Death Train

Nine

Graham drank down the last mouthful of coffee then sat back contentedly. ‘I’ll say this for the Italian railways, the food’s great.’

‘Delicious,’ Kolchinsky confirmed between mouthfuls of cassata.

Graham looked past him at the end table on the other side of the dining car. ‘Werner’s just paid for the meal. They’ll be leaving any minute now.’

‘There’s no point in tailing them while the train’s moving. They can’t go anywhere.’ Kolchinsky consulted his wristwatch. ‘When are we due in Piacenza?’

‘The waiter said around 8.30.’

‘Ten minutes,’ Kolchinsky replied, then spooned the last of the ice cream into his mouth.

Graham called over the waiter. ‘Can we have the check?’

‘Il conto, per favore,’ Kolchinsky said when the waiter frowned at Graham.

The waiter nodded, then left.

Werner and Hendrique got to their feet and walked down the aisle between the rows of tables.

‘Excuse me, aren’t you the gentleman who was with Sabrina?’ Werner asked, pausing to look down at Graham.

‘Sabrina?’

‘The young lady who was arrested at Vergiate.’

‘Yeah, I was with her, but we’d only met the night before. I didn’t even know her name. Do you know her?’

‘I did once. A long time ago.’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Kolchinsky said, indicating the two vacant chairs on either side of the table.

‘Why thank you, Father,’ Werner said and sat down beside him. He introduced himself and Hendrique, using the alias Joe Hemmings.

‘Father Kortov,’ Kolchinsky said, shaking Werner’s hand.

‘What part of Russia are you from?’ Werner asked.

‘Moscow originally but I was forced to leave. I work in America now.’

‘Yes, the Russian authorities are notorious iconoclasts.’

Graham took the bill from the waiter and mentally worked out what he owed. Kolchinsky paid the balance.

‘A drink perhaps?’ Werner asked and indicated that the waiter should stay.

‘What does one drink after a meal in Italy?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘The favourite liqueurs are Amaretto and Sambuca.’

‘Amaretto? That’s almond flavour, isn’t it?’ Kolchinsky asked, feigning ignorance. ‘Liquor isn’t one of my strong points.’

‘I should hope not, Father,’ Werner said, chuckling. ‘You’re quite right though, it’s an almond liqueur.’

‘That would be nice, thank you,’ Kolchinsky replied.

Werner looked at Graham. ‘How about you Mr–?’

‘Green. Michael Green. Nothing for me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Due Amaretti, per favore,’ Werner said to the waiter, who then hurried away.

‘Any sign of your missing conductor?’ Graham asked Hendrique.

Hendrique shook his head.

‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for his disappearance,’ Werner said, breaking the uneasy silence.

The waiter returned with the liqueurs.

After paying for them Werner held up his glass. ‘To the future.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Kolchinsky said, touching glasses.

Werner took a sip. ‘I can’t imagine Sabrina involved in anything as sordid as murder. She always struck me as the epitome of refinement.’

‘Murder has no class boundaries,’ Hendrique said.

‘True enough, but I still can’t imagine her as a murderess.’

‘Perhaps she’s a spy,’ Hendrique countered with a faint smile.

‘Piacenza, Piacenza,’ the assistant conductor announced from the doorway.

Werner drank down his Amaretto, then stood up. ‘I think I’ll turn in and read a few chapters of my book. Nice to have met you both. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

Kolchinsky gripped the proffered hand. ‘I’m sure we will. And thank you for the drink.’

‘My pleasure,’ Werner replied with a curt bow.

Hendrique pushed back his chair and followed Werner out of the dining car.

‘We know they know and I’m pretty sure they know we know. It’s a stalemate. And if they know we know they’re almost certainly going to change their plans. We have to be ready for that.’ Kolchinsky finished his Amaretto and put the glass in the centre of the table.

‘Right,’ Graham said without any conviction. Kolchinsky had left him behind after the first sentence. He stifled a yawn and got to his feet. ‘You coming?’

‘Sure,’ Kolchinsky replied.

They reached the compartment as the train came to a halt in the brightly illuminated Piacenza station. The corridor windows were facing the platform and Graham scanned the assortment of passengers waiting to board the train.

‘There’s a nun out there,’ Graham called out over his shoulder.

‘Come in and close the door,’ Kolchinsky urged. ‘If she sees me she’s sure to want to talk. Come inside.’

Graham entered the compartment and slid the door shut. ‘This waiting game’s playing on my nerves. We’re running out of time and those bastards could give us the slip any time. Who’s to say they’re even going to Rome? All they need to do is uncouple the freight car and we’ve lost them.’ There was a knock at the door.

Graham unholstered his Beretta and slipped it into his jacket pocket, then peeked through a hairline crack between the two drawn curtains. ‘It’s the nun, she must have seen you from the platform.’

‘That’s all we need. You’d better open the door.’

‘We could ignore her,’ Graham suggested.

‘We can’t ignore her. Open the door, I’ll speak to her.’

Graham shrugged and did as he was told. The nun picked up her holdall and came in, her head bowed.

‘This compartment’s already occupied, Sister. I’m sure–’ he tailed off when she looked up at him. ‘Sabrina?’

‘I’d say we’ve got the same tailor,’ she said, removing her black-rimmed glasses. ‘One Monsieur Jacques Rust.’

Graham locked the door. ‘What the hell’s going on? How did you get out of custody? How did you get here for that matter?’

