by Nick Carter
Kobelev was an hour from the train. He had no snowshoes and was probably dragging Cynthia, who would be doing her best to slow him down. Still, it would be impossible for Carter to overtake him. Only a miracle would get him back there in time.
A spasm twisted in his gut, and his worries about Kobelev, the tension he'd felt in front of Tatiana's gunsight, and the rolls he'd eaten with Roberta back at the train all ended up in a steaming puddle in front of him. When it passed, he wiped his mouth and washed his face with snow and told himself he felt better, even if he wasn't sure it was true.
He went over and took the pistol from Tatiana's hand and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Then he stood for a moment, staring down at the monk who had given his life to bring this little rendezvous about. What had Kobelev promised him that was worth killing himself for? Carter wondered.
He passed it off with a shrug, located his wayward snowshoe, and stooped down to strap it on. Then he looked down the long line of snowshoe prints that started at the top of the hill and extended better than ten miles back to the railroad and the Orient Express. There was no way he'd be able to trudge all that distance in less than an hour.
Then he wondered what would have happened if Tatiana had killed him as planned? She certainly wasn't going to walk all the way back to meet her father. And he wasn't going to pick her up with the train. There was no sign of a railroad track anywhere.
On a hunch he circled the area around the big rock that now served as a headstone. On the western side of the trail about a hundred feet out he came across a line of partially brushed-out footprints. He followed them to a pair of cross-country skis behind a tree. The monk had apparently stashed them here for Tatiana before blowing his brains out.
They were a woman's size. Consequently, the boots accompanying them were hopelessly small. But the bindings could be adjusted around his own snow boots and in a few minutes, he was poling his way one-handed to the top of the hill.
He stood at the crest for a moment, surveying the expanse of snow that stretched out before him, then with a thrust, he pushed himself out onto the mountain, kicking at first to gain speed, then curling into the aerodynamically efficient «egg» position for minimum wind resistance. It was a good thing, he thought, one never forgot how to ski.
* * *
For Lieutenant Commander j.g. Roberta Stewart, waiting had always been an anathema. As a child of five she remembered the long hours of delay while bureaucratic wranglings kept her father in the Hungarian State Prison long after his sentence as an insurgent during the revolution of 1956 had been put down. She remembered the long plane ride and the hours of questioning by immigration authorities before they finally let her father and herself out of the terminal at Idlewild. And later on, she'd waited three days longer than any OCS candidate to get her commission — only to discover to her joy and trepidation that she'd been assigned back to the country of her birth. There had been many anxious moments of waiting since then, waiting for messages to be picked up in letter drops around the American consulate, waiting in alleys to talk to contacts, the disgruntled dock worker, the Soviet official cheating on his wife who thought she would make a fetching sexual trophy (and who never succeeded but, in trying, always spilled his guts of everything he knew). Waiting had become her life, and yet of all the nervous hours she had spent in anticipation of things both good and bad, none of them held a candle to the hours she spent waiting for Nick Carter to return to the Orient Express.
Outside the train the wind whistled up from the valley below with a low, mournful moan that set her teeth on edge. The old wooden cars creaked and settled on the track, and every stray noise made her jump and clutch her machine gun.
She sat on the floor of the engine room, her back to the fire doors, the machine gun resting across her knees. From time to time she would crawl the few feet to the coal supply, retrieve an armful, and toss them into the furnace. Then she would slam the doors and resume the same tense, watchful pose as before.
The boiler became more than just a source of warmth. It was her ticket out of here, she told herself, and if she took care of it, it would take care of her. She believed this, and the hot metal became a benign, almost friendly, sensation at her back, like the warm lap of a parent when all the world around has turned hostile and cold.
Her thoughts centered mostly on Nick, on how he was doing, if he would ever come back to her, and what she would do if he didn't. She told herself she definitely didn't love him, although even before the words had fully formed in her mind, she knew it was a lie. And yet she knew, too, that love between them was impossible. They were two professionals, each with his job to do. They would love briefly, and they would say good-bye, and their love would be sweeter and more poignant because of it. These were her thoughts, but in the cold darkness of the engine cabin, her heart spun out fantasies of the two of them running, laughing into a pounding tropical surf as though they hadn't a care in the world.
