Templar Cross

by Paul Christopher

  “Colonel Holliday?” said Columbo. He had a sandpapery voice of the kind that usually meant a lot of booze and cigarettes. It was obviously American with the flat tones of the Midwest. Illinois or Kansas maybe, but with an odd twang. His expression was tense and wary.

  “You must be Czinner,” answered Holliday.

  “In the flesh,” the man in the grimy trench coat said. He held out his hand. There was a fat signet ring on the third finger. A West Point graduation ring. Holliday shook the extended hand.

  “What a cool jewel you got from your school,” said Holliday, looking down at the chunky gold ring and the large ruby-colored stone in the center. The man looked puzzled for an instant. Then he got it.

  “Oh, yeah, you mean the ring,” he said and nodded. He twirled the heavy gold band loosely on the finger. “Lost quite a bit of weight since then.”

  “How are we doing?” Holliday asked.

  “Could be better,” said Czinner. “Those Czechs, Pesek and his wife, arrived in Venice today. We spotted them at Treviso Airport coming off a SkyEurope flight from Prague. They don’t know they’ve been made by us, but we’re not taking any chances. We’re assuming there’s a contract out on you and your people. We’re getting you off the train early.”

  “Where?”

  Czinner looked around, clearly nervous.

  “We can’t talk here,” said Czinner. “Let’s get you back on board the train.” Czinner looked around the platform again uneasily. The couple on the bench were still completely self-involved. The janitor had gone. Nothing else moved. Brake lines vented. There was an echoing laugh far away and then silence.

  They climbed aboard at the first available set of stairs. Already blue-uniformed train men were coming down on the platform to look for stragglers. Czinner and Holliday walked down the train, going from car to car.

  They went through all three of the ornate, empty dining rooms, already laid out for the à la carte breakfast, crown-shaped and crisply starched linen napkins marking each place, silver gleaming in subdued light, the crystal bud vases in the center of each table waiting for their fresh flowers. Checking his ticket, the man in the trench coat eventually found his compartment.

  “Here we go, old man,” said Czinner, sliding open the door. He stood aside to let Holliday enter.

  “After you,” said Holliday, deferring to the rumpled man. Czinner shrugged and stepped into the small room. Holliday followed.

  The compartment was a half-sized version of the suite Caruso had arranged for them. A single bunk had been made up from the couchette and a folding table was set up beside the window. Czinner slid between the bunk and the table, then reached up and pulled down the roller blind. He turned back to Holliday.

  “Can’t be too careful,” he said. He sat down on the bed and patted a place beside him on the tightly tucked-in blanket. “Have a seat,” said Czinner. He dug around in the pockets of his trench coat and pulled out a Trenitalia schedule and a folded map. He laid both out on the little folding table.

  Holliday sat down beside him. Caruso was absolutely right; there was actually an honest to goodness mustard stain on the man’s Windsor-knotted tie and the trench coat smelled of mothballs. His cologne on the other hand was Roger & Gallet. Holliday would have expected something like Old Spice.

  Czinner took a fat, expensive- looking ballpoint pen out of his inside pocket, then flipped open the schedule to a turned-down page. He found what he was looking for on the map.

  “This is Bologna,” he said, pointing with his pen to a dot on the map. “And this is the main line to the Po River, about fifty kilometers north of us. There is a town called Pontelagoscuro, about six thousand people, a nothing place but it has a railway bridge across the river.” Czinner paused, looking over at Holliday.

  “Are you with me, Colonel?”

  “I’m with you,” Holliday said and nodded.

  There was a piercing whistle from outside and the train began to move and gather speed. Czinner went back to the map.

  “At the speed we travel it’ll take us about forty-five minutes. The bridge is for high-speed Eurostars and slower locals like this one. We fixed the signals at the bridge to read double red so the train will stop to let the Eurostar go by first, coming from the opposite direction. It will take them at least ten minutes to figure out that the Eurostar isn’t coming and that the signal is wrong. That gives us all time to get off the train.”

