by J E Moore
Chapter Four
Things get messy
France's flight 132 from the Washington National Airport to the Paris, Charles de Gaulle proved uneventful which was just fine with Armstead; the Nation's Capital airport had provided more than enough excitement. The first-class service had lived up to its billing with exemplary European cuisine and service. Since he ate sparingly when traveling, he selected a fruit plate complemented by a chilled bottle of Perrier. Wayne opened up a bit more in conversation without actually revealing anything of importance or personal. Mason attributed it to the man's NSC training then reconsidered, "This may be as laid back as Doan gets," and reasoned he had exactly the kind of disposition preferred by an espionage agency. "Either way, at least his company is tolerable for the time being." Mason had read a few chapters, watched a French movie with English subtitles and took a fifteen-minute cat-nap. Requiring only four hours of sleep daily, he was in the plus column and felt great when they disembarked the sleek, newly- remodeled, needle-nosed SST aircraft.
"Security's tighter than usual," Doan remarked, taking note of the mix of terminal guards and French soldiers.
"Your doings?" questioned Armstead.
"No, the French government received another bomb threat this morning from Turkish provincial rebels." Observing the soldiers with an air of approval, he commented, "Good, makes our passage safer. No one will attempt anything here, unless their secondary objective is a massive loss of life, in which this would be an ideal target."
The courier was puzzled. "Safer? Massive loss? What's comforting about being blown to bits by terrorists?" He concluded Wayne's perspective must be a bit warped by his profession. Two long lines had formed at the security door exits; manual baggage checks were being supplemented with explosive sniffing dogs.
Doan signaled to an airport security guard stationed in front of an entrance marked, Authorized Personnel Only in five languages. This fellow led them through a maze of interconnecting offices and suddenly they were outside in the employee parking lot facing a limo, its motor running, with a pair of plain clothes men standing by.
"Take us to the de Gaulle Hilton," Wayne ordered the smallish, dapper gentleman sporting a pencil-thin mustache and smelling of English Leather cologne, who deftly opened the rear door while cocking his head and tipping his hat in the prototype British chauffeur manner.
The night passed without incident. The room service food according to Doan tasted only fair, Mason did not partake. He read instead and later watched several BBC shows on the living room couch, much like a normal human being.
The next morning at the InterRail train station, Wayne acted stiff, uncommunicative and on edge; his eyes darted from side to side. Henry Hollyfield, yesterday's driver, who accompanied the pair, also acted tense in his capacity as a rear guard while real undercover agents who were dispersed in the crowd, monitored their every move. The terminal loomed large and fast-paced with hundreds of harried travelers scooting about and no soldiers evident. Armstead surmised Wayne must believe this could be another probable location for a hit and run attempt. It was easy to see why Doan appeared antsy and conceded, "All these people rushing at you is unsettling; it's like running a football gauntlet with a blindfold on. I wonder if he considered calling in a phony bomb threat so he could have the military deployed here also? I wouldn't put it past him; he impresses me as being one cool and calculating hombre who'll do whatever's necessary to complete his mission! Then, on the other hand, knowing the French, they might have simply counter-reacted with, "Assez!" and closed down the whole country's blasted rail system rather than bothering to protect it. Is that what held Wayne back? Geez," He wondered, "Am I beginning to think like a spook also?"
They left the main terminal area. Ahead lay a long platform with a passenger train on either side - their track was on the left. A seedy, street person, noting the well-dressed foreigners, stepped in Doan's path with a plastic cup in hand and rattled his few coins inside, "Monsieur?" Wayne's hand disappeared into his jacket. Mason cringed, expecting the poor man to be pommeled or worse - shot. Doan, the bodyguard-extraordinaire, sized up the beggar and backhanded him aside while never losing a step. Mason exhaled a breath of relief as he passed the man who had already switched his sights to another mark and whispered to himself, "You don't know how lucky you were my friend," as they arrived at their car.
The three travelers boarded together after Doan and Henry gave the conductor a suspicious once-over, prompting the railway employee to respond in the typical French fashion of raising his nose in disdain of the repugnant Americans. Mason, ever cordial, offered "Bonjour, merci," and received for his efforts an indifferent shrug expressing contempt for his association with the other two cretins.