Minutes crept by. Time seemed to pass like sand in an hourglass, one infinitesimal grain at a time. Occasionally she would think she couldn't stand it any longer, and she would pace the cabin and strain to see if there weren't two figures trudging toward her at the head of a long column of footprints that would signal her vigil had finally come to an end. Once, by some convoluted reasoning, she even fired a machine gun burst into the air, thinking it might help lead them home. It was only frustration expressing itself, and when she thought of the possibility of the gunshots starting another avalanche, she was horrified. She took up her position in front of the furnace again and vowed not to leave it until Nick himself pried her away.
The hours marched by and sleep tempted her, although the ache in her stomach kept it from being much of a threat. She hadn't eaten since Nick had found the lunch box with the rolls, and although since then she'd gone back and licked the wrappers, it had far from satisfied her, and her stomach had groaned for more. But when nothing was forthcoming, it eventually grew quiet until it lay dormant between her ribs and she forgot about it. Then sleep tugged on her more and more insistently, so that when she heard the first of the cries, she wasn't sure whether it was real or she'd been asleep and dreamed it.
By the second cry, there was no possibility of mistake. Someone was out there in the dark. A woman in trouble. She first thought it was Cynthia returning without Nick, and a stab of cold went through her. But then she realized whoever it was didn't know her name, and she felt confused and afraid.
She pressed herself against the wall by the brakeman's window and quickly glanced outside. In the snow one hundred feet away stood a woman about the same height and general coloring as Cynthia, only dressed in furs. "Help!" she yelled for what was now the third time.
"Who is it?" Roberta shouted, being careful to keep her head well back out of any line of fire.
"Cynthia Barnes. A friend of Nick Carter's. You speak English?"
"Of course I speak English. But you're lying. You're not Cynthia Barnes. Nick left here with Cynthia Barnes about three hours ago. You must be…"
"No! Nick was fooled! I'm Cynthia Barnes. When he came to get me to take this assignment, I was working on a production of A Streetcar Named Desire. Shall I do a few lines to prove it to you?"
At this moment, against all her training, Lieutenant Commander j.g. Roberta Stewart committed a momentary lapse of security. In the parlance, she "dropped her guard." The thought of Nick out somewhere on the mountain at the mercy of Tatiana Kobelev (for who else could it have been masquerading as Cynthia?) so startled her, she stepped into full view in the window. A shot sounded, like a brief thunderclap, somewhere below and to her right. There was a sharp sensation on her head, as though she'd stepped into a whirling propeller blade, and she flew backward.
She lay on the floor, conscious but unable to move, listening as powerful footsteps mounted the metal ladder into the compartment.
"My God, she's still alive!" cried Cynthia, her voice strident. She was scared out of her wits.
"It's of no matter," said another voice, masculine this time, and while there was no accent, Roberta noticed school-book English.
Strong hands took hold of her arms at the elbows and dragged her to the opening. Then she plummeted to the snow.
"You can't just leave her like that!" said Cynthia, tears filling her eyes.
There was a short derisive laugh from the man. "You're quite right. It's most uncivilized of me. But there simply isn't time to call an ambulance. We must be going."
"Aren't you going to wait for your daughter?"
More laughter amid the cranking of valves being opened and the hiss of steam. "You understand nothing of what I've been telling you. I've trained Tatiana to master any situation. Did she not escape the United States under the heaviest security possible? Did she not find me on the Orient Express in the middle of western Hungary? It is a game we play, she and I. It keeps us strong."
The engine whistle sounded, signifying the boiler was ready. The enormous pushrods extended and fell to, and the ground beneath Roberta shook as the huge train began to move down the trade.
