The Istanbul Decision

Seven

Although Nick was considered, among some of his friends, to be a pretty fair gourmet cook, he had never prepared a meal for such a large group before. The situation was further complicated by the presence of Vasili Shurin (which Carter soon learned was the Russian giant's name).

He stood like a huge piece of misplaced furniture at the end of one of the preparation counters, hands behind his back, grinning a ragged-toothed idiotic grin, blocking the flow of traffic so that whenever a tray of dishes or a pan of food needed transportation from one end of the narrow kitchen to the other, the transporter had to yell to Shurin to stand back, a situation made even more difficult by the fact that the man understood neither French nor German, and his Russian vocabulary seemed to be limited to the simplest words. Still he stood, smiling moronically and nodding in a mockery of understanding whenever spoken to, and watched pop-eyed as each new ingredient was added to the main dishes.

Fortunately, Carter had arrived late, and the assistant chef had taken it upon himself to prepare coq au vin casseroles in case the chef were delayed or unable to board for some reason. It was upon this contingency that they now fell back, fixing the accompanying French-cut string beans almondine and thin, buttered noodles, and crepes filled with pureed chestnuts for dessert — all in all, an admirable dinner, although Carter was able to convince the assistant chef to sabotage it in small ways to keep Kobelev from sending for the chef to thank him in person.

As far as the actual cooking, Carter's role consisted of running back and forth tasting and clucking his tongue and watching others do the work, mostly for Shurin's benefit, and cornering each waiter, porter, and anyone else who had been outside the kitchen to learn as much about the layout of the train and the habits of the guards as he could.

The salon car where Cynthia was being held was the second car forward from the dining car. In between was a club car with a small bar and some additional seating for diners. At the bar sat a hatchet-faced man with a submachine gun on his knees. The weapon seemed to be a physical part of him; no one had seen him put it down, even to eat.

The salon car itself consisted of another small bar, some swivel chairs, tables, and a piano. A guard stood at either door and allowed entrance to no one, not even to the waiter with the dinner cart, so what was going on inside — what condition Cynthia might be in, and the mood of Kobelev — was unknown.

After Carter had learned everything he could, he decided to do a little exploring on his own. Swearing loudly in French, which startled everyone, he said he'd forgotten some indispensable, very special ingredient for the beans almondine. Begging his pardon, he squeezed past Shurin and slipped into the storage area at the back of the car. He watched for a moment to make sure Shurin was occupied elsewhere, then opened the rear door and stepped out into the narrow enclosure over the coupling between the cars.

Here the smell of exhaust and engine oil was strong. On either side was a hinged half door that opened inward. Carter opened it, stuck out his head, and looked up and down the track. Southby had not exaggerated about the age of the cars. A narrow ladder ran up the side to the roof of each of them, as it did on most passenger cars before the advent of streamlining and as it still did on freight cars.

Carter closed the door and went back inside. In the roof of the kitchen was a small square portal for ventilation such as were used before air conditioning. Through the pass-through be could see there was one in the dining area as well.

His mind began to churn, formulating a plan, as he walked toward the front of the kitchen. He'd turned sideways and was slipping between Shurin's enormous chest and the counter when Wilhelmina knocked against the Formica with a metallic clunk. Anxiously Carter looked up to see if Shurin had heard, but the little apelike eyes were fixed on the other end of the car where the assistant chef was checking on the chicken.

Safe this time, thought Carter as he slipped through and nodded an "excuse me," but it was always a dangerous business banking on another man's stupidity. From now on he'd have to be more careful.

Early dinner service ended at eight o'clock. At nine-fifteen a heavy jolt signaled the train had begun to move again. At the back of the kitchen, where clean-up was just ending, everyone was apprehensive. They wondered where they were going and how it would all end now that this trouble had thrust itself upon them. Ultimately, each pair of eyes fell upon Carter, who could do no more than shrug impatiently and move off down the aisle toward the refrigerators.

Steam from the cooking and dishwashing hung in the air, and coats, which had been removed, were slow to be replaced. The small area soon seemed full of red suspenders and T-shirts, all but Carter's portion of it, whose jacket, much whiter than the others, remained where it was.

Shurin, too, stood off to one side, separated from the others by a gulf of language and circumstance, the outsider who seemed to want to join in so much, whose face wore a permanent silly, childish smile, fun-loving and stupid. He'd been the butt of occasional jokes while the men were working, never to his face, of course, and never in Russian, but good-naturedly, as though some zookeeper had stopped by and dropped off a potentially dangerous but playful great ape for everyone to enjoy.