Their rail car consisted exclusively of private compartments, all on the right side with a single unisex restroom at the front. The travelers felt a degree of relief as they reached their assigned units. Doan entered first to check it out as Hollyfield watched the hallway. Armstead stepped inside on his all-clear signal as Henry tipped his brown derby a la Charlie Chaplin and stepped into another unit two doors away.
An unexpected jolt and the floor slid a tad under foot as the massive diesel pulled the slack out of the connections of a dozen cars stretched down the track. Mason, grateful to get started, took a seat facing Wayne and plopped the attaché at his side. A large, picture-framed window displayed another train on the next track pulling away from the loading platform which produced the optical illusion of their own train leaving instead. Doan lowered the beige, vinyl shade, "I'll raise it later after we have cleared the station," he stated.
The cabin was small and aged but the soft, lightly scuffed, red leather seats were comfortable. The seven-hour trek to Berlin would pass easily. "At least we can stretch our legs."
"In the cabin, not outside," directed Doan.
Armstead rattled his bracelet in annoyance, "Sorry, I forgot again," and made a mental assumption, "I'm sure I won't be selected again for another assignment like this. The usual top two hard-nosed couriers were unavailable and I'm sorta' like the third string quarterback being thrown into the game unprepared. Hey guys, this is what you get when you scrape the bottom of the barrel." He opened the complimentary route schedule the conductor handed him upon boarding - printed in French, "An intentional little joke, I'm sure." The natives always enjoyed slipping in little subtle digs to the uppity, single-language Americans whenever they could.
A thought revisited and he asked, "Wayne, did you really have no idea why we didn't fly military? Even I, think we could have avoided a lot of this exposure."
Again, Doan's demeanor turned cool, distant and formal - he'd known since the plan's inception Mason served as bait for a trap, "No, I never question the arrangements. There are always more factors than meets the eye, Mister Armstead. I suggest you keep that in mind and give it a rest. Leave the details to us." The agent reached over a second time to verify the cabin door had been locked then adjusted his tie clip, a horizontal bar shaped like a golf club with a miniature ball attached. Wayne had never been a golfer; the clip served as a two-way radio. He next leaned down and extracted a 9 millimeter, Glock pistol from his overnight bag and offered it to Mason. "Do you want to carry this? I have another holster also."
Mason scrutinized the black steel weapon and raised his hand, palm outward, "No thanks, I'd rather not if I don't have to." He purposely omitted he didn't feel he could shoot anyone, even in self-defense. "Does this mean I'm in even more immediate danger here?" A questioning look, "Why the gun now and not earlier?"
Wayne returned the pistol to his bag, "We're given more leeway regarding firearms while traveling in Europe on sanctioned business; it's a diplomatic concession. Besides, you seem uneasy and some people feel more reassured when they're armed."
"Thanks for your consideration." Mason remembered last evening at the hotel, how he thought everyone was watching him, waiting to jump and rip the briefcase away - by any means necessary. He shuddered, "D
oan's right, I can't afford to become paranoid about this! I know there's protection all around me, like that man entering the hotel room across from us last night. Even I became suspicious. I can just imagine what would have happened if the guy hadn't been one of their own and made a false move. Europeans don't waste their time smoothing over government mistakes; he'd be just another entry in the missing person's file. Unloading this briefcase on the Ambassador and returning stateside can't happen soon enough. Yep, it's time to investigate other job opportunities; I don't think I'm cut out for this James Bond stuff."
Wayne raised the window shade, "We've gone far enough."
Mason surveyed the French countryside as small vineyards flowed by and commented, "I wonder if we could have gotten a bullet train," then added sarcastically, "Oh, yeah, I forgot we're not in a hurry." Cracking open his book, he read the title aloud, "The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells. It's an old science fiction classic."
"I know," returned the NSC agent. "I've seen two versions of the movie."