She held up her hands defensively. ‘Give me a chance to sit down and I’ll answer all your questions.’

‘Fancy a coffee?’ Kolchinsky asked. Her smile answered the question.

‘You can get something to eat later. The dining car’s open till ten. I’ve no idea why, there are barely enough passengers for a first sitting,’ Kolchinsky said on his way out in search of coffee.

When he returned it was with a small tray on which was a cup of hot coffee and a slice of chestnut cake with freshly whipped cream. She refused the cake so he ate it while she described what had happened, from the time of her arrest at Vergiate to the helicopter flight from Zurich.

‘This is for you, Sergei, from the boss,’ she concluded, taking a sealed envelope from the holdall and handing it to Kolchinsky.

Kolchinsky slit the seal open, read the contents of the letter and then burned it. ‘The Colonel wants us to impound the plutonium as soon as possible. He feels it’s too dangerous to play this cat and mouse game with them any longer, especially with Hendrique on the loose with such an array of weapons. This train’s only so big and innocent people are likely to be hurt if he’s not stopped.’

‘One has already. The conductor.’

Kolchinsky nodded and explained the incident briefly to Sabrina.

She glanced at the communicating door. ‘Make sure you point out which couchette he’s under before I turn in. I’d hate to sleep on him.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,’ Graham said sardonically.

She gave him a contemptuous smile then turned to Kolchinsky. ‘Have you got a plan in mind?’

‘It’s the outline of a plan. Whether it’s feasible is quite another matter.’

Graham and Sabrina listened to him in silence then the three of them thrashed out the details until they were in agreement how to implement it.

Sabrina then went through to the dining car and while she ate she thought about C.W. and wondered how he was progressing with his investigation in Mainz.

The telephone rang.

Whitlock rolled over sleepily in bed and fumbled in the darkness for the overhead light switch. He knocked something over and by the noise it made on hitting the carpet he knew it was the quarter-full glass of water he had left on the bedside table before going to sleep. He found the switch then lifted the receiver to his ear, his forearm shielding his eyes from the dazzling light.

‘Hello?’ he muttered, stifling a yawn.

The voice at the other end was little more than a hoarse whisper.

‘Hello?’ he said irritably. ‘You’ll have to speak up.’

‘C.W.?’ the voice was barely audible.

‘Yes, who’s speaking?’

‘Karen.’

‘It’s–’ He squinted at the bedside clock with one eye. ‘God, it’s 1.40 in the morning. What do you want?’

‘He’s outside.’

‘Who?’ he asked, struggling to sit up in bed.

‘The man in the black Mercedes who tried to run us down at the Hilton. He’s on the porch. Please help me.’

He heard the sound of breaking glass over the telephone.

She screamed.

‘Karen! Karen!’ he shouted into the mouthpiece. ‘Are you there?’

‘He’s getting into the house,’ she whimpered. ‘He’s going to kill me.’

‘Lock yourself in one room and barricade the door. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

‘C.W., please–’

‘Karen, get off the phone and do as I say!’

He cut her off and immediately called the police, who promised to send a car round to her house without delay. He dressed quickly and pocketed the Browning as he hurried from the room. After getting brief, but accurate, directions from the night manager at the reception desk he ran out into the car park to where the Golf was parked. He started it up first time and sped out into Kaiserstrasse, heading south towards the Rhine. The wheels shrieked as he swung into Rheinallee, a promenade running parallel to the river, then over the Heuss Bridge into the eastern side of the city. He lost his bearings and had to double back to the bridge, much to his frustration, then sped up Boetckestrasse, past the dominating castle on his left (which the night manager had specifically mentioned), and almost missed Hindenburgstrasse but managed to negotiate the bend at the last possible moment. The Golf mounted the kerb but he quickly regained control of the wheel and pulled up behind the police car, its rooflights flashing, in front of the old Roman Catholic church. He leaped out and sprinted up the driveway but was prevented from entering the house by a uniformed policeman. He looked past the policeman at the slivers of broken glass strewn across the hall carpet then explained who he was in hesitant, but comprehensible, German. The policeman called out to an unseen colleague in the lounge and Whitlock was allowed to enter.

Karen was sitting on the edge of the sofa in the lounge, a dressing gown tied tightly around her, a white handkerchief in her hands. It was only when she looked up that he could see the bluish welt under her left eye. She ran to him and hugged him fiercely, tears spilling down her cheeks. Just as suddenly she pulled back and smiled sheepishly. He squeezed her hand reassuringly and led her back to sit with him on the sofa. The policeman, sitting in an armchair beside the sofa, questioned Karen a while longer then turned his attention to Whitlock and asked him a few routine questions. When the fingerprint man announced he was through dusting the front door the policeman got to his feet and promised Karen a police car would pass the house at regular intervals for the rest of the night. She saw him to the door and waited until he had driven away before returning to the lounge. Whitlock handed her the compress lying on the coffee table and she reluctantly held it against the swelling.

‘Coffee?’ she asked softly.

‘I’ll make it, you just keep the compress in place.’

The kitchen was compact, with built-in pine cupboards and a pine table in the middle of the floor with matching benches on either side of it.

She sat down on one of the benches and watched as he prepared a fresh brew of percolated coffee.

He unhooked two mugs from the row against the wall, poured coffee into each, then took a carton of milk from the fridge and put it on the table.

‘Thanks for coming so quickly, and for calling the police,’ she said after he had seated himself opposite her.