Only he wasn't smiling now. His lips were compressed and thoughtful, and his eyes rather cold as he stared at Carter. "Take off your coat," he said in Russian. His voice was calm, but Carter sensed it was the calm before a storm.

The master chef pretended he hadn't heard.

"Remove your coat." Shurin said again, louder and this time in halting French.

The sound of the big man speaking French caused everyone to stop and look at him. Eyes went from Shurin to Carter and instinctively every man in the room shrunk back as far as he was able in the narrow confines, opening a path between the two.

For a moment no one said anything. The only sound was the clack of the wheels and the creaking of the old car as the train made its slow way out of the station. To Carter it seemed as though someone had suddenly turned up the heat. Beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead.

"What?" he asked, unable to come up with anything better.

"You have something under your coat. Remove it." The little eyes bore down on him like two shiny black beads set in dough.

Carter began slowly to unbutton his chef's jacket, desperately trying to mink of a way he could slip his hand around and draw the Luger.

As he watched, the big man cautiously pulled out his massive revolver.

Carter now had all the buttons undone and the jacket thrown back on his shoulders. When he let it fall, the holster strap around his waist would be visible.

"Drop it," the big man said, walking forward, the gun in his hand. He came to within an arm's length of Carter when the train passed over the switch that separated the side track from the main line, and the car rolled violently to one side, throwing him off balance.

Carter seized the opportunity. He reared back and kicked him squarely in the crotch. The heavy brows and massive mouth contorted in an expression of absolute pain, and the big gun hit the floor.

Carter started to pull Wilhelmina from her holster when the safety caught for a split second on a thread the tailor had neglected to snip, slowing the movement by a fraction of a second and giving the big Russian, who was quickly recovering, enough time to paw the gun out of his hand and send it crashing into the stove front half the car away.

Carter sought the advantage by backhanding the man across the face. It had no effect. Shurin merely stared at him, blinking.

Carter swung again, a hard right to the cheek. And again Shurin stared, the anger slowly starting to build in him like steam in a boiler.

Desperate now, Carter hit him again on the jaw, then the cheeks, throwing all his weight behind it. But it was like hitting thinly padded rock. Shurin didn't even try to defend himself. His huge hands hung at his sides, his thick fingers twitching with rage.

Carter hammered at the man, his arms working like pistons, until the big Russian lunged like a bull, making a grab for Carter's head. Carter neatly skipped back a step, and the big man missed, stumbled, and almost fell on his face, saving himself at the last minute by catching the edge of the counter.

Carter needed maneuvering room, but in the narrow kitchen there wasn't any. He'd already stepped into a blind alley of cabinets and refrigeration units, and as Shurin pulled himself to his feet, his massive body blocked the only avenue of escape.

Shurin saw mat he had his quarry trapped, and his thick lips parted in a leer as he came forward, closing the gap on Carter.

Carter retreated, his hands groping desperately for something to throw. They lit upon a rack of heavy iron skillets. He unhooked the first in line and slung it. It landed with a dull metallic ring against Shurin's upraised arms and thudded to the floor. Carter followed with a second, third, and fourth skillet, eventually emptying the entire rack. All of them bounced harmlessly off Shurin the way Carter remembered bullets used to bounce off Superman.

Carter was running out of options. The waiters and cooks all looked on, too dumbfounded to do anything. Then Carter felt the cold steel of the cooler door against his back and knew he'd backpedaled as far as he could. He'd have to stand and fight.

Shurin waded in the way a rude man might enter a crowded room, arms out in front of him, face turned slightly to one side as Carter continued to rain punches on him, although by this time the blows were losing some of their conviction.

When he got close, Shurin stooped down until he and Carter were nose to nose, then he wrapped his arms around the smaller man like a big Russian bear. The great vise of muscle and sinew began to squeeze shut. A sickening crunch erupted from Carter's rib cage and it became impossible to breathe.

Carter looked wildly around for help, but there was nothing the other men could do but stand and gape.

Then a burst of pain went off like an alarm in the middle of his back. The Russian was wedging his thumbs between two vertebrae. Another few seconds and he'd split them, snapping Carter's back like a chicken bone.

Quickly Carter shook his sleeve, and Hugo slipped into his hand. Then blindly he thrust the stiletto into the big man's left side, like Ahab jabbing his harpoon into the whale, again and again, searching for the heart.

