by Xavier Mayne
“My secret’s out. I’m old-fashioned that way, I guess. It’s why I chose to go into law enforcement in the first place. If I ever get to the point where it becomes more important to do paperwork than to help people, I’ll go grow wheat or something.”
“Great,” Sandler said with a chuckle. “Now I’m imagining you in overalls.”
“Think I could pull off the look?” Donnelly asked with a grin.
“Oh hell yes.” Sandler suddenly dropped the cards. “Wait—your fiancé isn’t going to pistol-whip me for flirting with you, is he? I’m trying not to, honestly I am.”
Donnelly shook his head, still grinning. “Don’t stop. No one ever does it when he’s around, so it’s kind of nice, actually. My buddy Malcolm is the only one who’s risked it, and he just about peed himself when he found out Ethan was my partner. But Ethan’s fine with it. He knows he’s the only man for me.”
“I think that’s awesome. You two sound like you have a great relationship.”
“We do. It’s completely impossible to explain it to anyone, since we both started out straight, but it’s the best thing I can imagine.”
The boxcar shuddered as it leaned into a curve, and a riotous squealing issued from the wheels below them.
“Now, I believe it’s your deal?” Sandler said, pushing the cards toward Donnelly.
“Yes. Prepare to meet your doom, sir.”
“Care to make it interesting?” Sandler said, a light challenge in his voice.
Donnelly laughed. “This is already the most interesting thing I’ve ever done, but if you mean you want to put a price on your complete humiliation at gin rummy, count me in.” He dealt out the cards.
“Oh, it is on,” Sandler growled, sorting his cards for the first of several dozen hands they would play as the train rattled its way north.
Chapter Four
Sunday
Madrid
“PASSENGER BRANDT, passenger Ethan Brandt, please see the gate agent for an urgent message.” The voice over the PA system as Brandt and Kerry deplaned in Madrid startled them out of their semiconscious postflight daze. So many hours of breathing recirculated air had made Brandt somewhat sluggish, but he shook that off immediately when the hope of good news—any news—presented itself.
“I’m Ethan Brandt,” he blurted upon reaching the desk at the gate. “There’s a message for me?”
“Yes, sir,” the gate agent replied and shuffled through a stack of papers on the counter. “Right… here,” he said, and handed over a sheet with a few lines printed on it. “It must be very important, sir. It was sent to every ticket desk in the system, as the sender did not know which flight you might be on.”
“Thank you,” Brandt said, taking the paper.
“What’s it say?” Kerry asked as they walked away from the desk.
“It’s from Greg’s travel agency. Apparently Gabriel has been pinging them nonstop for news about where I am, and because you finagled the flight, they didn’t know what to tell him. They wanted to let me know that he found a way to get to New York.” He looked up from the paper, joy and sadness competing inside him. “He’s going to make it to the ship. He’s actually coming.”
“That’s awesome,” Kerry sang out, smiling broadly.
Brandt nodded. “It is. I just wish… I just wish I could be there with him. Or at least be able to let him know I’m on my way to meet him.”
Kerry looked at her watch. “I don’t have scratch paper, so don’t necessarily trust my math on this, but you said the ship sails in the afternoon, right?” Seeing Brandt nod she continued. “It’s not that late in his time zone—I think. You should call him, see if you can get through.”
“You’re right! Let’s see if we can find a pay phone.”
Brandt raced through the terminal, looking for anything that resembled a telephone. Finally, just before baggage claim, he found a dingy and apparently largely overlooked example of the type. He picked up the receiver and inserted the coins Kerry had gathered by asking somewhat flirtatiously at various food and services counters. He patiently dialed, and dialed again, and finally reached Donnelly’s phone. Or rather, his voice mail. The outgoing message cheerfully told that Donnelly would be out of reach for the next ten days as he and his fiancé sailed across the Atlantic. He remembered Donnelly making that recording, and remembered asking why that much detail was needed.
