Dine and Die on the Danube Express

by Peter King

  “How did you get the train to stop here?” asked Kramer in a conversational tone.

  “A length of rail is tied across the tracks,” Conti said carelessly. “It was easy to estimate just how far ahead of it the train would stop, then I simply added the length of the train and that gave the position that this coach now occupies.”

  “You have a boat on the river, I presume,” Kramer said. I presumed he was keeping Conti talking until he saw some chance—but of doing what?

  “More than one boat,” Conti said airily, “just to confuse any pursuit. Now, can I persuade you to push that coffin-shaped crate toward this door?”

  I saw the look of surprise appear on Kramer’s face. “Sure you don’t want the manuscript, too?” he asked.

  “Not me,” was the prompt reply. “You two can take it if you like and say I took it.”

  Neither Kramer nor I moved, and Conti shook his head.

  “I’m still waiting for you to push that crate,” he said, but neither of us responded or spoke.

  “A kneecap shattered by a bullet is very painful,” Conti said, “and often it never heals.”

  He held out the automatic and took aim at my right knee. “If the first shot doesn’t get you to push that crate over there, the second will.”

  There was a long silence. Nobody moved. Conti let out an audible sigh. “Too bad … very well.” His finger curled around the trigger …

  A beep-beep-beep sounded. In the quiet coach, it seemed loud. None of us moved, then Conti lowered the gun. It was the cell phone at Kramer’s belt.

  If it had not been so dire a situation, it would have been comical. I could almost see the thoughts nickering through Conti’s head as if they were appearing on a screen. His first thought would be to tell Kramer not to answer the phone—but then someone would be alerted and a hunt for Kramer initiated. In the confines of the train, that would not take long; in fact, it would take very little time because I recalled Thomas’s words that the equipment in the communication center showed which doors and windows were open, anywhere in the train.

  On the other hand, if he permitted Kramer to answer, Conti had to risk the use of a code word or even a hurried warning. I had a personal interest in his thought processes, as the consequence in the latter event could involve my kneecap.

  Conti must have reviewed both alternatives more than once. He made his decision. He stepped closer to me, took a new aim at my kneecap, and said to Kramer, “Answer it. Answer only with one word at a time.”

  Kramer looked him in the eye, unhooked the phone and put it to his ear. “Kramer,” he said in a voice remarkably close to normal. There was a pause, and he said, “Yes.” After another pause, he said, “No,” and immediately closed the connection. As he replaced the phone on his belt, he looked defiantly at Conti.

  “Good,” said Conti, who had probably been expecting more resistance. He kept the automatic leveled directly at my knee, which had already attracted more attention today than either of Magda Malescu’s. To Kramer, he said, “Push the crate to the door.”

  Kramer resisted to the last second, then did as he was told. The crate was not as heavy as it looked. The vines it contained could not weigh much. Conti waved the gun, telling Kramer to back away. It also took the focus of attention away from my knee, for which I was profoundly grateful.

  Conti went to the container that had been the source of the bodiless voices and ostensibly held artifacts for the museum. The facility with which he opened it one-handed indicated that he had probably packed it. He reached inside, pulled out a tiny tape recorder, and thrust it into his pocket. He reached in the container again and took out a nylon net sack with a length of nylon cord attached.

  Still keeping us covered with the gun, he draped the sack around the crate of vines and tied the other end of the nylon cord around a handle of the door. It was obvious that he had intended to have an accomplice, for these tasks had to be performed with one hand. He tugged at the cord a couple of times to make sure it was secure, then straightened up and, without taking his eyes from us, pushed the crate with one foot until it teetered on the edge of the doorway.

  Holding the frame tightly with his free hand, still covering Kramer and me with the gun in the other hand, he leaned out and took some quick looks down. He was evidently lining up the position of a boat and the bank of the Danube far below.

  He seemed dissatisfied, paused, and tried again. “Just a minute or two more,” he reassured us, and I presumed that he was mentally cursing the local help and its tardiness.