Seventeen
Carter found her almost by accident, lying face down in the snow, thrown there so carelessly, her machine gun was still strapped to her back, standing on end with its muzzle in the air. It was the machine gun that led him to her. He'd seen it as he approached, thinking it was another of the shovels Kobelev and crew had been using to clear the track. Then he'd noticed the lump beneath it was the same color as Roberta's parka.
It was hard to say how long she'd been there. Thirty minutes, maybe more. Her lips were blue and her cheeks had a bloodless, ivory pallor that frightened him at first. But as he rubbed her hands and slapped her, buds of color began to appear under the skin. Soon she felt warm, and in a few minutes she opened her eyes.
"Oh," she moaned as she reached for the streak of blood that ran along the side of her head.
"Don't touch it," he said, gently pulling her hand back. "It's just a scratch. You were very lucky."
"Nick!" she cried, suddenly remembering what had happened. "You're alive! I thought Tatiana…"
"Was going to kill me? She tried, but she got distracted."
"Did you…?"
Carter nodded. "I did. The others are dead, too. Including the engineer and the brakeman."
"Kobelev was here. He had Cynthia with him. They took the train."
I know. Don't upset yourself. They haven't got much of a lead."
"But how are we…? "
"Trust me."
He helped her to stand, then picked her up in a fireman's carry over his shoulder.
"Nick!" she exclaimed. "Are you strong enough for this?"
"Don't worry about me," he said with a grunt. "But do me a favor. Don't gain any weight en route."
He carried her, staggering only slightly, until she said she felt up to walking, in fact walking would probably be less strenuous than bouncing on his shoulder like a sack of flour. By this time they were half a mile around the curve in the track. He put her down, and when she turned around her eyes lit up with surprise.
"A helicopter!" she gasped. "Where did it come from?"
"I sort of boosted it from the Hungarian People's Army. They were going to deport me in it. Can you fly?"
"You bet. Part of my naval training."
"Good," Carter said. They climbed up into the cockpit and strapped in. He watched her as she studied the instruments and controls. "Are you going to be able to handle this?"
She looked at him and nodded, then turned back, started the machine, and they lifted off. They found the train within a few minutes, steaming along on a relatively flat, open section of track.
"This is the place to intercept him," Nick said. "The wind here isn't so irregular that you'll have trouble holding us steady. Just match his speed somewhere over the middle of the train. With the noise of that steam engine, he probably won't even know we're here."
A bullet smacked against the windshield as he spoke, creating a spider web of cracks. "Guess I was wrong," Carter shouted. "Don't worry about it. Just hold it steady. It's me he wants, anyway."
Carter unstrapped himself and went below. A thick rope ladder hung in a coil from the bulkhead. He brought it down, moored it to the floor of the chopper, then slid open the big side door and threw it out. It landed on the train below, twisting back and forth in the chopper's wash.
He checked the Luger, took off the safety, and stuffed it in his pants. Then he pulled it out again quickly. He wanted to make sure it drew without a hitch. He'd been hampered before by as minuscule a thing as a loose thread, and he wanted to make damn sure it didn't happen again.
He climbed out on the ladder and hesitated for a split second, looking down at the swaying car. This was the dangerous part. From here until he lit on the car's roof, he was a sitting duck. There was no place to hide, and with only one usable arm he couldn't return fire.
Taking a deep breath, he started down as fast as he could.
Kobelev fired a steady barrage into the air, but the ladder whipped back and forth, making Carter a poor target. He was halfway down before Kobelev was able to hit anything, and then it was only sheer luck that a bullet tore through the side of the ladder, shredding most of its strands. It held for a second, then collapsed, leaving Carter dangling by one hand, his feet swinging wildly looking for rungs that were no longer there.
Kobelev increased the density of his fire pattern. He had an automatic and was splayed out on the top of the coal heap behind the engine.
A bullet split the sleeve of Carter's parka. Then Kobelev stopped and took careful aim. In spite of the noise and the constant freezing wind, Carter felt sweat under his arms as the gunsight zeroed in on him. This time Kobelev wouldn't miss. Carter glanced down. Fifteen feet to the train. He'd never make the jump without falling off.
