by Tom Wood
Victor followed him, moving down the aisle while picturing the layout of the train – seven carriages, three of which were seating, one dining car, with the rear three housing sleeping compartments. The assassin had entered the first of the three sleeping carriages. Victor’s own cabin was in the first-class carriage at the rear of the train.
Which particular cabin would be a difficult thing for an enemy to find out, but no more difficult than ascertaining his whereabouts in the first place. He had to assume an assassin who had tracked him down to this particular train would know.
The reconnaissance had not only been to locate Victor but to make sure he was not in his cabin at the present time. The assassin could then enter and wait for Victor’s return, for the purposes of both surprise and privacy.
A simple enough ambush, but an effective one if executed well. Had Victor not identified the threat, the chances of dealing with it would have dropped by an exponential degree if he first became aware of it upon returning to the cabin.
He slowed his pace when he reached the narrow corridor to the right of the line of sleeping compartments. He wanted to give the assassin more time to prepare his ambush. A false sense of readiness would work in Victor’s favour. Overconfidence was a killer.
Victor’s cabin was the third of four occupying the first-class carriage. It was not his preference to have cabins either side of him, but his options had been limited at the time of booking.
He pictured the interior of the cabin: a comfortable space in which to travel but a confined box in which to ambush someone. A padded bench occupied the wall on the right perpendicular to the doorway, which converted to a cot to sleep on. There was space underneath it for luggage. A separated water closet was opposite the bench, with a door that opened inward. The cabin’s door opened outward and to the right.
The space for luggage beneath the bench could accommodate a person lying down, and was low enough that they would be hidden from view. That would be Victor’s preferred strike point, but only if he was there to kill a civilian. A fellow professional would check such a space before settling down to sleep.
The next logical point would be the water closet. Due to the inward-opening door there was insufficient room for an attack, but these deluxe cabins had their own shower cubicles. They were tiny, even for a man of Victor’s leanness, but would enable the assassin the advantages of standing upright and being forewarned of the target’s presence, first by the cabin door opening and then their imminent appearance as the water closet door opened. A knife attack would be next to impossible to defend against when employed in those confines with the benefit of surprise, while a gun could be aimed in anticipation and no shot could miss at such a range.
Even taking away the assassin’s advantage of surprise did not negate the danger. With a gun of his own, Victor could open the bathroom door and expose only his hand and part of his arm. There would be no way of cleaning up such a mess or removing the body, however, and a shot-dead assassin would disrupt the narrative of Fletcher’s subsequent accidental death. Chinese Secret Service would never believe the two to be unrelated.
Victor opened the door to his cabin and stepped inside. To his left, no more than three feet away and separated by only two inches of aluminium and plasterboard was a man who wanted to kill him.
He closed the door behind him, blunting the rattling noise of the train that was amplified in the narrow corridor outside. He knew the assassin hiding in the shower cubicle had heard the door open and close, and maybe even detected the sound of Victor’s footfalls on the cabin floor. It was a little warmer inside and the air was still.
He checked under the bench seat because he was thorough, unsurprised to find the space empty. Beneath the cabin window on the opposite wall was a small table on which rested complimentary snacks, sachets for hot beverages and cutlery. Victor took the knife and fork from their napkin and held one in each hand in downward ice-pick grips – the fork in the right; knife in the left.
He stood before the door to the water closet.
The assassin with greying hair was six feet tall. Standing in the shower cubicle put him about one metre from the door, therefore if he had a gun he would not have his arms extended, since that would place the gun far too close to the target, making the shot more difficult and increasing the risk of being disarmed. The gun would be near to the assassin, secondary hand supporting the primary from beneath the grip. At point-blank range it wasn’t necessary to aim, so the muzzle could be as low as chest height. Victor was the taller man, so the muzzle would be at an angle to shoot him in the heart or head. Victor expected the assassin would go for the heart. Less chance of the bullet over-penetrating. Even a low-powered handgun round could blow a hole out of the back of the skull. The bullet might then go on to break a window or bury itself in a wall, leaving behind more evidence, along with the blood, bone and brain matter.
Aiming for the heart meant there was a safe area of space up to four feet from the floor.
Victor bent his knees and used the fork to twist the door catch.
He lowered himself further, took a breath, released it, and powered forward, knocking the door open with his left shoulder and twisting into the water closet as he sank even lower, below four feet, whipping out his right hand to throw the fork as distraction to give him an extra split-second to cover the distance and drive the knife into the assassin’s neck.
The fork struck the waterproofed wall and clattered on the cubicle floor, rattling against the plughole guard.
No assassin with greying hair.
Victor rose and turned, realising his mistake. The reconnaissance hadn’t been reconnaissance at all. It had been a lure. The man with greying hair had wanted to be spotted and followed.
Victor had done the hard work for him. He had trapped himself.
He darted out of the water closet in time to see the assassin enter the cabin, closing the door behind him as a drawn pistol rose to fire.