The InterRail train pulled slowly away from a suburban Paris auxiliary rail-yard where it had picked up two more cars: a double decker and a diner. They had one more stop on their journey, Leipzig in an hour and then the final stretch to Berlin. "I very well may take the first train out tomorrow," voiced Mason. "Did you know the InterRail makes a big loop? It leaves Berlin for Vienna, then proceeds to Rome and Madrid before returning to Paris. It takes three days to complete the circuit, six trains run continuously, maintaining twelve hour separations. You can get on and off anywhere you want when traveling coach, just like a San Francisco trolley."
"Did you read that in the schedule the conductor gave you? I didn't know you could read French." Then Doan slipped up, "That isn't in your file..."
Mason immediately discerned the agent's error, smiled and answered, "I don't read French. I've used the system before, Wayne. Is my confidential file out of date?"
Slightly embarrassed, Doan mumbled, "I see, I've been caught." Then in his defense, "So what of it, everyone has a file, Armstead. You know that. As for the train tour, that's nice to know. If I ever get a vacation I'll consider it," and tapped twice with his fingernail on his tie clip. He quickly received the expected answer back of three taps from the other end through a small, flesh-colored device concealed behind his left ear.
The exchange had not gone unnoticed by Armstead, who initially thought how odd it was an agent wearing a hearing aid! - but later realized it had to be a radio receiver. Changing the subject, "Interesting little man, the chauffeur, Hollyfield. He acts British. Is that some kind of agreement the Agency has with the English cabbie union?"
In the compartment two doors to the north of Armstead and Doan, were a pair of his cohorts, the aforementioned Henry and a young man in his mid-twenties. Hollyfield, wearing a headset and transmitter with the battery pack resting on his checkered vest, thumbed through a culinary magazine and munched on a sandwich he had brought in a plastic baggie from his Paris flat. The cut-off button had been activated so he couldn't be heard, "I'm dining at the Reichland restaurant this evening, wiener schnitzel is their specialty." Continuing to his associate, "Would you care to join me?"
"No thanks, I'm going over to what you old fogies call the red light district and pick me out a big, fun-loving fraulein."
"Oh?" Henry peeked up from the periodical with raised eyebrows.
"Don't give me any funny looks, Pops. Party girls are legal in Berlin and the state enforces the health regulations. I'm a single, young stud, unlike yourself. I can play with the ladies if I want to."
"Quite so, just don't forget we have a flight a 9 a.m. sharp."
"Don't worry 'bout me." He snorted, "I'll have my tired, but happy body at the terminal in plenty of time." He lit up a cigarette, "Say, whatta you think of our package? He looks kinda nerdy to me. I thought they woulda sent a bigger guy with some muscles to deliver somethin' this important."
"Would you be referring to Mister Armstead?" returned the veteran. "He's all right, I guess. However, I confess I've never met the chap before yesterday. To me he's just another cover assignment."
His associate took a drag of his unfiltered Marlboro, "Heard they had an incident back in the states, what's the skinny?"
"Didn't hear of it myself." Henry assumed a stiff attitude, "I assure you, whatever may have transpired in the colonies, has no bearing on our assignment."
"Good, hate to think it screws up our chances of planting one of these dudes."
"Planting? Oh my, are you inferring termination?" A glance at the crooked grin on the kid's face said it all. "A word of caution young man, I know you're new and as the Americans say, ready for action, but don't ever be too anxious to get into a firefight. The good guys get shot and killed just as often as the bad. Which reminds me, our orders are to take them alive if possible."
"Yeah, yeah, why bother?" scoffed his temporary partner.
"Good grief! What do you mean, Why bother? Didn't you learn anything in I & T? The capture is elemental. It is essential for the extraction of information, of course."
The young man flicked his ashes on the floor, "Sorry dude, it slipped my mind." Gesturing at his Casio wristwatch, "Time for me to listen, gimmie the two-way, Pops."
Henry passed his the radio equipment with a scowl on his narrow face, "The ashtray's on your right side, sir."
The young man paused to blow a smoke ring as he fiddled with the apparatus.
The NSC agent asked, "May I inquire, who acted as your instructor in Indoctrination and Training?"
"Indoctri..., oh yeah, I get it; I & T... wondered what you meant." Adjusting the headset, "I kinda skipped that part."
The middle-aged agent with twenty years of service returned, "Pardon?"
"I'm freelance. Can you dig it: hire for fire, soldier of fortune. Comprende, old chap?"