“Because on the ship our phones will be expensive toys,” he’d explained, “suitable only for playing games or reading. There’s no cell service in the middle of the ocean. Won’t that be awesome?”
Brandt shook his head as the message played. “No, not awesome,” he muttered. “Definitely not awesome.” Then the beep. “Gabriel, it’s Ethan. I don’t have my phone, and it’s nearly impossible to use these pay phones, and I’m in Madrid, and I’m going to Southampton so I can meet the ship. I’m so sorry I missed it. I tried really hard.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and continued, “I love you so much, honey. I love you. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay, and I’ll see you as soon as you get there. I love you.” A harsh rattle from the phone announced he had reached the end of his allotted time. He set the receiver down and closed his eyes for a long moment.
He felt Kerry’s hand on his shoulder. He stood still for a moment, taking comfort from the touch that somehow warmed him more than he’d thought possible. He took a deep breath, nodded to himself—you can do this—and turned around.
“So, that was the worst voice mail I’ve ever had to leave anyone,” he said with an overwhelmed roll of his eyes. “It’s gotta get better from here, right?”
Kerry smiled. “Right you are. Now, we’ve just got to find the best way to the train station.” She looked around the terminal. “Take Spanish, my father said. You can use Spanish. When will you ever use French? But did I listen? Mais, non!” She sighed and shook her head, then jumped a bit and pointed. “There.” She started off in the direction she’d pointed out.
“Are we sure we can’t fly, at least part of the way? I really just want to get there.”
Kerry stopped, turned, and stepped back toward Brandt. “Two things. First, I checked, and there are just no flights going north from here. We can’t even get to Paris—apparently they shut that down just a few hours ago when the wind picked up and brought the ash cloud halfway across the country. The train is our best bet, but I’m thinking we need to hurry if we want to get a ticket. And second,” she continued, then took a deep breath as if reluctant to make this second point, “Gabriel won’t get to Southampton for a week. It won’t do you any good to get there tonight.” She stepped closer, her voice low and a little sad. “He won’t be there.”
Brandt sighed, then sighed again. He nodded. “I know. I know. It’s just….” He rubbed his brow, feeling suddenly very tired. “I don’t do helpless very well. It’s not something I’m used to.”
“Roger that,” she replied, socking his arm gently. She seemed to sense that he needed bucking up more than a soft shoulder to cry on. “It sucks. Just fucking sucks. But when his ship comes in, you will be there, and it will be such a reunion that Life magazine will use my pic of it instead of that old Times Square sailor-and-his-girl photo they’ve been running for the last seventy years. It will be epic. Now let’s go make it happen, okay?”
He managed a smile. “Thank you. I’m glad not to be going through this alone.”
She nodded, no words needed.
Kerry’s rough approximations of Spanish—built mostly on the rickety framework of her high school French, combined with a smile that seemed to make Spanish men want to move heaven and earth for her—soon had them on their way to the rail station, located in the terminal farthest from the one at which they had landed. But on their arrival, they found it closed, and even Brandt could tell what the sign saying 0530 meant. As it was now nearly midnight, they had more than five hours to kill before the gates rolled up and they could get on their way to the city center.
Kerry scouted out a
comfortable location for them to crash for the evening while Brandt collected every brochure and timetable he could find outside the rail station.
“I found a great spot over there next to those columns,” Kerry said, pointing to where she had pushed together several sets of chairs, making a surprisingly cozy-looking arrangement that would be their hotel for the evening. The rest of the grand and modern terminal was deserted, as if everyone else somehow knew that coming to the rail station at this hour would only end in disappointment.
“Looks great, thanks,” Brandt replied distractedly. He studied the booklets in his hands, willing them to cohere into a plan to get him to Southampton.
She smiled as if she had expected this reaction. “Come on, chief. Let’s get settled in, and we can spring at the gates as soon as they open.” She pulled him by the arm, and he followed. They sat on the chairs nearest the window. “It’s actually kind of beautiful here,” she said, looking around at the undulating ceiling and tall swathes of windows. “I had no idea an airport could be this quiet.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, not taking his eyes from the timetable in his hands.