‘I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to prevent that,’ he said indicating her eye. ‘And keep the compress on.’

‘It’s uncomfortable,’ she replied with a grimace.

‘It’s meant to be. What happened tonight?’

‘I was woken by a noise outside and when I came downstairs I saw the Mercedes parked in the driveway. I’m sure it was the same one that was used to try and run us down at the Hilton. Then I saw a shadow on the porch. I know I should have called the police but I panicked and you were the first person who came to mind. He smashed one of the panes in the front door while we were talking–’

‘Yeah, I heard it,’ he said grimly.

‘I ran to the bathroom but the bolt’s very flimsy. He broke down the door and then hit me. When he heard the police siren in the distance he fled. Thank God there was a police car in the vicinity to respond to the call.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He was wearing a balaclava. I’m scared, C.W., I’m really scared.’

‘Do you want me to stay with you tonight?’

‘Very much,’ she said squeezing his hands.

He pulled away. ‘As a night watchman.’

‘You’re married, aren’t you?’

‘Six years now.’

She smiled sadly. ‘Why are the best men always married? It’s not fair.’

‘I’m sure the single guys say the same about women. I did, until I met my wife.’

‘Have you got children?’

‘We’ve never wanted any. Maybe we’ll regret it some day.’

‘I never regretted having Rudi. I’ll always have the memories.’ She studied his face as he stared thoughtfully into space. ‘Your wife’s a very lucky woman.’

‘Lucky? In what way?’

‘To have a husband who doesn’t cheat on her the moment she’s out of sight. Not many men would turn down the chance of sleeping with me.’

He was surprised by the arrogance in her voice. It seemed out of place after what she had just been through.

She noticed his frown. ‘I know I’m beautiful. Is that such a crime? It’s not vanity, it’s just honesty.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with believing in yourself,’ he said tactfully.

‘More coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’ He got to his feet. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll be on guard down here.’

‘I’ll sit with you,’ she said after putting the two mugs in the sink.

‘No, I want you to go to bed. You’ll only be in the way if he does come back. Don’t worry though, he won’t get past me.’

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thanks again. If you need anything I’m upstairs, second door on the left.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said with a smile.

‘Help yourself to anything you want. There’s plenty of food and I pride myself on a well-stocked drinks cabinet. It’s in the lounge, I’ll show you.’

‘No need, coffee is all I want. Now go on, off to bed.’

She stifled a yawn. ‘I suddenly feel really tired. I guess all the excitement is finally getting to me.’

He waited until she had gone upstairs before checking the windows and doors. They were all closed. He returned to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee. He looked at the sleeping tablets on the sideboard. The one he had dissolved in her coffee would knock her out until morning. It would leave her with a slight headache but she would put that down to her bruised eye. He had drugged her for two reasons. She would get a good night’s sleep despite her bruise, and she would also be out of harm’s way should her attacker return. He switched off the kitchen and lounge lights and sat on the sofa allowing his eyes to adjust slowly to the darkness. When they had he moved to the bay window and tugged back the curtain to get a clear view of the street and the driveway. He sat down and waited.

His hand tensed on the Browning each time a set of headlights came into view, then relaxed when the car subsequently drove past the house. The Mercedes returned half an hour later. At least, that was the first time he saw it. It passed three times, slowing on each occasion so the driver could scan the house for any sign of activity. When it reappeared for the fourth time it drew to a halt on the opposite side of the road. The driver climbed out, a Mini-Uzi in his gloved hand.

Whitlock moved to the front door and pressed himself against the wall inches from the broken pane of glass. The driver would have to put his hand through to unlatch the safety chain. Although the driver was wearing rubber-soled shoes Whitlock could still hear him moving stealthily across the porch until his silhouette loomed up against the rippled-glass door.

He grabbed the hand as it snaked through the broken pane and jerked it up on to a shard of glass. The driver screamed in agony as the glass sliced through the back of his hand. Whitlock quickly slipped the chain and yanked open the door, snapping the glass from the frame, and punched the driver hard on the side of the head. The blow knocked him backwards into the cane furniture on the porch. Recovering himself, the driver grabbed one of the overturned cane chairs and brought it up viciously into Whitlock’s stomach then vaulted over the railing and sprinted to the Mercedes, his left arm dangling limply by his side.

By the time Whitlock reached the Golf the Mercedes had already accelerated away from the house. He started up the Golf and sped after the black car as it hurtled down Boetckestrasse towards the docklands along the Rhine. The Mercedes failed to negotiate the bend as it cut into Rampenstrasse and slammed into the side of a parked Volkswagen. Whitlock brought the Golf to a halt and waited. The Mercedes, with smoke escaping from its crumpled radiator, reversed and narrowly missed a Renault van parked on the other side of the street. The driver swung the wheel violently as the Mercedes drew abreast of the nearest side street and somehow managed to negotiate the narrow entrance without damaging the bodywork any further. He could only have realized at the last possible moment that the side street led directly on to the wharf but when he slammed on the brakes the wheels failed to grip on the wet surface and the car cartwheeled once before slewing another ten yards and disappearing over the side into the water.

By the time Whitlock had cut the engine and run to the edge of the wharf the Mercedes was already sliding backwards into the water. He stood where he was for several minutes after the car had sunk but there was no sign of the driver. He returned to the Golf and drove back to the house. After checking that Karen was still asleep he made himself a fresh brew of coffee and took his mug into the lounge.