  “What then?”

  “There’s a footpath down to the river. The terrain is quite flat and the banks aren’t steep. Under the bridge there will be a boat waiting. The boat will take us upstream to the town of Ferrara. From there we’ve got a plane laid on to get you into Switzerland.”

  “Very efficient,” said Holliday. “I’m impressed, especially on such short notice.”

  “It’s what we do,” said Czinner with a shrug. He clicked the ballpoint pen. Something flashed. The lights flickered and went out for a second as the train slid under a faulty catenary wire and Czinner made his move. Holliday moved first.

  He’d been tensed and waiting for it. As Czinner backhanded the pen around in a sweeping arc Holliday lifted his left arm to block the lunging thrust to his throat. At the same time his right hand came around, palm up, the heel of his thumb catching Czinner under the chin.

  The man’s head snapped back and his legs came up, smashing into the underside of the table. Holliday twisted around, caught Czinner’s right arm under his own elbow and wrenched it back until he heard bone snap. Czinner screeched and Holliday used the same elbow to crack him across the mouth and nose, silencing him with a gout of blood and broken teeth.

  Barely pausing, Holliday gripped Czinner’s right wrist and bent it backward at an impossible angle. Bone snapped again and the lethal pen dropped from the killer’s nerveless fingers. Holliday scooped it up as Czinner struggled beneath the trench coat with his left hand.

  The false agent finally managed to extract a flat automatic pistol from the coat, fumbling clumsily with the safety. Holliday didn’t hesitate. Using exactly the same kind of backhanded sweep that Czinner had tried on him, Holliday drove the needle tip of the hypodermic pen into his attacker’s throat. Czinner instantly began to convulse. His feet drummed on the floor and his arms began to flap and jerk.

  His eyes bugged and stared as his throat went into spasm. He foamed at the mouth, making horrible gagging sounds. Finally his back arched and his swollen tongue thrust out between his lips. His entire body fluttered on the bunk in a final spasm and he died, the skin of his face flushed in a grotesque parody of rosy health, his eyes wide open, staring into eternity. Curare or strychnine or something like it. Just like the killer who’d attacked him at West Point. Holliday looked down at Czinner. If his reflexes had been a fraction of a second slower, it would have been him instead.

  Holliday reached out and took the automatic out of Czinner’s dead grip, then put it in the pocket of his own jacket. He slipped the West Point ring off the dead man’s finger and dropped it into his pocket along with the gun.

  “You won’t be needing this where you’re going.”

  There was a discreet tapping at the door. Holliday jumped.

  “Biglietto, signore,” a voice outside the door said quietly. For some reason the conductor assumed he was Italian.

  “Momento,” said Holliday. He turned and dug frantically in the pockets of the dead man’s trench coat. He found the blue and green folder and turned back to the door. He switched off the overhead light and cracked the door an inch or two, then slipped the ticket folder through the opening.

  “Prego,” said the conductor. There was a tearing sound as the conductor ripped off the appropriate flimsy, and then it was slipped back through the crack. “Conserva il biglietto fino alla fine del viaggio, signore,” he added.

  Keep your ticket until the trip is over? Something like that.

  “Prego,” answered Holliday.

  “Buona serata, signore,” the conductor said politely.
Brain frozen, Holliday took a guess.

  “Buona serata,” he answered.

  Holliday slid the door closed, squeezed his eyes shut, then held his breath, praying hard.

  The conductor moved off down the passageway. Holliday began to breathe again. He stayed that way for a long moment, back against the door, standing in the darkness, Czinner’s corpse a dark shadow on the bunk. According to the schedule the train got into Venice at about three in the morning. The passengers wouldn’t be awakened until the calls for breakfast beginning at seven, before they began their day of sightseeing in the ancient city of canals and gondolas. Seven hours or so between then and now. Not enough of a head start but it would have to do. He flipped the light on again. Gritting his teeth, he went through Czinner’s pockets more carefully, looking for anything he could use.