"You're a contract employee?"
The young man proudly smirked, "Yep."
The veteran closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead while thinking, "Are we that thin? Why wasn't I informed beforehand? This fellow is another damn liability."
"Don't worry, Gramps," as he patted the large pistol under his jacket, "I can hold my own and then some." He released the microphone cut-off switch, "Doan, we've had a change-over; the A team's up to bat now. Do you read?" An acknowledgement tap returned. "See, Pops, a piece of cake."
From their compartment in the next car to the south, two different travelers heard the 'woosh' of the exterior interconnecting door opening, immediately followed by the roar of the wind, clanks of couplers and the clicky-click of track passing underneath. 'Whump,' slammed the door. "Leipzig, Leipzig," the conductor announced.
Both occupants rose and one opened the cabin door before the conductor passed by. He leaned out, "S'il vous plait, monsieur, we need assistance. Would you look at this?" and stepped back from the entranceway. The second man, standing with his back against the drawn window beckoned, "Inside please."
"Qui?" The red and black uniformed InterRail employee entered and the door slid closed. He turned to see why. A tap on his chest returned his attention to the man in front of the window pointing a machine-pistol at his chin. The surprised conductor's jaw dropped. He started to take a step backward and came up against another gun jammed in the small of his back. Reflexively, he raised his hands, "Je n'ai pas d'argent!"
The first gunman placed a finger to his lips, "Shusshh, do you speak English?"
The frightened rail worker's head bobbed up and down, Yes.
"Bien, we are not going to hurt you; we have to put you to sleep for a little while."
The conductor pleaded in English, "No money. I said I don't have any money."
"I know; we don't want your money. You may put your hands down," and motioned for him to take a seat. The conductor, even though alarmed, remained cautious - not panicking and did as ordered. The man by the door opened a jar of chloroform and soaked a rag while the other kept his gun trained on the captive. "This will not harm
you," stated his captors. "It will put you to sleep. Do you understand? Do not struggle; we don't want to hurt you," as the cloth was pressed over the man's mouth and nose. The conductor stiffened and gasped instinctively to resist but with a muzzle pressed to his forehead, he soon became still and his eyes rolled back. The gunman closed his lids and propped him in a corner to prevent an injury caused by the swaying of the train. They laid their guns on the opposite seat, searched the sleeping man and removed the key marked in French: Master Key, from his vest pocket. Neither of the men would have shot the rail worker; their weapons were just for show as far as he was concerned. The next phase of the plan was a different matter. The chloroform and damp rag were stashed on the floor under the seat - they shouldn't be needed again.
The first man placed a duffle bag on the bench cushion, unzipped it and handed his partner a women's cosmetic case. Inside, wrapped delicately, nestled two sets of specially-made contact lenses and a tiny bottle of application solution. The gunmen stored their ubiquitous sunglasses in their jacket pockets and carefully inserted the lenses which made their eyes appear normal. Their over-sized irises had now become disguised. The train reduced speed - denoting the long, gradual approach to the Leipzig station.
They attached Silencers on their gun barrels. The time had come; the train would be stopping - exchanging passengers and cargo in less than ten minutes. The last item was removed from the tennis bag. It was heavy. One of the men tucked his machine pistol under his jacket and pocketed the master key while checking the hallway. "All clear," he advised.
His associate also concealed his automatic weapon and in addition, a heavy-duty, wide-mouthed, steel cable cutter which hung vertically down his leg. Armed and equipped, the two Omega tiptoed down the hallway toward the diplomatic courier's rail car: determined to do whatever necessary to retrieve the contents of his attaché case.
The master key turned in the lock of the cabin door without a sound. Although he had heard nothing, Mason glanced up from his book, strongly sensing the presence of someone standing outside. Confusing signals again! He analyzed his perceptions, "It's not the driver, I know him, yet it feels like someone familiar..." Armstead said, "Who...?" as the door slid open.
The Omega gave the courier a quick once over. He didn't know who would be sitting where and Mason was the first person who came into view. The attacker assessed Armstead was not a threat and switched his attention to Doan. The NSC man's reflexes were lightning swift: Wayne had already begun reaching for his pistol. The intruder swung his gun toward the agent. In a flash Doan's hand was on his gun-butt. With fire in his eye and teeth clenched, he ripped it free from the leather holster.