Seated on the sofa he closed his eyes and thought about Carmen back in New York. Within minutes he had fallen asleep.

A sharp rap on the compartment door woke Graham and Kolchinsky.

Kolchinsky climbed off the couchette and peered through the crack between the curtains. He unlocked the door and slid it back.

The assistant conductor gave him a tired smile. ‘Buon giorno. Correggio, quindici minuti.’

‘Grazie,’ Kolchinsky replied and took the tray from him.

The assistant conductor closed the compartment door and headed off down the corridor, whistling softly to himself.

Graham rubbed his eyes sleepily. ‘Correggio?’

‘Fifteen minutes,’ Kolchinsky said and handed him a cup of coffee.

‘What time is it?’ Graham asked.

‘Five to four.’

Graham sat up and watched Kolchinsky shave over the small washbasin in the corner of the compartment. Each stroke of the blade was timed to coincide with the train’s systematic rocking. He then studied Kolchinsky’s white bodysuit.

‘Standard KGB issue?’

Kolchinsky met Graham’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror. ‘No, just common sense. It’s thermal, perfect for this kind of weather.’

Graham stretched, then got to his feet. He was wearing a tracksuit and a pair of thick woollen socks. He dropped nimbly to the floor and effortlessly executed thirty one-handed press-ups, alternating hands. This was followed by fifty sit-ups and he completed the short programme with twenty normal press-ups before springing to his feet and dusting his palms together.

‘Is that a daily routine?’ Kolchinsky asked, towelling his face.

‘It’s part of a daily routine. There isn’t time to do it all.’

Five minutes later they were both dressed in suitably warm, insulated clothes in readiness for the sub-zero temperatures they would encounter on leaving the train at Correggio.

‘Sabrina asked to be woken before we left. I think you should do it.’

Graham shrugged and opened the communicating door. She was curled up on the couchette, her knees drawn up to her chest, her right hand trailing on the carpet. The blankets had slipped down to her waist and although she looked uncomfortable her face was serene and peaceful. He was about to shake her then abruptly changed his mind and carefully pulled the blankets up over her shoulders, tucking them in gently around her neck. He considered slipping her arm under the blankets but decided against it; the movement would almost certainly wake her.

Kolchinsky stood aside to let Graham back into the compartment. He closed the communicating door silently. ‘So, there is another side to the cynical Michael Graham.’

‘What?’ Graham said sharply. ‘Why wake her now? She’s not involved in this part of the operation. Let the kid sleep, she’s had a couple of rough nights in police custody. Come on, the train’s slowing; we must be nearing Correggio.’

By the time they reached the end of the corridor the train had already pulled into the dimly-lit station. The platform was deserted and apart from a frumpy middle-aged woman with a whimpering child they were the only passengers to alight from the train. Graham picked up his two holdalls and followed Kolchinsky through the unmanned ticket barrier into the deserted concourse.

‘I’ll call Zurich and get them to send through a helicopter as quickly as possible.’

Graham sat on the nearest bench and watched Kolchinsky cross to the row of public telephones against the far wall. A prostitute entered the station from the street and approached Graham. She was a teenager with an attractive face marred by an excessive amount of make-up and a slender figure accentuated by the tight-fitting black leather jacket and mini-skirt. She rested one of her feet on the bench.

‘Buon giorno, come si chiama?’ she purred seductively and traced her finger over his lips.

He batted her hand aside and glared up at her. ‘I’m not interested. Take a walk.’

Although she understood no English the tone of his voice was enough to warn her off. She walked back towards the entrance leading out into the street.

‘Who was that? A prostitute?’ Kolchinsky asked when he returned.

‘Yeah, a baby-pro,’ Graham said dismissively.

‘A baby-pro?’ Kolchinsky asked, frowning.

‘Jailbait. A hooker who’s still under the legal age of consent.’ Graham gestured towards the telephones. ‘Did you get through to Zurich?’

Kolchinsky lit a cigarette then nodded. ‘We’ve had a stroke of luck. One of our helicopters is in Milan. It should be here within the hour.’

‘Where do we meet it?’

‘We don’t. Zurich said they’ll have a hired car waiting at the landing place so the pilot can come through and pick us up.’

Graham glanced at the prostitute standing in the entrance. ‘When I see a tramp like that I guess I should appreciate Sabrina a little more.’

‘I think you do already, only you won’t admit it. Take tonight for instance, on the train.’

‘I covered her up because the last thing we need at this stage of the assignment is her going down with pneumonia. You’re making a lot out of nothing, Sergei.’

‘Am I?’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘She thinks a lot of you, you know.’

Graham stared at his feet. ‘We’re so different. She’s the epitome of the little Yuppie girl. A slave of fashion, living in the affluent part of the city, eating out at all the chic restaurants, driving a Mercedes Sports bought for her by Daddy. That’s another thing, her father’s done everything for her. He bought her a flat, bought her a sports car, influenced the Secretary-General–’

‘No!’ Kolchinsky interceded sharply. ‘She’s here on merit and you know it. You’ve seen her shooting, she’s in a class of her own. I’ll tell you this, you were the envy of every Strike Force member when you were brought in to replace Jacques. They’d have done anything to be in her team.’

Graham got to his feet. ‘There’s a pinball machine over in the corner. It’ll help pass the time.’

He was still playing the machine when the helicopter pilot arrived forty minutes later.

Kolchinsky took him across to meet Graham.

‘Are you ready, Tommy?’

