The Istanbul Decision

Six

Once on the ground Carter went straight to Kliest's, retrieved his bag, showered, and on a phone Kliest assured him was clean, placed a call to Hawk. It was after midnight on the East Coast, but Hawk answered on the first ring.

"We got a nasty little missive from Kobelev earlier tonight." Hawk said after he'd answered Carter's initial barrage of questions and confirmed his worst fears about what had happened to Cynthia. "Apparently he's holding the girl aboard the Orient Express. He says he wants his daughter and you turned over to him, or he'll kill her. We've got until the train reaches Istanbul to make our decision."

"Have the railroad authorities been contacted? What about the local police?"

"They're all willing to cooperate fully. We had a little trouble to begin with, but a phone call from the head of State to each of the countries involved soon straightened everything out. A little presidential muscle can work wonders. At any rate, it seems Kobelev's commandeered the train. He's not letting anyone off or on, although he's allowing the train to make its scheduled stops. It's either that or snafu rail traffic over the whole of Europe."

"How do I get aboard?"

"That's something you'll have to work out with Leonard Southby. He's the owner of the train. I've arranged for you to meet with him in the bar of the Sacher Hotel in Vienna this afternoon at two. When I talked to him earlier tonight he was ready to mobilize NATO to get his train back. It took a lot of convincing to get him to let us handle it our way. I'm afraid if he hangs around that bar too long he'll start talking nuclear war again and won't be in any shape to help us."

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, Nick, I'm sorry for this little setback. And that's what it is, a setback. Let's not kid ourselves."

An admission of error was a rare thing from Hawk. It bespoke the gravity of the situation, and Carter treated it with the care it deserved.

"I'm sure this is going to work out."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event our initial goal has been met. Kobelev has come out from behind his curtain of security. He's accessible now and we can still take him."

"Yes, sir."

"The man has to be taken, N3. Has to, no matter what the cost."

"I understand that, sir."

Before Hawk rang off, the two men worked out some of the logistics Carter would need over the next few days. Hawk provided a list of AXE operatives in cities along the train's route and the number Carter could call in Washington should he run into trouble. They agreed that Vienna was a good choice for boarding the train as it was only half an hour by jet from Berlin and would allow Carter a few hours' rest at Kliest's before going on.

Then, when all the business had been conducted and mere was nothing left to say. Hawk lingered a moment on his end of the line. "Take care of yourself," he said finally.

Carter sensed he meant it. "I will. Thank you, sir."

Kliest, who had been sitting on the edge of his armchair listening to Carter's end of the conversation, abruptly stood and went into the kitchen area. When he returned he was carrying a tray piled high with German pancakes, sausages, and a liter stein of rich beer. "My wife made these up before she went to work. They've been in the oven warming. I'll make up the bed while you're eating."

Carter ate, made his travel arrangements, and slept. In a few hours Kliest woke him and drove him to the airport. As he was boarding his plane, Kliest gave his hand a firm shake and told him it had been a pleasure working with him. Between Kliest's sendoff and Hawk's good-bye over the phone, Carter wondered if anyone really expected him to come back from this assignment alive.

In Vienna he deplaned, stored his luggage, and caught a cab for the Sacher Hotel. Leonard Southby was at the bar hunched over a glass of scotch. Sitting next to him was a small man wearing large glasses.

"Mr. Welter," Southby said, introducing him after Carter sat down, "from our public relations department." Carter noticed the glasses achieved a friendly effect by being a shade too small to be considered comical.

Welter nodded brusquely. The glasses were friendly; Welter definitely was not.

"I'm not happy. Mr. Carter," Southby went on, motioning to the bartender to bring Carter a drink and freshen his own. "You're better than the combined police forces of France, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria because you're going to do the impossible. You're going to get my train back."

"Sometimes one man can do what many can't," said Carter. "As for getting your train back, let's put it this way. You and I both have an interest in seeing Nikolai Kobelev removed from the picture."

"Did you hear that, Sidney?" Southby asked in a loud voice, turning to Welter. "We have a mutual interest. Mr. Carter and I. A ten-million-dollar train at stake, not to mention the lives of a hundred and fifty fare-paying patrons for whom I am legally responsible, and Mr. Carter wants to talk about our mutual interest. Go away, Mr. Carter," he said angrily, turning back around. "I'm not interested in a man whose interests don't coincide exactly with mine. I don't trust a government stooge. You people are always looking to protect your precious state secrets. I buy and sell your kind all the time. I want a man on my payroll who will do exactly as I tell him."