  He had two passports, one a black and gold U.S. passport in the name of Peter Paul Czinner, forty-two, born in Chicago, Illinois. The picture had been overstamped and was clearly out of date, but at a quick glance the body on the bed would have passed.

  The other one was a Vatican Diplomatic Passport for someone named John Pargetter of Toronto, Canada, which explained the odd twang. According to the passport Pargetter was an official Vatican photographer. The face in the photo definitely belonged to the dead man on the bed. Father Thomas again. It made sense. They seemed to be everywhere, so why not in the U.S. embassy? Somehow they’d found out about Caruso’s operation and the John Pargetter character on the bed had been dispatched to intercept Czinner and take his place. It had almost worked.

  In addition to the passports there was a billfold with ten thousand euros in large-denomination bills, a single key on a worn leather ring, a folding Buck knife with bone handles and a brass tang, and a Gemtech suppressor for the Walther P22 semiautomatic. The dead man wore a religious medal around his neck. A bald, bearded and emaciated St. Nicholas in gold. Holliday smiled sourly. Someone had a sense of humor. St. Nicholas was the patron saint of military intelligence.

  Holliday took the Buck knife, the silencer, the key and the billfold. He left the medal where it was. He stood and looked at his watch. They’d reach the bridge in less than twenty minutes. He had to wake the others quickly. They were running out of time. He stood, turned out the light a second time and went to the door. He slid it open and looked out. The passage was empty, the overhead lights glowing dimly. He slid the door open fully, slipped out of the compartment, then closed the door firmly behind him.

  He headed down the train, moving softly down the corridor, then went through into the next car. A steward was dozing in his little alcove across from the toilet. Holliday eased by and continued on. The next car was his. The door to Mario’s little cubicle was closed. Holliday went down the corridor to bedroom seven, praying that Tidyman had remembered to leave the door unlocked. He tugged the brass handle and breathed a sigh of relief as the door slid open easily. He stepped into the room, turning to shut the door behind him.

  Time stopped.

  The violet-colored night-light in the ceiling of the compartment was on. A figure in dark blue coveralls was crouched on the floor, rummaging through a suitcase. The janitor with the broom on the train platform in Bologna. Emil Tidyman lay on the bed, eyes shut, a rubbery, gaping wound in his slit throat still seeping blood into the already soaking sheets. Murdered in his sleep by a thief in the night. He never had a chance.

  The man in the coveralls rose up, turning, a heavy rubber-handled commando knife in his hand. Holliday stared, horrified. It was Rafik Alhazred, haggard and drawn, a wild, desperate look in his eye. He lunged forward.

  “Wad al haram!” Alhazred hissed, the big knife flashing down.

  Years before, a Ranger drill sergeant and instructor with the unlikely and unfortunate name of Francis Marion had told Holliday that only an idiot talked in the middle of a knife fight and only an idiot would try to stab you like Anthony Perkins in Psycho.

  Holliday reacted exactly the way Francis Marion had trained him. He kicked Alhazred in the kneecap, kneed him in the groin and used the flat of his palm to crush the cartilage of his nose.

  Alhazred’s knife glanced off Holliday’s forearm, gashing through the fabric of Holliday’s suit jacket, drawing blood, and then Alhazred was on the floor, facedown. Holliday barely noticed, continuing the attack.

  He stamped hard on Alhazred’s wrist, disarming him, then dropped his knee across the back of Alhazred’s neck, breaking it with a distinct wet cracking sound. Holliday stood up, his breath coming in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his arm.

  “You cowardly son of a bitch,” said Holliday slowly. “You killed my friend.” He sagged against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.

  The train slowed and then came to a lurching halt. They had reached the railway bridge across the Po.

  Holliday tried the latch on the partition door between the two compartments. It was locked. He hammered on it.

  “Rafi!”

  There was a pause and then a groan.

  “Who is it?” Rafi’s voice.

  “It’s Doc! Open up!”