‘I’m impressed,’ Graham said without taking his eyes off the machine. ‘I didn’t know they showed films like that in Russia.’

‘I saw it at the Odeon in Leicester Square. I hated it.’

‘I’m not surprised, it’s hardly a film for geriatrics.’

‘Thank you very much. Actually I went with one of the secretaries from the Russian Embassy. She wanted to see it.’

‘Enough said,’ Graham replied and clocked up his seventh free game. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’

They left the station and climbed into the hired Peugeot 305. It was a short journey to the makeshift airfield, a flat strip of snow-covered grassland on the outskirts of the town. Graham grabbed his two holdalls and made his way towards the Lynx helicopter. Kolchinsky spoke to the pilot through the open driver’s window then walked across to where Graham was waiting.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready, but why isn’t the pilot warming up the helicopter?’

‘Because he’s not flying it. I am.’

‘You are?’ Graham said with surprise. ‘Since when do you fly helicopters?’

‘Since I got my licence twenty years ago.’ Graham exhaled deeply then moved over to the helicopter and climbed in beside Kolchinsky. ‘You’re quite safe, I assure you.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Graham said, strapping himself into the seat. ‘I just never knew you could fly these contraptions. I suppose the KGB trained you?’

‘On the contrary. I learnt to fly while I was serving as a military attaché in Stockholm. It was something to alleviate the boredom.’

The pilot, who had been directing the Peugeot’s headlights at the helicopter, returned Kolchinsky’s wave, then swung the car round and headed back towards the highway.

‘How long before we catch up with the train?’ Graham asked once they were airborne.

‘You’re sitting on the map.’

Graham tugged the map free and opened it out on his knees. He traced his finger along the dotted black line representing the railway track. ‘If my memory serves me correctly it was due out of Modena at 4.45. It’s now–’ he pushed back his cuff to reveal his gold plated Piaget watch ‘–5.17. How long was it due to stay in Modena?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Then it should be somewhere around Castelfranco Emilia right now, about twenty-five miles away.’

‘We’re slightly ahead of the schedule Zurich radioed through to the pilot. That means we should catch up with the train before it reaches Anzola d’Emilia. Are you with me?’

‘You knew all along, why didn’t you just say when I asked you?’

‘Just testing,’ Kolchinsky replied with a smile.

Graham folded the map and slipped it behind the seat. He unclipped his watch and turned it around in his hands. ‘Carrie gave me this for my thirty-fifth birthday. We went to the theatre that night. She’d booked the tickets five months in advance. She even got me to wear a tux.’

‘You in a tuxedo? I can’t imagine it.’

‘Neither could I, but she was determined to make a night of it. We took in the show on Broadway then went on to Christ Cella’s where I had the best T-bone steak I’ve ever tasted, and we ended up drinking Irish coffees at Fat Tuesday’s until three in the morning. What’s more she paid for everything. God only knows what it must have cost her but she refused to let me touch my wallet. She kept insisting it was my night. It was the last time we ever went out together. I was sent to Libya ten days later.’

‘Vasilisa loved the theatre. We’d go at least once a month but I haven’t been now for over seven years, not since she died. It wouldn’t be the same without her.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Graham said, then snapped the watch around his wrist.

Kolchinsky checked the Air-Speed Indicator then glanced at his watch. ‘We should be over the train in a couple of minutes.’

Graham zipped his parka up to his neck and pulled on a pair of gloves.

‘Don’t forget the balaclava,’ Kolchinsky reminded him.

‘I don’t intend to, it’s in my holdall.’

‘Michael, you don’t–’

‘I know, it’s dangerous as hell but we agreed last night that it’s essential to the success of the operation. Don’t worry, I’m your man. The boss has always called me a daredevil, now it’s time to live up to the image.’

‘You’ve always lived up to it.’

‘You look more nervous than me. Christ, all you have to do is hold this baby steady. I’m the one who has to rappel in the pitch dark on to the roof of a moving train.’

Kolchinsky handed him a miniature headset consisting of an earphone and microphone connected by a thin strip of durable wire. Graham slipped it on then clambered into the cabin where he pulled the balaclava over his head.

‘Train a hundred yards ahead,’ Kolchinsky said into his mouthpiece.

Graham unlocked and opened the hatch, flooding the cabin with a rush of glacial air. After checking that one end was securely bolted to the cabin floor he flung the rope ladder out through the open hatch. He looped his hand through the wallstrap and leaned forward precariously, trying to catch a glimpse of the train. He could vaguely make out its outline in the helicopter’s dimmed undercarriage lights. It was at least sixty feet below them.

‘I’m going to need more light,’ he said.

‘Look in the black box behind you, there should be a Halolight in there.’

Graham undipped the box lid and opened it. He found what he was looking for. A disc-shaped light attached to a leather headband which could be adjusted according to the wearer’s specification. It had been created in the UNACO laboratories along the lines of the Davy lamp. He fitted it around his head then ensured the light was positioned in the centre of his forehead.

‘Ready,’ he said, moving to the open hatch.

There was a brief silence before Kolchinsky spoke. ‘Altitude thirty-eight feet. Ready.’

Graham turned his back on the open hatch and took a firm grip on the section of rope ladder lying on the cabin floor. He stepped out into the bitterly cold night air. Although the wind was negligible the rope ladder was swaying from side to side due to the concentrated buffeting of the rotors above him.

‘How are you doing?’ Kolchinsky asked.