The Omega shouted, "Don't!" his automatic's gun-sight was trained on the bodyguard's waist.
Wayne twisted sideways to evade the attacker's line of fire. His own weapon rose - all he needed was a mere half second more to dead-bang the assailant.
'Burp-Burp-Burp-Burp,' the staccato of machine pistol bullets traced a crimson line from Doan's abdomen to his left shoulder. Wayne jolted backward in his seat, his head smacked the wall and the pistol dropped harmless from the fatally wounded man to the floor. Doan hissed, amid bloody bubbles erupting from a punctured lung, "Sonnava..." as his eyes clouded over.
The second intruder peered over the shooter's shoulder, "You had no choice."
"I know. I tried to stop him... a tragic waste."
The pair lifted the dead man's feet up onto the seat to have more room to move. Armstead, terrified, backed into the corner and desperately clutched the briefcase to his chest. The first attacker, aimed his weapon at Mason and requested his partner, "Give me the cutters."
Mason, remembering Doan's graphic description of cable cutter usage, stammered, "What are you going to do?"
One Omega passed the heavy, metal tool to the other and motioned his crony to keep watch who then took a step back into the walkway to post guard.
Gesturing to Mason. "Hold out your wrist."
Armstead violently shook his head, No! and clenched the case tighter, then crossed his arms to his chest.
"Look, Mason, I can kill you and take it if I have to. That's not the way we want do things; you should understand."
The Omega set his machine pistol on the floor with the barrel pointed away from the door and grasped the cutting tool by its two plastic, insulated handles. The powerful, sharp jaws yawned wide. "I'm going to pop the locks. Hold the case out. We must have that document!"
"No way! I've been warned; you're going to cut my hand off!"
"No, no! I just told you; we want the document not your stupid hand. Stick it out, Mason; we're running out of time!" He again appealed to the courier, "In your heart you know I can be trusted. Can't you sense it?"
Mason became confused and debated to himself, "What can these killers be talking about?" He tried to read their faces and beheld only sincerity, familiarity and purpose - no hostility. His eyes darted back and forth to Doan's motionless corpse and the men hovering about him. The cold realization swept in that he had no choice, comply or die and placed the case on the seat. Eight-inch wide pincher jaws slid over and under the left lock. A little squeeze, 'Spong'! and the one on the right side followed suit.
Sweat trickled down Armstead's temple, "Should I scream? Would it matter... they'd kill me for certain then."
"See, I told you it would work." The Omega set the tool down, flipped open the lid and extracted the manila envelope. "Got it."
Mason, relieved his hand hadn't been hacked off and more than glad he'd survived so far, now faced a new threat, that of being executed so he couldn't identify them later. "I surly can't trust an assassin's word, no matter how sincere he may seem!"
"You'd better read it," advised his partner. "Make sure it's not a decoy or a blank piece of paper. Armstead may have the genuine document concealed on himself."
"No! I have nothing," Mason blurted in his defense.
They both knew he spoke the truth and was incapable of hiding his emotional transmissions. The killer broke the waxed seal of the envelope and extracted a single sheet folded in half and declared, "There's nothing else inside."
A blast from the whistle signaled the approach to the station and the train slowed to a walk pace. Mason could not see the writing, nor did he attempt to - containing his own rising panic weighed foremost in his mind. "Surely they'll kill me before leaving; I can pick them out in a police line-up." The assassin opened the page and read it to himself, then a part aloud to his cohort, "September thirteen, zero six hundred Zulu and all of the locations are listed. The document appears genuine."
The young soldier of fortune working as a backup two compartments away took off the headset and gave it a couple of shakes.
"What's wrong?" inquired his NSC companion, Henry Hollyfield.
"I don't know," as he pried open the portable carrying pack and checked the battery alignment. I heard a couple of words, I think. I'm not real sure... then this buzzing came on."
"Did Doan summon us?"
"Nah."
"May I have it please?" and the set exchanged hands.
"I'm not too good with electronics, Pops. You check it out."