  The hiatus that followed put pressure on all of us. Conti held the gun unwaveringly, pointed in our direction. Kramer tried to shuffle sideways very slowly, evidently with the idea of making it impossible for Conti to keep us both covered at the same time, but Conti saw it and impatiently waved him back.

  I was relieved that my knee was no longer such an attraction, but a bullet anywhere else was not much more desirable, and my body was beginning to ache with the tension of keeping still.

  Kramer’s cell phone beeped again.

  Conti made up his mind more swiftly this time. “Tell them you’ll call back. Say nothing more than that, or I’ll shoot.”

  Kramer did as he was bid, taking a long time for each movement. Opening the connection, he said the few words as he was told. He closed the phone and replaced it on his belt.

  Conti’s impatience was beginning to show. He grasped the doorframe and leaned out again. Once more, he took quick glances down.

  I had been studying the position of the crate with the vines. It was inches from the edge of the floor. A strong push would send it out. I had also been pondering over Conti’s probable future action. If he intended to lower the crate to a boat waiting below, how did he intend to escape? What did he plan for Kramer and me?

  One thing appeared obvious—Conti would have to dispose of us. I was trying to catch Kramer’s eye, and, when I did, I was reasonably sure he was thinking the same thing. That made some immediate action vital, risky as it might be.

  I put every nerve and sinew that I possessed on full alert, concentrating my vision and my mind on Conti while keeping Kramer within peripheral range.

  I was ready for whatever desperate measure might be necessary …

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CONTI’S MOUTH WAS TIGHT, the engaging grin notably absent. His gaze was wary. He was in a difficult position and he knew it but he was tough and resourceful. He was no doubt willing to make any sacrifice to achieve his goal—unfortunately, Kramer and I were like the proverbial tethered goats.

  He looked outside again, scanning the bank of the Danube beneath us, alternating his scrutiny with quick glances at Kramer and me. He was about to duck his head out again when a new sound came. It was a clattering, thumping noise that vibrated the air, a sound no longer unusual in today’s world—it was the beat of a helicopter motor and the accompanying pulse of whirring blades.

  Conti relaxed visibly. A half-smile showed, and he waved the gun happily. “The alternative route! Reinforcements at last!” He stole a look out the open door, this time upward. I could see the craft, and Kramer turned his head so that he could see out the door, too.

  The helicopter came dropping down into our field of view. It was light gray in color, with burn stains streaking back from the engine nacelle. It steadied and began to move closer in a curious, crabwise motion.

  The thump-thump of the rotor blades pressed tighter on my eardrums. Kramer and I watched impotently as the chopper grew bigger and bigger in our view. Thirty or forty yards away, it stabilized, no longer moving, just hanging there in the air.

  So that was how Conti intended to make his escape—his talk of a boat on the Danube must have been to mislead us in case Kramer was communicating to the outside in some way. It left our fate in the realm of doubt …

  The helicopter looked large, filling most of the view out of the open door. It began to move. Where was it going? It wasn’t moving away. It seemed to be staying in t
he same location—then it became apparent that it was rotating. It was turning slowly and ponderously. It stopped when it was broadside on to us. Kramer gave a sudden barking laugh.

  What was the matter with him? I saw nothing funny. Then I could make out big white letters on the side of the aircraft announcing ‘MST’. Between them and the nose, a door slid open, and something poked out, glinting in the sun.

  A gun! was my first thought, but why was Kramer still laughing? He controlled himself, looked at me, and saw my lack of comprehension.

  “MST!” he shouted over the helicopter noise. “It stands for ‘Hungarian Television Service’! You’re going to be on every screen in Europe tonight, Conti!”

  Conti made an involuntary start at moving away from the open door of the train, understandably camera-shy, but he stopped and stared out. I could not see why at first, then I was aware of the increase in the clamor of engines and blades.