‘The rotors are whipping up a bit of a hurricane out here. No chance of switching them off, I suppose?’

He heard Kolchinsky’s chuckled response in his earpiece.

Each step was a carefully planned manoeuvre, easing his foot off one rung and on to the next where he had to feel for the right grip before committing himself. There was an element of cautious apprehension in his movements, but no fear in his eyes. He had long since come to regard fear as man’s most negative characteristic. With fear came hesitancy, stupidity and uncertainty, any of which could cost a life. He had witnessed it countless times on the battlefields of Vietnam where he had come to learn so much about himself. He regarded fear as nothing more than a chimera and the only way to negate it was an absolute belief in one’s own ability. It was a principle he had carried over into his training of Meo tribesmen in Thailand after his injury in Vietnam. His critics accused him of brainwashing his troops with little consideration for human life, especially when it was revealed he used live ammunition during the weekly obstacle course. His answer had been simple. The only way to combat fear was to confront it, and believe enough in oneself to overcome it. Figures released after the war showed that over a two-year period his troops had not only suffered the least casualties but had also been awarded the most medals for bravery out of all the Meo battalions in Thailand.

His only regret was that the figures hadn’t been released any earlier. Most of his critics were dead, the victims of the fear syndrome he had tried so hard to make them understand.

The ladder was swaying wildly by the time he reached the halfway point. He could see a couple of lights further down in the train, presumably in the coaches, but the front of the train was shrouded in a veiled mist as the first light suffused the distant horizon. Carrie had always maintained there was nothing more beautiful than a New York sunrise. He had disagreed.

Beauty to him was the symmetry of the perfectly delivered curved ball in baseball or the angled precision of a flawless touchdown pass in football. He put those thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the next rung of the ladder. The train was less than ten feet away and he was already planning how he would land and get to the bulky padlock securing the door on the side of the freight car.

‘Michael, I’m picking up something on the radar, dead ahead.’

The powerful spotlight underneath the helicopter illuminated the whole train. They both saw the stone bridge thirty yards away.

‘Take me up!’ Graham shouted into the mouthpiece.

‘I’m going down,’ Kolchinsky replied and dipped the helicopter towards the roof of the rear freight car.

‘It’s too dangerous–’ Graham started, then felt his dangling legs touch the roof.

The helicopter tilted and the rope ladder swung away from the freight car. As the momentum swung him back over the car he let go, landing heavily on the roof.

Kolchinsky immediately nosed the helicopter upwards, desperately trying to avoid the bridge.

He couldn’t clear it in time and the right landing pad struck the stonework and buckled. Stones and masonry tumbled on to the track below as part of the bridge disintegrated from the force of the impact. He managed to regain control of the helicopter but there was a grating sound emanating from one of the Rolls-Royce turboshaft engines and seconds later black smoke began to pour out from the upper fuselage where they were located.

Graham had fallen heavily on his shoulder and instinctively grabbed on to a ridge in the freight car’s roof. It had saved his life. Had he rolled off the roof he would have been flung against the steel stanchion erected to support the reinforced archway. He lay on the roof, momentarily winded, his face screwed up in agony as the pain throbbed through his left shoulder. ‘Michael! Michael!’

He winced as Kolchinsky’s raised voice seemed to reverberate through his head. ‘Michael!’

‘Stop shouting,’ Graham shouted.

‘Are you all right?’ Kolchinsky asked anxiously.

‘I’m alive. My left shoulder hurts like hell though.’

‘Abort–’

‘Forget it,’ Graham snapped.

‘What chance have you got against Milchan with an injured shoulder?’

‘I’ll shoot the son-of-a-bitch, it makes no difference. I’m going in.’

‘One day you’ll surprise us all by actually obeying an order.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Graham replied. ‘What happened to you? I heard a bang as I went under the bridge.’

‘I hit it. I’ve had to land in some field, the engine’s damaged.’

‘And you?’

‘Whiplash, that’s all. If your shoulder’s bad I want–’

Graham didn’t hear the rest. He pulled the headset out from under the balaclava and tossed it away. He realized he was sitting in the dark and flicked on the switch of the Halolight.

Nothing happened. If it had been damaged he knew he could forget about trying to get into the freight car until daybreak. He gave it several taps with his forefinger before it finally came on.

As he moved, a sharp pain shot through his left arm and he pulled it protectively against his body. He waited until the throbbing subsided then made his way to the edge of the roof where he grabbed the top rung of the metal ladder and began to descend the side of the freight car.

Despite the almost unbearable pain in his shoulder he managed to reach the padlock and attach a small magnetized transmitter to it before climbing back up to the roof. Once he was there he removed a matchbox-sized detonator from a pouch on his belt, extended the aerial and turned the dial to the transmitter’s wavelength. There was a muffled explosion as the padlock was destroyed. He was reaching for his Beretta when Milchan’s massive hands appeared on the top rung of the ladder. A moment later his horrendously disfigured face appeared above the level of the roof. Milchan grabbed Graham’s and jerked it sharply. The bullet went wild. Milchan chopped his wrist and the Beretta tumbled from his hand then slid agonizingly slowly down the side of the sloping roof. The butt snagged on the raised ventilator.