  “What time is it?” Peggy’s sleepy voice this time.

  “Open the damned door!”

  There was a sigh and then another groan and finally the sound of movement. The partition door bolt slid back and the door opened. Rafi stood there, bleary-eyed, but still dressed. Peggy, tousle-haired, was sitting up on the couchette behind him. Rafi’s face was full of sleep but he finally took in Holliday and the blood dripping from his arm.

  “What the hell?” And then he saw the scene in the other compartment. “Dear God,” the archaeologist whispered. “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Holliday. He stepped into their compartment and shut the door. “Tidyman’s dead. We have to get off the train. Now.”

  “But . . . ,” Peggy began, still not understanding.

  “Don’t argue, kiddo—there’s no time.” He opened the passageway door and looked out. Empty. Everyone was asleep. Through the passage windows he could see yellow arc lights glowing, reflecting off the dark still waters of the river just ahead. Farther upstream, past a sleeping little industrial park at the edge of a small town, there was a low-slung bridge for cars and trucks. The river looked about a thousand feet across. He turned back into the compartment.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Still half asleep, Rafi and Peggy followed as Holliday went down the corridor to the door between the cars. He pulled it open and stepped out onto the little platform. Mario had awakened as the train halted and come out to see what was happening. He’d put down the steps and climbed down to see why the train had come to an unscheduled stop.

  Mario saw Holliday and then Rafi and Peggy crowd in behind him. The steward shook his head and came forward, making a little pushing gesture with his hands as his shoes crunched on the gravel roadbed.

  “No, no, please, signore, prego. Remain on the train. There is no cause for alarm. We have only stopped for the segnale di ferroviario, how do you say, the train signal, yes? Back on the train, signore, please.”

  Then he saw the blood dripping down from Holliday’s arm and paled.

  Holliday fished the Walther out of his pocket and pointed it down at the uniformed man.

  “Signore?” the steward whispered.

  “Back up,” said Holliday, keeping the gun up as he came down the steps. The steward did as he was told, his eyes glued to the flat black pistol. Holliday waved Rafi and Peggy down with his free hand. He lowered the gun, keeping it at his side as they descended.

  Holliday looked left along the train. The bridge was built with two side-by-side spans, each with its own track, the two tracks converging at a switch point and signal just in front of the waiting locomotive. The signal showed two red lights, one above the other. Suddenly the top light went out and the bottom light changed to green. The riverbank was two hundred feet beyond that. The train whistle blared.

  “Mario, I want you to listen to me,
” said Holliday, his voice firm but calm.

  “Yes, signore.”

  “I want you to get back on the train and go to your compartment.”

  “Yes, signore,” Mario said and nodded.

  “Stay there. If I see you again, or if the train stops or if anyone comes after us, I will kill you, capisce?”

  “Yes, signore.”

  “Good. Do it.”

  “Yes, signore,” agreed the steward fervently.

  Holliday stood aside and let Mario pass. The whistle screamed again. Mario pulled in the steps and slammed the door. Holliday looked up at the train. Right now Mario was probably making a beeline for the conductor.

  “What do we do now?” Rafi said.

  “Run,” said Holliday.

  He led the way, pelting down the roadbed, heading for the river, trapped in the yellow glare of the industrial lights beside the twin bridge spans. Beside the running figures the train began to move. The whistle sounded for a third time and directly ahead Holliday saw the signal change to double green. Still no alarm. The train began to gather speed and Holliday felt a surge of hope. Maybe they were going to get out of this after all. The locomotive reached the bridge and the train began to thunder over it.

  They reached the first bridge supports and Holliday saw the narrow footpath in the dirt between the twin spans, just as the false Czinner had described it. Holliday paused, hands on knees, panting as Rafi and Peggy caught up with him.

  “What are we doing?” Rafi insisted. “I thought you were meeting Czinner. Now Tidyman’s been killed.”

  “Czinner’s dead, too, or at least a man posing as Czinner. He was one of the priest’s crew. He was an impostor.”