  Beyond the television helicopter came another aircraft, similar in general appearance but darker gray in color. It had no markings, and came up past the TV craft in a purposeful sweep. It was so close that the roar of its motor was deafening, and a blast of air funneled in through the open door. For a second or two, it blocked the view completely, then the craft disappeared and a banging noise came from overhead—once, then a second time. The coach rocked slightly; the latest arrival had landed on the roof above us.

  Conti had a new awareness now, confident that help was at hand. He held the gun pointing steadfastly at us. He was too far away for us to attempt to rush him. Sounds came from the roof, and a pair of feet appeared in the top of the doorway. They slid down to reveal legs in dark brown army fatigue pants. A voice called out words that were lost as the blades still clattered.

  What was there to hold on to out there? I wondered. Besides that, train roofs were curved, weren’t they? After the figure had released the helicopter landing rail, what was out there that—I didn’t even finish the thought.

  There was a cry, and a figure dropped into sight. He was straining to get his legs forward and into the coach. He was too late—his feet hit the edge of the doorway, then he fell backwards. Conti momentarily forgot us and moved to the doorway to try to grab the man, but he was already falling out of sight. If he yelled, the sound was lost.

  Kramer had been alert, and now he moved fast. As Conti lunged for the falling figure, Kramer took a few paces to intercept him, but the Italian was fast, too. He swung around, sidestepping and raising the automatic. It was at that moment that another figure appeared in the doorway.

  This man had had more practice at entering trains from the roof, and he swung his legs inside the coach and let his body weight propel him into the coach. He was wearing dark brown army fatigues like his unfortunate predecessor, and, as he hit the floor of the coach, he uncoiled and was on his feet like an acrobat. His movement brought him near to Kramer who, despite the speed at which everything was happening, was lightning quick in his reaction. As the man reached in a pocket for a weapon, Kramer leapt at him.

  Conti moved to one side, wanting to get a clear shot at Kramer without hitting his ally. That brought Conti closer to me, and, in a rare moment of bravery, I grabbed for the gun in his hand. My knowledge of hand-to-hand combat was limited to watching episodes of The Avengers, and I lacked both Mrs. Peel’s agility and Steed’s umbrella.

  Instead of getting hold of the automatic, in my eagerness I hit it with both groping hands, but the impact knocked it out of his grasp. It bounced and slid along the floor and lay too far away for either of us to risk going for it. We eyed each other warily

  The same thought hit both Conti and me at the same split second—Conti had taken Kramer’s short-barreled pistol and dropped it into his pocket, and it was still there.

  Two hands rammed simultaneously into that jacket pocket, one mine and one Conti’s. It was like the monkey trap, where the monkey, having grasped the banana inside the cage, does not know enough to release the banana in order to extricate its hand through the bars. Both Conti and I knew enough, though, to be vitally aware that whichever of us failed to pull out the gun would be shot immediately.

  Both of us strained. The fabric held. Conti brought up a knee to jab me, but I twisted away and took it on the thigh. He followed it instantly, swinging his other arm wildly at me, and his fist connected with the side of my head. I saw stars for a second or two but managed to keep pressure on my hand to keep it in his pocket. The fist changed into two stiff fingers—Conti was probing, poking over my face, trying to jab his fingers into my eyes.

  He had all the advantages—height, weight, and training. The longer the struggle lasted, the more likely he was to be the victor. I knew I had to end it and end it fast. We were both straining to get a grip on the gun and pull it out of the pocket. If the gun wouldn’t come out of the pocket—so be it, I’d use it right there.

  Instead of trying to pull my hand out, I simply plunged it deeper. My fingers slid over the beveled surface of the butt, the middle finger drove on, inside the trigger guard. I felt the trigger and made a supreme effort to slip my finger around it. I pulled, again and again and again.

  I had no idea whether Kramer had released the safety catch when he and I had entered the coach. If he hadn’t then … but he had. As I pulled the trigger, I tried to turn the gun as much as I could in the general direction of Conti’s body. I felt his frame jerk violently as three bullets went into the lower part of his torso.