Graham ducked a wild punch and made a grab for the Beretta. The train jolted over a fault in the line and the Beretta came free. His fingers raked the roof in desperation only inches from it and he cursed as it slid over the side. He swivelled round to face Milchan, his left shoulder now a constant source of pain. He could barely move his left arm; it seemed dead as it hung limply at his side. This only added to his anger and frustration. He lashed out sideways with his foot, catching Milchan on the side of the face. Milchan dabbed his bleeding lip with the back of his hand then grinned. Graham lashed out again but this time Milchan grabbed his foot and pulled him effortlessly towards the ladder.

Graham saw the punch coming but his left arm refused to respond when he tried to raise it to defend himself.

Then nothing.

The sharp rapping on the door brought Sabrina out of her deep sleep.

‘Si?’ she asked, slipping her hand around the Beretta under the pillow.

‘Buon giorno. Caffè?’ the assistant conductor asked through the locked compartment door.

‘No, grazie.’ She glanced at her bare wrist then remembered her watch had been confiscated in Fribourg. ‘Che ore sono?’

There was a pause before he answered. ‘Le otto e un quarto.’

‘8.15? Oh God!’ she hissed under her breath. ‘Grazie,’ she called out, then scrambled off the couchette and opened the communicating door.

The adjoining compartment was empty.

‘Thanks for waking me, you guys,’ she muttered angrily, her hands on her hips.

After a cursory wash she donned the habit and wimple, slipping the Beretta into her pocket.

She went directly to the dining car, pausing in the doorway to look around. Her luck was in.

Werner, Hendrique and Kyle were having breakfast, and judging by the food still on their plates they would be there for some time to come. It was the perfect opportunity for her to search their compartments, especially Werner’s. He might be the kingpin but he was also the weak link. Hendrique and Kyle were seasoned criminals; Werner was a businessman. She knew if there were any clues to be found, his compartment would be the place to find them.

First she returned briefly to her own berth to fetch the keys Kolchinsky had taken from the dead conductor.

Her instincts had been right: both compartment doors were locked. Knowing she had only a limited amount of time she decided to go through Werner’s compartment first. The corridor was deserted. Quickly she unlocked the door and went in, fastening it again behind her. There were two pieces of luggage on the overhead rack, a small beige suitcase and an attaché case manacled to the steel pipe against the wall. She climbed on to the couchette and turned the attaché case round to face her. It had a combination lock. She knew the odds against her cracking the combination, even if she had all day, but having learnt never to discount the obvious she tried the locks anyway. They opened. Her astonishment turned immediately to suspicion. Even a harmless businessman would scramble the combination before leaving his case unattended. It had to be a trap. She took a nailfile from her pocket and traced it along the seam, checking for wires. There was none. She looked around the compartment for something with which to lever open the lid. All she could see was a newspaper so she rolled it up and stood to one side, holding it at arm’s length as she lifted the lid up several inches. Nothing happened. She exhaled deeply. Discarding the newspaper she opened the lid. A silver box and a miniature console were the case’s sole contents. Just as she was going to try to lift out the box she heard a key being inserted into the lock of the compartment door. She jumped off the couchette and pulled out her Beretta, aiming it at the doorway.

The door slid back and Werner froze, momentarily taken aback by the sight of an armed nun. He smiled a second later, recognizing her, and took a hesitant step into the compartment, his arms raised. Kyle followed him in but his arms remained at his side.

‘Close the door and lock it,’ she commanded.

‘Do as she says,’ Werner said without taking his eyes off the Beretta pointing at his chest.

Kyle locked the door.

Her eyes flickered towards the communicating door. ‘If Hendrique tries to burst through there you’ll be the first to die.’

‘He has no intention of bursting in, my dear. You might be interested to know what he is doing in there, though. May I?’ Werner indicated the door with one of his raised hands.

‘Don’t move!’

‘Of course, only I thought you’d want to see your partner. Hendrique has orders to kill Graham if he hasn’t heard from us in two minutes.’ Werner glanced at his wristwatch. ‘A minute’s nearly up. Call my bluff if you want but Graham’s death will be on your conscience for the rest of your life.’

‘You open the door,’ she said to Kyle without taking her eyes off Werner.

Kyle drew back the bolt then tapped four times on the door. It was unlocked from the other side and Kyle opened it to reveal Graham bound and gagged on the couchette opposite the door, and Hendrique standing over him holding a Franchi SPAS shotgun inches from his chest.

‘What have you done to him?’ she asked anxiously.

‘A drug-induced sleep, that’s all,’ Werner said. ‘He was very aggressive, even with handcuffs on. You have thirty seconds to throw down your gun. Hendrique’s very punctual, especially when it comes to killing.’

Hendrique’s hooded eyes were challenging, his lips curled in a contemptuous sneer.

Her determination wavered. If she surrendered her gun she would be breaching one of UNACO’s fundamental principles, giving in to the demands of known criminals. And Graham had sacrificed his family to thwart a wave of terrorist bombings. She knew exactly what he would want her to do. Shooting Hendrique would be easy. But at what price if he killed Graham in return? As Werner had said, she would have to live with the decision for the rest of her life.

‘Twenty seconds.’

She pushed Werner aside and levelled the Beretta at Hendrique’s head. His response was to press the shotgun into Graham’s chest.

Kyle stepped forward to disarm her.

‘Leave her!’ Hendrique snarled. ‘We’ll settle this my way.’

Kyle backed off.

She looked at Graham, his head lolling on his chest, and tightened her grip on the Beretta.

‘Ten seconds.’

She swallowed nervously, her eyes riveted on Hendrique’s face.

‘Seven seconds,’

Her finger tightened on the trigger and Hendrique smiled faintly to himself.