Carter calmly swished the ice in his drink and laid the swizzle stick on the bar. "I'm afraid you 're stuck with me."

"I am not stuck, sir! I may be tired, overwrought, even half-drunk, but I am not stuck. We have ways of dealing with this kind of terrorism in Europe — men trained by the terrorists themselves who are enlightened enough to realize money is more important than ideals. I can afford to buy several of these men and have the OE back on schedule before she reaches Belgrade."

Carter took a close look at Southby over the rim of his glass. The man was obviously on the brink of nervous exhaustion. "Apparently they didn't tell you who we're dealing with," he said, putting his drink back on the bar. "Nikolai Kobelev is no ordinary terrorist. He's Russian. KGB. The men around him are all handpicked, I'm sure. Efficient killers, each one of them. Handling this sort takes a certain talent, shall we say, a talent you can't buy, Mr. Southby, at any price. I don't think Kobelev is interested in your train as such. It merely provides a means to greater ends, namely to recover his daughter — who is in our custody — and to give him the opportunity to wreak vengeance on me. He will take your train to Istanbul, where he has no doubt made additional arrangements for his transportation into Russia, then leave it. On the other hand, if it suits his purpose to blow up your ten-mill ion-dollar toy, he will do so without a moment s hesitation. If Kobelev manages to recover his daughter and eliminate me, he will have gone a long way toward capturing what he really wants."

Southby's stern expression softened. Like many a man who has spent hours in a bar wallowing in his trouble, his moods changed rapidly from anger to maudlin self-pity. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, truly I am, but the Orient Express is my life. When I first bought her she was a broken-down rusted mess, headed for the scrapyards. I reclaimed her from oblivion. I painstakingly restored every inch of her, put new leather on her seats, new drapes; I hired the finest wood-crafters in Europe to repair her interior. There are no new cars on that train. She's exactly as she was in 1929 in her heyday. I put a fortune into her and built a fortune with her. She's my baby."

"All this is very touching," said Carter dryly, "but beside the point. What I need from you, Southby, is a way to board her without being immediately recognized."

Southby quickly drained his drink and put his glass on the bar with a heavy sigh. "Welter and I have discussed that," he said. "Vienna is a dinner stop. We thought there might be some way to poison the food."

"Highly unlikely," said Carter, "unless you want to poison everyone on the train and they all start eating at exactly the same moment. But what do you mean by dinner stop? I thought there were dining cars."

"There are. You see, the Orient Express isn't a passenger train as such anymore, in the sense that people get on and off at different stops. It's a package tour. You buy a ticket in Paris and ride all the way through to Istanbul. Of course, there are extras along the way. Tonight was supposed to have been dinner here at the hotel for all the passengers, then an evening at the opera. Naturally, in view of recent developments, all this was canceled. But we've contacted Wagon Lits, who does our catering, and they've consented to send down one of their chefs from the Paris office. We have to keep up appearances. We've arranged to have him board here and cook a gourmet meal right on the train."

"And Kobelev is going along with this?"

"Oh, he's been very accommodating. Said he'd be perfectly willing to let us wine and dine him in the best style Europe has to offer if that's what we want."

"I can imagine. This chef, when does he arrive?"

"He's here now, at our branch office. He's due to board at four."

"Call him. Tell him he can go back to Paris. I'll be taking his place tonight."

"If you insist." Welter put a commiserating arm around Southby's shoulder.

"Don't worry about a thing," said Carter.

Southby groaned.

Carter found the chef, a rotund, genial little man, sitting in a straight-backed chair in the front office of Special Tours, Inc., a black overcoat draped over his shoulders and a battered suitcase at his feet. He told Carter he'd been ordered home, a circumstance to which he seemed resigned, as though his world consisted of contradictory orders to do one thing, then to turn around and do the opposite with no explanation whatever.

From him Carter learned things the tour staff had known from the beginning but which had never penetrated the upper echelons of management. The train engineer, for example, belonged to several Communist Party organizations in Paris; and the night before, when Kobelev had flagged the train at a crossing outside Dijon, it was thought the engineer was in league with them. He had since disappeared, and one of Kobelev's men was running the train. Carter made a mental note to have the man picked up and questioned.

He learned, too, that Cynthia was still in the wheelchair, and when she boarded the night before, she'd seemed dazed or drunk. Carter assumed drugs. The chef had heard this from the woman in the office who had been in radio contact with the train before the Russians had commandeered all communications aboard. Carter added another note to talk with her before he left.