  He gurgled horribly and let out a screeching moan as the bullets plowed into him. His hand in the pocket relinquished its grip and I jerked the pistol free as he fell away from me.

  I had completely lost track of Kramer’s struggle with the other man, but now I saw that they were standing toe-to-toe, gasping and swaying as they fought for mastery of the automatic that was still in the brown-clad man’s hand. Kramer had a firm grip with both hands, one on the wrist, one on the gun hand.

  “Drop it!” I shouted. “Drop it, or I’ll shoot!”

  The man had a dark face and glaring eyes. I firmly believe that he sized me up as an amateur with a gun and therefore unpredictable and more dangerous than a professional. He dropped the gun, and Kramer scooped it up. Conti was writhing and moaning piteously, clutching his lower abdomen, which was seeping blood.

  A blast of air made us all stagger—the pilot of the attacking helicopter had evidently decided that he had completed his mission, and it was time to go. Hearing the gunshots must have helped his decision. The aircraft bounced once on the roof and soared away, filling the view out of the train doorway for just a few seconds, then dwindling swiftly as it raced out of sight.

  The television network helicopter still hovered a short distance away. With the other aircraft gone, it now moved in closer. The crew must have been filming all of this and been highly pleased that they had enough exciting footage to take up at least a half-minute of prime-time news. Their final shot had to be Kramer on his cell phone, rapping out orders for police, an ambulance, and an alert to intercept a dark gray, unmarked helicopter heading north—without a payload.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE BANQUET WAS A subdued affair, though all the assemblage made a creditable effort to make it a successful farewell occasion. Everyone was present except Gerhardt Vollmer, who had to continue his journey to the oil fields on the Black Sea.

  Bucharest does not have major hotels in the same quantity and quality as other European capitals. Those of us who were staying over were at the Athenee Palace Hilton, but it lacks a suitable banquet room. Herr Brenner had used his considerable influence to obtain one of the vast chambers in the Palatul Parlamentalui, the Parliament buildings. He told us that the arrival of the Danube Express on its twenty-fifth anniversary was providing a lot of publicity for the city, and this had clinched his proposal to them.

  From the outside, it is a hot contender for the ugliest building in Europe. This is despite its enormous size—“much bigger than the Pentagon” the guide told us proud
ly. It is a massive, dull gray edifice that the dictator Nicolae Ceausescu had built as a fortress-palace. “We were on the ground floor, but the guide said that five underground stories contained lead-lined bunkers and a train station with an electric train that ran to an undisclosed location elsewhere in the city.

  An attempt had been made to lighten the mood in our room with flags and banners and even some tapestries depicting scenes from Romanian history. Two new chandeliers were a start toward proper lighting, and gleaming white tablecloths and shining crystal glasses helped, as did bouquets of fresh flowers.

  The passengers were avid for details of the desperate struggle that took place in the freight coach and of all the associated data that contributed to it. The television station showed clips of the action throughout the day, but naturally everyone wanted to hear from the participants.

  Karl Kramer was the star of the evening. He kept trying to drag me into the limelight, but I tried to play down my role. If the London newspapers reprinted the story and referred to me as “the man from Scotland Yard,” I could expect a polite knock on my door when I returned home, followed by some less polite questions regarding impersonation of a police officer.

  The exposure of Elisha Tabor as the infamous Mikhel Czerny was, fortunately for me, a story that was much more important to the Hungarians. The name of Elisha Tabor meant nothing but the fact that the well-known—even hated—columnist was really a woman, coupled with ripping off the mask of anonymity, appealed to the Hungarian love of intrigue.

  The day’s editions of the Bucharest newspapers played up the story, savoring the chance to take a front-page crack at their neighboring rivals. They implied that the Hungarians placed too much emphasis on sensational exposé types of story, conveniently failing to mention their own predilection for similar “news.”