‘Four seconds. Three, two, one–’

She let the Beretta drop from her hand. Kyle scooped it up and trained it on her back.

Hendrique traced the shotgun down Graham’s chest then pressed it into his stomach.

‘I’ve conceded, what more do you want?’

‘So you have,’ Hendrique replied and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

‘I learn so much about a person’s character by calling their bluff. It also makes the contest that little bit more interesting.’

‘You jeopardized–’

‘I jeopardized nothing.’ Hendrique cut across Werner’s outburst. ‘I knew she’d back down. There’s a touching loyalty amongst undercover agents, especially between partners.’

‘You want me to tie her up?’ Kyle asked.

‘Give me the gun first,’ Hendrique replied.

Sabrina chose her moment perfectly and brought her foot up into Kyle’s midriff just as he extended the Beretta towards Hendrique. She pivoted round to face Hendrique but found herself staring down the barrel of his Desert Eagle automatic.

‘It’s a question of speed. Can you get to it before I pull the trigger?’

‘If it’s loaded,’ she retorted, still holding the hem of her habit above her ankles.

‘You’re learning, but are you prepared to call my bluff again?’

She let the hem drop and Kyle, his face twisted in pain, manacled her hands behind her back then shoved her roughly on to the couchette beside Graham.

‘How did you know I was in your compartment?’ she asked.

Werner pushed aside his jacket to reveal a miniature transmitter attached to his belt. ‘It picks up a signal the moment the case is opened.’

‘So you left the case unlocked on purpose?’

‘That was the bait, although I was certainly surprised to see you back again. I thought another agent would have been sent out to replace you but I seem to have underestimated UNACO’s powers of persuasion.’

The surprise was mirrored in her eyes.

‘Oh yes, we know who you’re working for,’ Werner said triumphantly. ‘It took a while though to find out. UNACO isn’t exactly a household name.’

‘Why are you doing this, Stefan? You’ve got everything. Money, respect, and you own one of the most successful companies in Europe. And what about all those millions of underprivileged children who’ve benefited from your charitable foundations? I remember the documentary NBC did on you last year. Those African kids looked upon you as some kind of Messiah sent to give them hope for the future. I felt honoured to have known you. Was it all just a sham, the perfect cover? Who would suspect one of the world’s leading philanthropists of being an arms dealer?’

‘An arms dealer?’ Werner said with a chuckle. ‘Is that what UNACO thinks I am?’ His face became serious. ‘Those foundations did start out as a cover but now they’ve become something of an obsession. I feel as though I’m doing something constructive while I remain here in the West.’

‘You’re talking too much,’ Hendrique snapped.

Werner gave a resigned shrug. ‘It’ll come out soon enough.’

She looked from Hendrique to Werner. ‘You’re KGB?’

‘Correct.’ Werner patted the attaché case. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this but you’ve left me with no choice. You know what’s inside the case, only you don’t know what’s inside the metal box. Let me show you.’

He punched the four digits on the keyboard and they appeared on the narrow screen above it. 1–9–6–7. The box sprung open. Inside was a radio transmitter, no bigger than a cigarette lighter, on a rolled gold chain. He put the attaché case to one side and leaned forward, the transmitter resting in his cupped hand.

‘I’m not going to insult your intelligence by beating about the bush. There are six metal kegs in the crate, as you no doubt guessed all along. Five of them contain plutonium. The sixth contains an explosive device. I couldn’t tell you how powerful it is because I haven’t actually seen it. All the kegs are the same weight so none of us knows which one contains the explosives. It was put together in a vacuum so it’s perfectly safe as long as it remains sealed. The slightest breath of air will trigger the mechanism inside.’ He lifted back the transmitter’s cap to reveal a small red button. ‘This is the only other way the device can be triggered. Press this button and–’ He threw up his hands. ‘You have a nuclear explosion to rival Nagasaki, only this time right in the heart of Europe. The fallout would have catastrophic results for generations to come.’

She stared at him in horror. ‘And you have the audacity to talk about doing something constructive by helping the underprivileged children?’

There was genuine hurt in his eyes. ‘Do you really think I’d want you to press the button, knowing the consequences? Do you? We wouldn’t gain anything by destroying the plutonium after all the trouble we’ve gone to in accruing it. We want to prevent a catastrophe as much as you do. After all, none of us would survive it.’

‘So what’s the price?’

‘All we ask is that we’re given a safe passage to our ultimate destination.’

‘And it’s up to me to pass on this demand?’

‘It’s a request, not a demand.’

‘And if you’re challenged you’ll sacrifice the lot?’

‘If I was cornered and saw no way out, yes.’ He closed the cap and slipped the chain around his neck, tucking the transmitter under his shirt. ‘Hypodermic?’

Hendrique fetched it from the adjoining compartment and handed it to Werner who rolled up Sabrina’s sleeve, found a vein in the crook of her arm, and gently inserted the needle into her flesh. He then eased the wimple from her head, allowing her blonde hair to fall on to her shoulders.

‘So angelic, so beautiful,’ he said wistfully, then put his hand against her cheek.

She jerked her head away.

‘Goodbye, my dear Sabrina.’

‘Until the next time,’ she rejoined, her already beginning to slur.

‘Stay with them,’ Hendrique told Kyle.

She shook her head, desperately trying to stave off the drowsiness, but her eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy. The compartment meshed into a kaleidoscope of hazy colours before she slumped sideways against Graham.