FIVE
The assassin with greying hair had been smart to trick Victor, but he had made a mistake with his weapon. It was a long-barrelled Glock automatic made longer still with a suppressor. At such close confines all that length slowed down target acquisition. The shorter the gun, the faster it could be aimed.
By the time the muzzle had swung Victor’s way he was close enough to disarm it, striking the assassin’s inner wrist to shock and weaken the hand’s grip before batting the weapon free. The gun bounced off the padded bench and skidded beneath the cabin’s table.
The assassin slipped Victor’s subsequent knife thrust and directed his momentum into the closed door. The swaying motion of the train aided the stumble and Victor had to drop the knife to use the palm as a brake and pivot to spin back around in time to ward off an elbow meant for the back of his skull.
Though a little shorter and a little older, the assassin was the stronger of the two. His free left hand hammered into Victor’s flank, compressing ribs and driving the air from his lungs to interrupt any attempt to grapple, forcing him to sidestep away from the power of the blow and the intense pain.
There was no room to create distance and give himself an instant to recover, even without the unsteady floor that fought his precarious balance. The assassin took advantage of this and launched a barrage of strikes.
Victor hunkered over with his left hand gripping the back of his own neck so the folded arm guarded the side of his face and head, whilst his right hand held on to his left wrist, forearm creating a shield across his lower face. The assassin tried to punch and elbow through these defences but struck only solid skull, damaging his own knuckles more than he did Victor’s head.
The assassin tried an uppercut – the only way to get past Victor’s guard – but it was an inevitable punch that Victor knew was coming. He blocked it by snapping his elbows together, catching the fist between them, but releasing it a split-second later because the move left him defenceless to the assassin’s free hand.
He didn’t attack
with it, however, instead scooping up the dropped butter knife that had landed on the padded bench within his reach.
A combat knife with a razor edge would have caused Victor to dodge away, but a slash to the inner wrist or neck from the blunted blade would fail to cut deep enough to sever even the most delicate of arteries. Only a direct thrust delivered with huge force posed any real risk, and this was the option the assassin chose, aiming at Victor’s groin.
The blade glinted in a fast upwards arc. Unconcerned about the knife’s edges, Victor used his forearm to intercept the attack, only realising it had been a feint to open his guard when the assassin body-slammed him backwards.
Victor hit the small table with his lower back while his upper body continued backwards until his head smacked off the cabin’s window. He saw stars and his senses faltered. He still had the instincts to kick out at his attacker, catching the assassin’s inner thigh with a heel before he could exploit Victor’s vulnerability.
A grunt escaped the assassin’s lips – the first noise he had made – and hearing it energised Victor enough to propel himself forward and land an elbow.
It hit the jawbone and the assassin’s head twisted away with another grunt.
Vision blurry, but knowing he had the advantage, Victor snapped out some fast strikes to stop the assassin recovering.
The flurry worked, forcing the assassin on the defensive, enabling Victor to position himself to get his enemy where he wanted him – overwhelmed and concentrating on blocking so he wouldn’t see the chokehold coming until it was too late.
Four carriages away, Leonard Fletcher had swallowed a piece of well-done steak far too large for him to have any reasonable chance of swallowing it. Within twenty seconds a concerned diner, having heard Fletcher choking, pulled the emergency alarm. In reaction the driver deactivated the accelerator and applied the brakes. The train was old and some of its mechanics outdated, but it was maintained to impeccable standards. Metal screeched and sparks brightened the night and several hundred tons of moving train rapidly decelerated.
The sudden change in momentum took Victor from his feet and he fell through the open doorway to the water closet, where he collided with the sink, before collapsing to the floor.
The assassin hit the doorway, and only fell to his knees. He ignored Victor, prone on the water closet floor, and went for the fallen gun, now sitting nearby after sliding out and into view from under the table.
To reach it, he turned away from Victor, who threw himself through the doorway and at the back of the assassin, who twisted over as they tipped forward, bringing the gun round to fire.
Victor grabbed the suppressor before it could be aimed at his face and for a moment they remained a frozen tangle on the cabin floor as they struggled for control of the weapon. The assassin might be stronger, but Victor was above him and had gravity on his side.
No stalemate could endure for ever, and Victor felt the assassin starting to weaken beneath him. While he was breathing hard from the exertion, the assassin was gasping.
The assassin’s arms began to shake. His face reddened. Soon, Victor thought.
His enemy knew it too, and his eyes, until then staring unblinking at Victor’s own, darted to the left, then to the right – looking, searching.
They widened. The assassin let go of the gun and his arm snapped out while Victor tore the weapon free from the remaining hand. He twisted the gun around, taking the grip in his palm, index finger slipping inside the trigger guard, angling the muzzle down at the assassin’s face, and —
A sickening wave of agony exploded through him as the assassin drove the butter knife into his thigh. The blunted blade didn’t penetrate far into his flesh, but was well-aimed and struck the femoral nerve.
The shock and incredible pain made Victor recoil and throw himself off his enemy, his central nervous system overloaded in a maelstrom of electrical signals, all thoughts of the gun and killing the threat overridden by base instinct to flee.