She got up from her makeshift bunk, comprising four terminal chairs pushed together, and sat down lightly next to him. She peered over his shoulder. “What’s that?” she said, a lemony look on her face.
“It’s the Chinese version of the timetable,” he replied. “It has the best map. But I can’t quite get the times and stations to match up. The one in… Dutch? I think?” He shuffled the stack of booklets. “This one has a section showing the connections from the main rail station in Madrid, but it’s dated almost a year ago, so I’m not sure it has the correct schedule. Then this one”—he shuffled again—“is dated just a month ago, but it’s in Hebrew, so I have no idea how to read the tables because they all run the wrong direction.” He looked up at her, feeling helpless all over again.
She put a hand on his jumbled stack of papers, looked him in the eye, and shook her head. “None of this is going to make his ship go faster,” she said sympathetically. “None of it is going to launch you out over the ocean waves to him. You are doing the best you can, and you’ve come this far, and the rest is going to be easy. Just relax, and we’ll figure it all out in the morning. I’m sure the ticket agent will have all the answers. We have nearly a week to get you to Southampton, and nothing will stop us.” She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips a little sternly. “Okay?”
He took a deep breath and let out a defeated sigh. “Okay,” he said and tried to smile. Tried to mean it. He didn’t, and he could see she knew he didn’t, but she seemed willing to accept this little fiction. He pretended to as well.
“Good. Now, since we’ve had about three hours of sleep in the past thirty-six, I think we should try to get some shut-eye before we have to start elbowing our way to the front of the line for trains tomorrow morning at 0530. Sound good?”
He nodded. “I’m going to find a bathroom and brush my teeth,” he said, picking up the toiletries kit from his carry-on.
“Over around that corner, on the left,” Kerry said, pointing the way. “I’ll go when you get back.”
“Thanks,” he said, then stopped after only a few steps. He turned back to her. “And, seriously, thank you. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.”
She shook her head. “Come on, now. We both know you would have found a way here. I just got us here smiling helplessly and telling little white lies rather than flashing a badge and waving a gun around.”
“Well, your way is better. So thanks.”
She nodded, and he went on his way.
NYC
THE LURCHING of the boxcar woke Donnelly—or at least he thought he had been awakened, as he didn’t remember falling asleep. But he sat up with a jolt from the reclined train seat just as Sandler did from the one next to him. Then he recalled that they had decided, as their final, pointless game of gin wound down, to crank back the seats and see if they could get a little sleep before their arrival in the great freight yards of the city. And now, apparently, they had arrived.
“Morning,” Sandler said sleepily and then flopped back onto the seat. “What time is it?” He must have noticed Donnelly reaching for his phone.
“Nearly noon,” Donnelly replied. “I guess what they say about the motion of trains is true—I was out cold.”
“Getting any signal yet?”
Donnelly shook his head. “Maybe once they let us out of our box.”
“Should be any minute now. They don’t usually leave pouches alone very long.” Sandler sat up again and shook sleep off. “Now to make myself presentable,” he said somewhat grandly as he stood and pressed the wrinkles out of his clothes with his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, gave his head a shake, and stretched.
“Wow. You look like you got eight hours of sleep, had a shower, and ironed your clothes. You have got to teach me that.”
“I give all credit to miracle fabrics and low expectations,” Sandler replied with a gracious bow. “You, though, look amazing. If this is how you weather an all-night stakeout, I might take up a life of crime just to be able to see it.”
Donnelly rolled his eyes. “As baseless compliments go, that was one of the weirdest I’ve ever heard. But thanks.” He stood and stretched as well.
A grinding from the front of the boxcar announced their decoupling from the rest of the train. Two mighty metallic clangs rang out, and they shifted backward a few feet. At almost the same moment, a thud and a shudder emanated from the back end.