Then suddenly the copter dipped forward. His first impression was that Roberta had made some sort of error, as he came hurtling toward the car roof. He landed hard but managed to stay aboard by clinging to the rope.
Then he realized Roberta's plan had been much more daring. Judging the distance between the copter's rotor and Kobelev, she had tried to dip the rotor enough to foul his shot. It was a brave move, but foolish. At that angle the rotor's blades were no longer able to work enough air to keep her aloft. The chopper came down on its nose with a crunch. The rotor blades whacked against the coal tender and sheered. It bounced its wheels on the ear's top just over Carter's head, then slipped oft the train altogether. It landed on its top and rolled alongside the track for several hundred feet, finally ending on its side with its tail pointed crazily toward the sun. Carter watched for several anxious seconds, but it lay there inert, no explosion, no flames.
Kobelev had started shooting again, this time with a vengeance; bullets filled the air over Carter's head. Carter rolled over, brought out the Luger, but remembering he had only a few cartridges left, he held his fire.
In a few seconds the stream of gunfire abruptly stopped. Carter heard the telltale clicking of a spent magazine. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. He pulled himself to his feet, swaying to keep his balance on the speeding train, and started forward.
Kobelev was thirty feet in front of him, his gun leveled as though it still held bullets. Behind him, Cynthia lay curled on the floor of the engine cabin, staring dumbly at the passing countryside, the events of the last few hours having reduced her to catatonia.
"Give it up, Kobelev!" Carter yelled.
"Where's my daughter?" Kobelev yelled back. "What have you done with Tatiana?"
"She tried to kill me."
"So you killed her instead. You're going to die for that, Carter." Kobelev pulled the trigger. The gun discharged, the bullet striking the Luger along the barrel and knocking it out of Carter's hand. It flew back off the train and Carter stared after it dumbfounded.
"You thought my gun was empty? Did you honestly think I'd be so foolish as to leave myself without a weap
on?"
Kobelev took careful aim, this time at Carter's midsection. There was no time to jump aside, no time to do anything. He pulled the trigger. The gun failed to fire. He pulled again and again. It clicked harmlessly.
"I'd say you jammed it," said Carter.
Angrily Kobelev threw the weapon. "I'll tear you to pieces with my bare hands," Kobelev shouted, scrambling up the coal pile and jumping the short distance to the first car.
They now stood face to face, eye to eye, legs slightly bent and separated to keep themselves from falling.
"You're done," shouted Carter.
They took a few steps closer, like wary heavyweights feeling each other out, both wanting to inflict damage but neither wanting to sustain any.
Meanwhile, the train sped on. They were coming to a bridge. The timberwork overhead looked as though it would pass within a few feet of the car roofs, much less than the six or seven feet necessary to clear a standing man. Off to the left was the froth of a tumbling stream, not yet frozen in mid-October.
Carter watched the bridge drawing closer. Then he looked at Kobelev's face. Eyes narrowed, jaw set in grim determination to avenge his daughter's death.
Kobelev closed in, his hands circling in front of him like claws with which to grab Carter and throw him from the train. Behind him the bridge timbers rushed at them. At the very last moment, Carter dived onto the car top.
"You can't fool me, Carter…" Kobelev's words were cut off by the sickening thud of dull wood against bone. He was slammed facedown on the car, the back of his head little more than a raw flap of skin. Carter, who lay only a few feet away, reached out to hold the body, but before he could get a grip, the vibration of the train moved it to the edge, and it slipped out of his grasp. Kobelev hit the ties below and rolled into the icy froth of the river.
Then the river had its way, tumbling and smashing the body against rocks, burying it in torrents of foam. The train took a sharp curve around a bend of mountain and the river disappeared. The cars pitched far to the outside, and Carter realized the train was traveling too fast for the grade. The angle of the cars was so great that he had to hang on to the roof beam by his fingertips.