The chef went on to say that Cynthia was being guarded by Kobelev and two of his men in the salon car, which was in the middle of the train, and that four others, two with machine guns, were circulating among the other passengers. This meant eight Russians in all, including the man at the controls.

When he felt he'd found out all he could from the chef. Carter excused himself, went outside, and ducked into a small bistro down the street. He purchased a bottle of cognac and two glasses. When he returned he and the chef toasted one another's health and the health of President Mitterand and most of the French parliament before the chef had to leave for the train station to make his connection for Paris. Before he left, the chef thanked him effusively, and Carter made him a present of the rest of the bottle.

Carter watched the taxi round the comer out of sight, men he went in to talk with the woman behind the desk. It was she who had talked with the train staff by radio, and although her distaste for the Russians and what they'd done was admirable, she wasn't able to add anything to what the chef had already told him. Finally she said that if he were going to be a chef, he'd need a uniform, and she gave him the address of a store in Schillerstrasse.

The store's tailor turned out to be tight-lipped and efficient, like most German professional people; a slash of chalk along the sleeve and another across the from sufficed for altering the jacket, but the trousers were another matter. Carter took the man aside and explained his rather special problem.

He held out the Luger in its leather holster, which was shiny from constant handling. "Normally, you see, I wear her under here." He held the holster up under his arm. "But I can rig the straps around my waist, like this." He put the holster on like a belt and turned the gun until it rested in the small of his back. "This makes it more difficult for them to find in a search. What I need, then, is a little extra give in the pants to cover it. Maybe an insert or two."

The tailor nodded and quickly took some measurements of the gun and of Carter's waist with the gun in place. Then he left, and Carter took a chair in the front of the shop and began reading the Viennese daily he found lying across it.

There was nothing in the newspaper about the train or the kidnapping, and this pleased him. Apparently the authorities were cooperating as Hawk had said.

In less than an hour the uniform was ready. Carter tried it on, and the jacket and pants fit perfectly. Even Wilhelmina was snug and virtually undetectable in a V-shaped pouch at his back. A white chef's hat and he could easily have passed for a Cordon Bleu graduate.

He thanked the tailor and told him to wrap the uniform. Then he dressed again in his street clothes, gathered up the packages, and left. On the way back to the tour office he bought a secondhand leather suitcase covered with stickers from European resort cities.

He put the uniform on in a small washroom in the rear of the tour office, then pulled all the American labels out of his clothes and packed them in the old suitcase. Then he put on the chef's hat and looked at himself in the mirror.

He felt vaguely ridiculous, but that was to be expected. The big question was: would he be recognized? Kobelev would know him immediately, of course, having met him before, but he was fairly certain Kobelev would not be doing the preliminary inspection. According to the chef, members of the train's staff who had put in twice their normal shift had been allowed off in Salzburg and replacements allowed to board (which gave one some indication of the importance Kobelev placed on his personal comfort). These replacements had been given only the most cursory going-over by a big Russian guard whom the chef had described ("Grand, monsieur, très grand. As beeg as le grand Charles himself. Beegair.") and whom Carter was certain he'd never seen. All this assumed, of course, that this guard — whoever he was — had never seen Carter's photograph, and while Carter made it a point of professional caution never to have pictures taken, it was always a risky business betting what Russian intelligence did or did not let its underlings know and see.

At any rate, he felt he didn't need any more of a foothold than mere access to the train. Once on, he'd find Kobelev and do what he had to do.

As he stared at his reflection, a number of things went through his mind, including the fact that Kobelev was by far the most able adversary he'd ever faced. For a moment the thought made him uneasy. But then he felt Hugo strapped to his arm, Wilhelmina against the small of his back, and Pierre in its pouch high on his thigh, and there was solace in knowing they were close at hand.

After all, he was well-trained. Hawk saw to that. Refresher courses every six months in small arms and antipersonnel technology, not to mention constant workouts to keep himself in peak physical condition. And his instincts, too, honed by invaluable experience — a million refinements of the agent's art accomplished by years of grinding daily routine. He was, in short, the best the American side had to offer.

Unfortunately, he thought, as he packed up the suitcase where it lay across the toilet seat, Kobelev was the best their side had as well.

Outside, the woman behind the desk excitedly told him about a piece of luck she'd had locating suitable identification. One of the porters had lost his passport on board, and it had been found by a maintenance man and left in the office. It even had a card from the French caterer's union. Of course, she said, only a myopic customs official on a foggy day would ever think the man in the photograph and Carter were one and the same, but still it provided something for him to flash in case he was asked.