He realised the gun had come out of his hand as he scrambled to his feet, the explosion of pain short-lived and dissipating.
Fatigue meant the assassin was no faster to his feet and they faced one another across the small cabin as an announcement came over the public address system. There was less than two metres between the two men. The assassin still held the knife in hand, the blade now smeared with an inch of Victor’s blood.
The gun was between them, but closer to Victor. If he went for it, he would grab it before the assassin could, but would Victor be fast enough to angle it and shoot before he was stabbed again?
He saw the assassin was asking himself the same question.
The train slowed to a stop.
‘Do you speak Russian?’ Victor asked.
The assassin didn’t answer, but his eyes said yes.
‘So you understood the announcement. They’re asking for anyone with medical knowledge to go to the dining car. Someone’s in trouble. They need help.’
The assassin didn’t respond. He looked from the gun to Victor’s eyes and back again.
‘That’s why the train is stopping,’ Victor continued. ‘The authorities will be coming, police. Do you want to end up in a Russian jail? I don’t.’
‘What are you saying?’
The assassin’s Russian was excellent, but Victor recognised the German accent behind it.
‘Whatever your out was, you didn’t count on police being on the train when you tried to slip away. If you try and get off before they arrive, there’s snow-covered wilderness in every direction. It’s sub-zero out there. You’ll die long before you make it to safety.’
‘What’s it to you if I freeze to death or end up in prison?’ the German asked.
‘You’re a professional,’ Victor said. ‘You don’t hate me. You’ve been hired to kill me. I’m a job. That’s all.’
‘So?’
‘So the job’s over. Because even if you’re the one to walk out of this cabin instead of me, you’re going nowhere. I’m not worth a lifetime in prison and I’m not worth freezing to death for. You’ve failed, so give it up and we can both walk away.’
There was no pause to deliberate because Victor was right and they both knew it.
‘How do you propose we do this?’ the German asked, civil and polite – two colleagues discussing a work problem.
‘I reach behind me and open the door,’ Victor explained. ‘Neither of us will act then. We don’t want witnesses.’
‘Correct,’ the German agreed with a nod.
‘Then I’ll kick the gun under the bench and go. Which gives you the chance to take your weapon back and come after me, of course. But by then I’ll be out in the corridor with CCTV watching.’
He saw the German thinking about this for a moment before he shrugged, accepting the fact he could pursue Victor and finish his contract, but not with any hope of getting away with it clean.
‘So, we’re in agreement?’ Victor asked.
‘Okay, I accept your proposal,’ the German said. ‘There’s no reason we cannot behave like gentlemen, like professionals.’
‘My sentiments.’
Without taking his gaze from the German, Victor reached his left hand behind his back to work the door open. Cool air and noise rushed inside.
Victor waited, because whatever the assassin claimed, he wasn’t about to trust his word. When Victor heard voices in the carriage as other passengers responded to the announcement by coming out of their cabins for more news, he kicked the gun behind the bench.
A smile played on the German’s lips, because maybe he had been debating whether to shoot Victor anyway and take his chances with the CCTV, but he wasn’t going to risk eyewitnesses too.
The German said, ‘I’ll see you again soon.’
Victor said, ‘I have no doubt,’ and backed out of the cabin.
SIX
Krieger watched his target disappear through the doorway and out of sight. He did not pursue him. There were cameras and witne
sses and a host of other problems not conducive to a successful completion of his contract. The mission had been unsuccessful. Chasing a lost cause was beneath the German. There was no dignified way of running after a departing bus. More than that, they had an agreement. Krieger was a man of his word. An insignificant degree of honour when considering the nature of his profession, he knew, but humanity was not a binary equation.
He waited in the target’s cabin until the train stopped at a small rural station to allow paramedics access. Krieger took his leave.
Krieger disposed of the Glock and stared at the moon, bright in the clear night sky, for answers. In return, it was silent. A wise decision, even for a celestial body.
He was not sorry to get rid of the pistol. A decent all-round handgun, but it offended him with its very being. Russia was not his primary field of operations. He had acquired the Glock in country from a fixer in the suburbs of Moscow. Krieger had requested a compact pistol as he would be operating on a train. He would be at close quarters. The fixer had assured him he could fulfil such requirements. The fixer had lied or had been incompetent. Krieger couldn’t tell which was the case because he had strangled the fixer to death for the failure. As a man of his word, the assassin expected – demanded – the same from others.
That failure had cost Krieger. The contract would have been fulfilled otherwise. He would have shot the target in that orchestrated instance of surprise, neat and simple. Instead, the split-second delay had been enough to save the man’s life.
Krieger, who believed in the hand of fate, had a hard time rationalising such interference, but at the same time took comfort instead of anger. If that was to be his script, there was little he could do to alter it.
There would be other opportunities to exploit, he knew. Until then, he had another contract to pursue.
He tasted something both sweet and bitter. Salt. Glucose. Iron. He touched the tip of his tongue to the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of orange spittle behind. Blood. He had a cut in his mouth.