Shurin stumbled back against an open spice rack, sending jars and cans flying in all directions, but he righted himself almost immediately, never losing his grip.

At first Carter's desperation and the enormous pain prevented him from concentrating, and his knife blows went wild. He hit the stomach, the side, the bicep, the back, but nothing he did would release the steellike pincers in which he'd gotten caught. He desperately needed one deep breath. Then by sheer willpower he brought himself under control. He ran the blade point down the xylophone of the man's rib cage, found the soft section even through his clothes, stood the knife on point, and jammed it in with the heel of his hand.

The arms suddenly released like fingers around something hot, and Carter slumped to the floor, gasping.

Shurin tottered back against the counter, his back and side soaked in blood. He managed to get the knife blade out, looked at it dumbly, then he pitched forward like a fallen tree, headfirst onto the floor.

When he fell it was as though an orchestra had reached a great crashing crescendo. After the last echo died, the audience of cooks and waiters suddenly sprang to life.

"Man Dieu! Monsieur, we did not think you would live," exclaimed the assistant chef as they ran to help Carter up.

Carter staggered to his feet, holding on to a cabinet with one hand and grasping his side with the other. Air rushed into his lungs like a hot gas, causing agonizing pain. Every rib felt broken.

He pointed to the body. "Get him out of here," he croaked hoarsely. "Throw him off the train."

One of the waiters folded Shurin's thick arms across his chest; then with the help of three others, he dragged him out the back door by his trouser cuffs.

"Where's my gun?" asked Carter. The assistant chef fetched it from the front of the car and handed it to him. Carter stuffed it back in his holster. "Nothing's happened here. If anybody asks, Shurin is gone. Same goes for me. I'm in one of the parlor cars in back. Someone is going to have to clean up all this blood."

"We'll take care of it, monsieur. But monsieur — you don't look well. Your face is pale. Please, sit down and rest. The assistant chef tried to take his arm.

"I'll be all right," said Carter, pulling away. "I've got unfinished business up front." Hobbling with pain, he went out the door into the narrow passageway at the car's rear. The assistant chef followed anxiously. In the passageway Carter pulled open the half door and with a great deal of difficulty managed to mount himself on its edge with one foot outside the train.

"Isn't this a bit foolhardy in your condition?" asked the chef.

"Don't worry about me! "

"Very well, monsieur."

"And remember, if they question you, you didn't see this, and you and your men know nothing about Shurin's whereabouts. These Russian guards sometimes have funny ideas about revenge."

"Yes, monsieur."

Carter pulled himself onto the ladder and began climbing. The rain and overcast had broken up, and the moonlight clearly lit the Alps towering around him. A valley stretched out below for a dizzying distance.

When he reached the top he lay down flat on his back, gasping. He hadn't intended to try this until later when everyone was asleep, but Shurin had forced his hand. He had to make his move now before the man was missed.

He pulled himself to his feet, ran a few yards along the roof of the car, then stopped, unable to go any further. His ribs were on fire. Every movement was torture. It felt as though the giant's arms were still around him. And yet he had to go on.

He reached the end of the dining car and jumped to the salon car. He landed badly, trying to roll to absorb the shock and rolling right on his rib cage. He lay for several seconds, fighting to stay conscious in spite of the enormous swell of pain from his sides. Finally it began to subside, and he was able to sit up and pull himself into a crouching position.

He clambered across the top of the club car, but this time, instead of jumping, he tried to step onto the salon car. Unfortunately, the cars were swaying at an opposite rhythm, and as he stood with one foot on either car, the movement threatened to topple him backward off the mountainside. For a moment it looked as though he'd made a fatal error, but he managed to grab hold of the small wheel that operated the car's manual brake and pull himself on board.

Both vent holes, fore and aft, were clearly visible in the car's roof. Carter wondered which would be the most advantageous for his entrance. He would have to take one guard out with his first shot, which meant with the other it would probably degenerate into a gun battle. If he chose the near vent, there might be time for the guard in the club car to get in and catch him in a crossfire. The next car up was a sleeping car, and according to his information there was no guard in this, so he opted for the far vent.

He made his way across the car's roof as stealthily as he could, lifted the lid on the vent, and peeked in. No one was there. He crouched to get a better angle. Kobelev sat in a swivel chair in a booth by the bar, looking directly at him, a revolver to Cynthia's temple. Instinctively Carter drew back — and the back of his head hit the hard metal of a gun barrel.

"Won't you come in, Mr. Carter?" shouted Kobelev from the car below. "We've been expecting you."