Henry inspected the device then spoke into the microphone, "Wayne? Check, Wayne, testing one-two-three." No response - one of the assailant's bullets had severed the transmit wire underneath Doan's shirt. "We'd better advise him of this equipment malfunction. Time to stretch our legs." The whistle blew, "Leipzig, a quaint little village," commented Henry.
His associate muttered, "Another pothole in the road. Can't wait til we get to Berlin, my kinda town," as he stepped into the hallway. He took two short steps and halted dead in his tracks. Thirty-foot ahead, positioned in front of Armstead's cabin, stood an unidentified man. His eyes were instantly drawn to the machine pistol. The pack of cigarettes he had just drawn out of his shirt pocket slipped through his fingertips, "Oh crap!"
Hearing the young man's exclamation, the Omega in the hallway swiveled his
head in that direction. For what seemed an eternal moment they both stood in a Mexican standoff, neither man moving, both frozen like a deer caught in headlights.
The young man broke the spell and fumbled for his gun. The Omega countered, whirled and raised his weapon as the for-hire agent struggled to get his 44 Magnum pistol free of his hip holster.
"Stop!" yelled the Omega.
Neil ignored the command, wriggled the 6" barrel loose and started to assume the television standard's two-handed, crouched, open stance shooting position. He moved far too slow. The machine pistol burped out a series of shots and the high velocity projectiles knocked him off his feet. He landed flat on his back with a painful grunt. His oversized pistol was sent flying and nearly hit the ceiling before falling to the thin carpet with a heavy 'Thud'.
The attentions of Armstead and the first Omega, switched to the action in the passageway. Answering their silent question, "He must have been a backup. I'll check him," and started toward the fallen young man.
Henry, the veteran, heard the unheeded warning and the all-too-recognizable cough of the deadly silencer as he observed the soldier of fortune - his associate, being slammed by the impact of the bullets. Silently, he un-holstered his Walter PPK with the barrel pointed up and slipped close to the open doorway. A train passing in the opposite direction allowed a reflection of the shooter's image in the darkened window. While estimating the range and number of targets, Henry also heard the killer say he was going to check the fallen man. "Obviously he's not alone and will be at the doorway with his automatic aimed and ready to shoot within a few short seconds," assessed Hollyfield. Henry knew full well his Walther was no match against the attacker's superior firepower and that the element of surprise was his only chance. He tensed: his mouth turned to cotton, every muscle tightened, his own heartbeat pounded in his ears. No amount of training or experience completely eliminated the fear of a violent death. He felt pumped, ready to make his move. For once, he was damn glad he had been born left handed - today, it gave less body exposure. Henry's head and gun hand popped around the corner. The Omega instantly sensed the motion and his automatic weapon countered in his direction. The NSC agent was no stranger to combat situations and ripped off two quick, smooth shots which struck the approaching man in the cheek and throat. The Omega's head snapped back in a reflexive action, his clenched trigger finger fired a hail of bullets which spattered the ceiling and shattered two windows to his right then crumpled to his knees and fell face down. Henry raced up the hallway, through the wispy gun smoke, the nitrate fumes stinging his nostrils, with his eyes and weapon targeted on Doan's doorway. Inside, the other assailant tossed the envelope aside, pawed at his automatic lying halfway under Wayne's seat and accidentally knocked it further away. Henry was at the doorway in an instant but by mistake pointed his PPK at Mason, the first body in view.
Armstead howled, "No!"
The Omega, realizing he couldn't grab his weapon and turn fast enough, decided to spring at Henry. The wily, veteran agent read the man's body language and back-stepped to adjust his aim and maintain distance.
'Blam! Blam!'
Before the killer's launch could get airborne, hot lead punched his chest and abdomen. He staggered on his feet, weaving in the same spot, mortally wounded. Henry, seeing no other assailants inside, paused with his head jerking from side to side, anticipating the rush of more enemy personnel coming to their comrade's aid from other concealment. No noise or movement ensued. He waited, for an eternity while fearing the sounds of his own rasping, hot breath would cloak their sneaking up on him. Finally, he felt satisfied these two were the only immediate threat and jumped into the grisly compartment and pushed the swaying Omega roughly in the chest with his right hand. The man careened off the window and slid down to a sitting position. Henry turned about and scanned the hallway again - still clear, then quickly checked Doan's vital signs, "He's dead... a pity, poor chap."
