase one on board — maybe a second class ticket, but I could care less, for I had no expectation of relaxing and enjoying this trip.

I walked through the two sleeping cars slowly, watching for any sign of Richter, but I saw none. I didn’t see anything in the day coaches, either. The only faces I saw on the train were those of happy holiday travelers. If Richter were aboard, he was playing it safe and hiding. He had probably managed to procure one or more sleeping compartments for him and his men, and they would be inside them, waiting to cross into Bulgaria at Dimitrovgrad.

There was an advantage I had gained since my experience on the last train, however. I was now sure of Hans Richter’s identity, and I knew what he looked like. I could describe him to the train officials.

It took me ten minutes to find a porter, but when I did, he was very cooperative.

“Let me see,” he said in Serbo-Croatian, “a man such as you describe did board at Crveni Krst, I believe. Yes, now I remember. I just saw the fellow entering Compartment 8 in the next sleeping car.”

In a moment I stood outside the door of Compartment 8. I pulled out Wilhelmina and prepared myself mentally for whatever might come. I told myself that Hans Richter was not going to get away this time; he was not going to leave this train alive. I stepped back from the door a moment, lifted my right foot, and kicked savagely at it.

The door crashed into the compartment and I followed it. The Luger was ready to fire. I stopped just inside the door and scanned the interior. It was empty.

I moved in quickly and closed the door behind me. My guess about Richter’s taking two or more compartments was undoubtedly correct. He had probably acquired another compartment under the name of one of the other men, and he was probably there right at this moment, planning his next move to sell the satellite monitor in Sofia.

I looked around. There was no luggage and no radio, but there was a jacket lying on the bunk It was the one that Richter had been wearing earlier.

I could wait for him here, or I could try to find where he and his men were hiding. I turned to the bunk and pulled down the covers to make sure he had not hidden the radio somewhere there. While I was turned away from the door, I heard a click of the handle. I whirled back to face the sound as I reached for the reholstered Luger.

The broken-nosed Topcon agent stood in the door, and his tall companion was right behind him.

The man with the broken nose went for his gun, but I beat him. While his hand was still in his jacket, Wilhelmina’s ugly muzzle was already pointing at his surprised face. His tall companion didn’t even try.

“Take your hand out of your coat. Carefully,” I said.

He did.

“Now both of you, step inside.”

I stepped backward two paces, and then edged into the compartment. I ordered the tall man to close the door behind him. When he had done that, I carefully disarmed both men.

“How did you do it?” the broken-nosed one asked. “How did you get out of the cottage?”

“Never mind that,” I said, keeping them both together in front of me. “Where is Richter?”

“Ah,” the tall man said, grinning. “You have followed the wrong men, my friend. He did not get aboard this train.”

He was closest to me. I swung the Luger at the side of his head and connected. He grunted and fell against the compartment wall.

“You want to try again?” I asked.

The tall man was shocked and dazed. The other one spoke for him. “He is aboard,” he said. “But we don’t know where. We left him at the other end of the train.”

“This compartment is for one person,” I said. “Did you two take a separate compartment?”

The broken-nosed man hesitated while the tall one looked at him darkly. “Yes.”

“What’s the number?”

“Don’t tell him!” the tall man shouted loudly. I kicked him in the lower leg, and he yelled.

“Well?” I asked the other one.

“It’s the next compartment,” the man said softly, jerking his thumb toward a wall.

“Fool!” the tall man said through clenched teeth.

“Okay, let’s get going,” I said. “To the platform. Out.”

The one with the broken nose opened the door and went into the corridor, and I shoved the tall one after him. There was nobody in the corridor, so I kept the Luger out.

“Move,” I ordered, jamming the gun into the tall man’s ribs.

In a moment we reached the platforms between the cars. I stood well behind them and held the Luger on them. “Okay, jump,” I ordered.

They gave me hard looks.

“The train is moving very fast,” the broken-nosed gunman said.

“Not as fast as the slug from this gun,” I warned him.

After a brief hesitation, the broken-nosed thug opened the door and jumped. In the next instant, the tall man threw himself desperately at me. I met the assault with the barrel of the Luger, smacking it hard into his midsection. He groaned and fell heavily to the metal floor at my feet, unconscious. I holstered the Luger, dragged him to the open door, and threw him off the train.

I saw his limp form hit the gravel and then bound out of sight in tall grass. He was probably better off than if he had been conscious, but either way I would not have wasted much sleep over it After all, he had tried to blow me into little pieces.

Now there was Richter. He was on this train, and I had to find him. I was rather looking forward to it.