Carter, who carried his own false papers, could not bring himself to disappoint her. He thanked her with a tip of his chef's hat and stuffed the passport in the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he said good-bye and strode out the door.

Two blocks away in front of the Osterreicher Hotel he caught a cab and told the driver to take him to the headquarters of the Viennese police. The driver turned into Goethestrasse, jerked to a halt in front of a gargoyle-encrusted building. Carter got out of the cab and went in.

At the front desk he identified himself as the American agent come to handle the kidnapped train. He was immediately ushered in to see the superintendent who turned out to be a small balding man with a Prussian mustache. The police chief studied his papers, then tossed them back across the desk. He said he assumed Carter was in disguise and had not come to cook him dinner.

Carter assured him he would make no attempt to take over the train while on Viennese soil, and the superintendent asked if he could extend that to include all of Austria and not move against the Russians until the train reached the Austro-Hungarian border sometime the following morning. After all, he explained, the Russians still enjoyed favorable relations with the Hungarians, and one must live with one's neighbors, wasn't that so? His friends in State Security would appreciate it.

Carter agreed to the superintendent's request, even though in truth he hadn't the vaguest idea of what he was going to do once on board. The superintendent then made a call and when he hung up, told Carter he was cleared to board the train whenever he wished. Carter thanked him and left.

Surprisingly, the train was not surrounded by police barricades and crowds of onlookers as Carter had expected. The entire fifteen cars of the Orient Express, including its gleaming black antique steam engine, rested on a side track in a far corner of the rail yard awaiting the time it could resume its scheduled place in the scheme of European rail traffic, and although movement was visible behind the dusty car windows, the area around the train seemed deserted. All the same, as he made his way across the tracks, he had the feeling he was being watched.

The feeling was confirmed when a door opened in a small weathered shack nearby and a policeman wearing the typical Austrian helmet, similar to those worn by the Kaiser's army in World War I, came out to intercept him. "Who are you?" he asked in German.

"The chef," Carter replied. He didn't know if the cop had been informed of what was happening or not.

"Your papers."

Carter handed him the passport the woman in the tour office had given him. The man studied it, shook his head, and gave it back. "I don't know who you people think you're fooling," he said with disgust. "Special forces. Secrecy. Nonsense, if you ask me. Hit them hard and fast. That's the way we would have done it in the old days."

Carter nodded and grunted and shoved the porter's passport back into the pocket of his jacket and continued his solitary way to the train.

He chose a middle car, threw his bag to the top of the boarding ladder, and was about to climb up when a snub-nosed revolver appeared out of the darkness at the top of the stairs. The barrel looked to be the size of a bazooka. Carter raised his hands and backed off.

As the hand holding the gun emerged from the gloom and became an arm, then a shoulder, Carter's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Coming toward him was one of the largest, most simianlike men Carter had ever seen: head as large as a bowling ball, covered with short black hair and looking about as impenetrable; forehead of an ape, only inches from widow's peak to bushy brows and yet two handspans across, framing a lantern-jawed face in which each feature was grossly outsize, including huge lips that ill concealed a set of broken, ragged-looking teeth. And yet, big as it was, the head was too small for the body. An enormous physique stuffed into clothes that looked as though he'd swum in them, let them dry in place, and they'd shrunk several sizes. Biceps, deltoid, and pectoral muscles threatened to burst every seam. Carter assailed the man first in German, then in French, neither of which seemed to have any effect. The monster only grunted several times and motioned with his gun for Carter to raise his hands even higher.

Then his huge hands reached out and began groping Carter's clothes. Carter held his breath while large fingers closed almost completely around biceps and thighs. He felt them on his legs and shoulders, even his ankles, but they missed by some miracle the V-shaped pouch at the small of his back where Wilhelmina lay hidden.

The man stood, looking down with beady, dull eyes from about the same height as an adult looks down on a child, and jerked his head in the direction of the train.

Carter saw no reason to wait to be asked twice. He climbed hastily up the stairs, opened the door, and went inside.

As it turned out, he'd found the rear of the dining car on the first try. The assistant chef and two waiters, who were standing and talking in a gleaming white, although very compact kitchen, looked at him when he came in, their eyes registering puzzlement and fear. Partly because they had no idea who he was, thought Carter, and partly because after all that had happened in the last sixteen hours, they'd come to fear everything.