Armstead murmured, "I know."
With Henry's back to him, the dying Omega, dazed and bleeding profusely, unexpectedly reached up and seized Mason's bicep. Summoning a final muster of strength, he pulled the shaken courier towards himself. Armstead tried to wiggle free but the man's iron grip refused to yield. The assassin craned his neck toward the alarmed messenger, his trembling lips tried to speak. Mason ceased resisting and reflexively leaned over, warily tilted his head and listened.
The killer's speech was raspy, strained and low, yet intelligible, "Your mother misses you."
Mason's brows furrowed, "My mother?"
The man then grabbed Armstead behind his neck - forcing him to look at his face. His eyes penetrated so deep into Mason's mind that it felt as if their very souls had meshed. He coughed, blood trickled down the corner of his mouth, "Irene," was his last word as his chin came to rest on his now still chest.
Henry remained positioned at the doorway using his cell phone to call for reinforcements as the last whistle blew and the train ground to a stop at the Leipzig station. A few timid passengers chanced a peek out of their cracked-open compartment doorways, this being their stop, but quickly slammed the doors shut upon viewing the carnage. Mason, trying to gather his wits, stuffed the document back in the manila envelope without reading it. He didn't need to - he had heard the dead man distinctly state, "September thirteen, zero six hundred Zulu." Besides, he wasn't supposed to read it and he could still in all honesty answer he had not done so if questioned, thereby technically splitting the proverbial legal hair. He returned the envelope to the attaché case and the closed the lid. Pressing down, the two locks clicked secure. "Finally, I get a break."
Henry turned his attention to the fallen young man, who had no visible wounds. Was the lad bright enough to wear a bullet-proof vest? He shook him, "Are you all right, sir!"
The downed man's eyes fluttered open. He stammered, "My gun... I... I didn't chicken out. My gun got stuck."
"Take it easy, lad. Help will arrive forthwith. Lie still and you'll be just peachy." Next, Henry went knocking door to door announcing, "Police, Policia, everything is all right now. You may come out," as he coaxed and herded the shaken, ogling passengers to the closest exit and secured the car. A baggage handler entered the hallway. Henry hastily demanded his assistance and instructed the shocked rail worker to locate and send the train's medical personnel to help the drugged conductor and to tell the train's engineer not to leave the station on the grounds of national security. As they waited Hollyfield inquired of Mason, "And just what was that little pow-wow about?"
"What do you mean?" returned Mason.
"The fellow, the bloke who whispered in your ear."
"Oh, you saw him? I didn't understand what he tried to say."
"That happens," commented Henry. "People shot or dying sometimes become irrational or incoherent and divulge all sorts of tripe. It's the same as being doped up prior to surgery. Do you know what I mean?"
"Not really, I've never had an operation." Armstead omitted mentioning he had never been sick a day in his life either.
Soon a number of loud voices were heard approaching - the sounds of authority: the local police, who were accompanied by an Agency 'clean-up' crew.
Armstead and Henry were relocated for the remainder of the journey and joined by another NSC agent with two more posted outside their cabin. One of the newcomers, a supervisor, addressed Hollyfield, "Close one, hey?"
"Quite so."
"Who was the man with you that got popped?"
"Which one are you referring to, sir? The gentleman in the cabin is...was... is, Wayne Doan, an NSC agent. I regret the poor man's ticket has been punched, as they say. The lad in the walkway is a freelancer. I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name. He'll be dandy in a day or two, just had the wind knocked out of him and suffered a few impact bruises."
"A freelancer, not one of ours?"
"Afraid not, I wish I'd been advised of such beforehand," answered Henry.
"Yeah, I know what you mean. You don't know how these part-
timers are going to react under fire unless they're ex-military. I've seen a couple of them take off running and seen some others shoot everything in sight, including our people."
"There was a bit of an odd twist regarding the temporary. He said his Momma made him wear the vest. Turns out, it saved his life," relayed Hollyfield.