“Shunting engine,” Sandler announced. “Won’t be long now.”
The boxcar was in constant rocking motion for several long minutes, crossing switches and other miscellaneous bumps in the railroad, the horn on the shunting engine bleating constantly. Then they ground to a halt.
“Grab your socks, mister, we’re about to be sprung,” Sandler announced as he picked up his messenger bag.
Donnelly scooped up his duffel. “Hey, I just noticed. You actually took off the bag last night. Is that allowed?”
Sandler smiled. “I was in a sealed boxcar with a police officer. That counts as one of the few times I would be forgiven for ducking out of the harness, I think.”
“I’m flattered to be an exception to the rule,” Donnelly replied with a laugh.
Four sharp raps on the door brought Sandler right back to business. “Showtime,” he said as he stepped over to the lock. He inserted the key and turned it until all of the bolts retracted from the perimeter of the sliding door. He gave it a shove, and it slid back, letting in a wide swathe of early morning light. He and Donnelly blinked into the brightness.
“Afternoon,” barked the man who had knocked on the door, his voice a foghorn of pure New Jersey. With a lightning stroke, he flipped a knife out of his pocket and slashed at the plastic document pouch stuck to the side of the boxcar. He glanced at the documents, then up at Sandler and Donnelly.
“Courier, escort, and pouch,” he counted off, jabbing a fat finger at Sandler, Donnelly, and the messenger bag Sandler held out before him. “Present and accounted for.” He folded the documents roughly into quarters and stuffed them into his breast pocket. “Welcome to New York, gents,” he said jovially as he extended the stairs. “Your car is waiting just over there.” He pointed over to a black car that idled just on the other side of an imposing metal gate festooned with concertina wire.
“Thank you, sir,” Sandler said as he stepped briskly down from the boxcar.
Donnelly followed, and they picked their way nimbly over several sets of rails on their way to the gate. As they approached, it slid open enough for them to slip through and quickly clanged shut behind them.
An imposing man wearing a black suit and black sunglasses emerged from the driver’s seat as they approached and silently opened the back door of the long Mercedes sedan. He held out a hand to take their duffels from them, but of course made no move to relieve Sandler of his messenger bag. They settled into the b
ackseat as the driver placed their duffels in the trunk.
“Strong silent type, eh?” Donnelly whispered to Sandler.
“He’s a very nice guy when he’s not working. But on the job? He’s fearsome. He’s less a driver than a one-man security force.”
The driver settled into the car and looked at Sandler in the mirror. “Where to, sir?” It was the voice of a devoted but angry servant to the tsar.
“We’re heading for the cruise dock in Brooklyn, Yevgeny,” Sandler replied. “We need to get this one on his way to England.”
Yevgeny nodded curtly, as if providing cruise shuttle service were a matter of urgent national security he had been entrusted to perform. The car roared forward and snaked through the ramshackle sheds of the freight yard, prompting Donnelly to reach around for his seat belt.
As they rocketed out onto the streets of the city, Donnelly’s phone chimed several times.
“That’s him!” he said excitedly as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Or… at least a voice mail from him, anyway.” He jabbed at the phone and then held it to his ear. The message, recorded by a sleep-deprived Brandt in a phone booth in a crowded airport across the largest ocean, was not what he had hoped to hear. He listened to the message twice before putting his phone down.
“He’s not coming.” He turned to Sandler, unable to say anything more.
“What? What happened? What did he say?”
Donnelly sighed and closed his eyes. “He managed to get to Madrid, and he’s going to meet the ship in Southampton.”
“But that’s a good thing, right? He found a way to get there despite the flights all being cancelled, so he won’t miss the wedding.” Sandler paused for a moment, as if waiting for a reaction of some kind, before continuing. “It’s pretty amazing he was able to get that far. According to my network”—he held up his phone, its screen covered with new messages and more rolling in—“all the flights that haven’t been cancelled are booked solid for most of the coming week. I didn’t think it was possible that he’d get to Europe before you.”