"That is strange. I wonder why in the hell Agent Doan didn't wear one." Then he gave a friendly nod toward Mason, "How'd our special guest hold up?"
"Fine and dandy. He stayed out of the way. However, I don't believe he'll be applying for admission to the Agency's Academy anytime soon," assessed Henry.
"Good that he didn't get hurt and I see the package didn't get compromised."
Armstead's mind drifted away from their shop talk; he was remembering the dying man pulling him close to his face and saying, "Your mother misses you... then, Irene." "Why would he say that? How did he know her name? And when he looked at me..., I... I believed him! It seemed as if he were incapable of telling a lie. What is going on?"
Mason felt as if the very Earth had shifted under his feet. He leaned back and tried to recall the story his father had told him. It was at the close of his senior year at the university when the National Health Service came and took Mama from their home. They said it was for tests; they suspected she had become a carrier of some rare, exotic disease and if the results were positive, it would take about six months of treatment to be cured. We could visit her in thirty days and they would keep us informed of every development, not to worry. Dad was frantic but he had no recourse. After all, this was an official U.S. Government medical alert. He had been assured he would be advised of the initial tests results shortly and if they were negative, she would be home within a week. We never heard from them again.
Dad called the police, the FBI and everyone else he could think of. Especially and often, the National Health Service. They disavowed involvement or any knowledge of who it could have been. He had been completely stymied, devastated, nearing his wit's end and resorted to hiring private investigators, who in turn got nowhere as well. Mom and the men in white uniforms with their Civil Defense medical van had vanished.
When Mason graduated three months later and returned home, his father set off to track her down by himself. He begged to go along but Dad vetoed it: he needed him to take care of the house, stay by the phone and check the mail, just in case. Dad called every day for three weeks while on the road to give him a progress report and reassurance. His last two calls were from Saint Louis and he implied there was something amiss. He didn't know what it was yet and didn't want to discuss possible false leads. He said he was heading west to check out some rumors and en route was killed in an automobile accident on a wide open stretch in Nevada. It felt inexplicable; it just didn't sit right since there were no other vehicles involved and his father would never get behind a wheel if he were too tired or incapacitated. Mason took up the search anew, covering all the same ground his father had without really knowing what he was looking for; he was only twenty-one and didn't have any investigative training.
Mason also went to Saint Louis to find the parties he thought his father must have contacted. They had vanished and all his inquires had ended in an abrupt dead end. He had to let it go and get a job; lay it to rest and get on with his life. Until this bump in the road! Surely, what the dead man said must have been a mistake.
'Ring, Ring,' Henry's cell phone rang. "Hollyfield here," then listened to Director Parkerson's new instructions. "Yes, sir, I have a knife. Doan? Yes... I understand and I'll keep a good eye on him, sir. Cheerio," then returned to his previous conversation with the other agent. "Appears I have a rather nasty little task to perform then I'm to be Doan's replacement for Armstead."
The phone's ringing jolted Mason back to the present in time to catch the end of the two men's discussion.
"Speaking of twists," remarked his associate, "it's always something isn't it? So, as you were saying, the assailants weren't who you were expecting?"
"Appears not, their eyes were normal," answered Henry."
"They must have contracted an independent team to steal it for them."
"I guess so, although I'm rather surprised by that."
"Why?"
"I didn't think they would trust an outsider. Then again, they've never been involved in anything of this nature before," stated Henry.
"Meaning?"
"No violence, they are total Pacifists... or rather we thought they were."
"Well," said the other agent, "judging in retrospect, it's best it wasn't them personally. You terminated both suspects and the Agency wanted a prisoner. Your fanny could have been on the griddle." Smiling, "And it would have soiled your squeaky clean perception of the Omega to boot."
Henry nodded, adding, "Believe me, old chap, when your back's to the wall anything can happen, it seems now even with those people also."
Mason's ears perked up, he was tempted to ask, "Who are the Omega?" but held his tongue. He reasoned, "I don't want to appear ignorant, or perhaps they slipped up and I wasn't supposed to hear that name. They may be referring to one of those secret terrorist groups. One thing for sure, this'll be my last mission which requires an armed escort. I'm going to speak to Mister Parkerson about a transfer as soon as I return. Omega... that's all I need."