by Nick Carter
He turned Carter forcibly around and shoved him toward a stack of empty crates in the alley just off the street.
"Hierin!" he hissed.
Carter squeezed himself into a crate as tightly as he could, his cheeks resting on his knees, his breath coming in short rasping gasps.
The running footsteps came to a halt on the sidewalk a few feet away. "Where is he?" panted a voice in terse German.
"Around the corner, sir," said the vegetable vendor.
"You're lying!" shouted the policeman.
"No, sir. Please."
"You're hiding him."
"I'm telling you the truth, sir."
Carter noticed imprints of one bloody foot leading across the sidewalk to the front of the crate where he was hiding. He inched the Luger out of his coat to have it in hand in case the cop should look down.
"He went to the corner and turned!"
Carter listened while the cop made his decision, his heart beating in his throat. Then the footsteps began again, and Carter saw him in his dull gray uniform, his revolver drawn, head down the street, reach the comer, and disappear.
When he was gone, the vegetable vendor casually walked over and peered into the crate. His eyes fixed on the Luger, then on Carter. "Uber die Wand?" he asked.
Carter nodded. Yes, he was going over the wall.
"Also, gehen Sie!" With a jerk of his head he indicated Carter should get going.
Carter stood up and for an awkward moment wondered if he should thank the man. But the vendor seemed to have lost all interest in him. He'd turned his back and was throwing crates of cabbages onto a stack just inside the door.
Carter turned abruptly and ran down the wet pavement to the other end of the alley, paused to glance up and down the street, then went right toward the Brandenburg Gate.
The huge structure was clearly visible at the end of the block: a massive slab of mortar and marble held aloft by twelve stone columns bathed in spotlights. On the roof a statue of Peace drove four horses toward the heart of downtown Berlin.
He stopped by the cornerstone of a large building and surveyed the square. Nothing was moving. At the far end stood the Brandenburg Gate and beyond that the rolls of barbed wire marking the deathstrip that precedes the wall. Sirens sounded in the streets behind him not more than a few blocks away, and as he listened, he heard footsteps.
He sprinted across the open pavement, heedless of the pain in his leg. When he reached the side door of the gate's auxiliary building, he pressed himself tightly against the jamb and glanced back at the square. All was quiet. No sign of movement anywhere.
For a moment he stood there panting, thankful he'd made it this far and vowing to himself if he ever saw Kobelev again to make him pay heartily for this inconvenience. Then he tried the door.
He'd been this way earlier when he'd stashed the cylinder. He'd picked the lock, then when he'd returned, he'd jammed the bolt with a wadded piece of matchbook cover. As he pulled the knob now, it opened with only the slightest pressure. He slipped in and removed the cardboard wad to make sure the door locked behind him.
The room was pitch black except for a streak of light that shone out from under another door some twenty feet away. This was the storage room for the historical museum that was attached to the gate. Carter crossed to the second door, opened it, then crossed behind the display cases of the museum proper, and started up a wrought-iron staircase that led up through the ceiling.
He had found this stairway earlier and knew that it led up to the roof. He also knew there was an observation post up there manned by a guard with a pair of binoculars who kept constant vigil on the wall. He'd had no trouble slipping past him the first time, but no doubt the man had been forewarned by now that a fugitive was in the area.
Carter ascended the stairs as silently as he could, and when he came to the heavy metal door at the top, opened it slowly. Through the crack he saw a bunker of sandbags with a machine gun in its center mounted on a tripod. A portable radio played strains of popular music, and a book lay propped open to someone's place. All the accouterments of habitation and no inhabitant. Where was the guard?
Carter opened the door a little wider. He was about to stick his head out when a violent jerk wrenched the doorknob from his hand and sent him sprawling headlong onto the roof. He looked up just in time to see a rifle butt rushing for his face. He turned and it smashed against the tiles inches from his ear. The soldier reared back for another try, but Carter drove his left fist into the soft putty of the man's face. His nose broke with a gush and he dropped the rifle. Carter then buckled his legs against the man's chest and sprung, flinging him backward. His head hit the metal door with a dull clang, and he fell forward, dazed but not unconscious.
Carter was on him in a second. He drew out the Luger and clipped him on the base of the skull. Then he spun around to make sure there weren't any more of them.
He dragged the guard's body over against the sandbags and peered down into the street. Two military vehicles were converging on Checkpoint Charlie, which was located directly in front of the Brandenburg Gate. At the checkpoint six or seven soldiers with submachine guns strapped to their backs stood in the dim light of the guard's booth, talking. Overhead the sky was a stolid gray just charged now with the first light of dawn. Carter studied the sky with disquietude. It was now or never.
He pulled out his cylinder from where he'd stashed it under the chariot of the huge statue and brought it to the edge of the roof. On his hands and knees he unzipped die casing and stripped it off. Then he laid out the long sheets of nylon tenting and began to fit in the thin metal rods that he had placed at the cylinder's core. In a few minutes the construction was complete: a single, twelve-foot-long, batlike wing with an aluminum frame underneath to which to secure himself — a hang glider as complete and controllable as any that ever graced the sunny coastline of California, only as portable as an umbrella.
His sole piece of good fortune lay in the fact that the wind was blowing from east to west — over the wall. He carried his contraption to the edge and after some preliminary testing, entrusted himself to the air. The left wing dipped dangerously, and for a moment he thought he would fall, but then the updraft in front of the massive gate caught him and buoyed him skyward.
His heart fluttered with the thrill of flight. The ground below, the military sedans that were now disgorging more troops in front of the checkpoint, the men already there sniffing the air for his scent like hounds, machine guns at the ready, all slipped silently by as he sailed unnoticed into West Berlin.
Six
Once on the ground Carter went straight to Kliest's, retrieved his bag, showered, and on a phone Kliest assured him was clean, placed a call to Hawk. It was after midnight on the East Coast, but Hawk answered on the first ring.
"We got a nasty little missive from Kobelev earlier tonight." Hawk said after he'd answered Carter's initial barrage of questions and confirmed his worst fears about what had happened to Cynthia. "Apparently he's holding the girl aboard the Orient Express. He says he wants his daughter and you turned over to him, or he'll kill her. We've got until the train reaches Istanbul to make our decision."
"Have the railroad authorities been contacted? What about the local police?"
"They're all willing to cooperate fully. We had a little trouble to begin with, but a phone call from the head of State to each of the countries involved soon straightened everything out. A little presidential muscle can work wonders. At any rate, it seems Kobelev's commandeered the train. He's not letting anyone off or on, although he's allowing the train to make its scheduled stops. It's either that or snafu rail traffic over the whole of Europe."
"How do I get aboard?"
"That's something you'll have to work out with Leonard Southby. He's the owner of the train. I've arranged for you to meet with him in the bar of the Sacher Hotel in Vienna this afternoon at two. When I talked to him earlier tonight he was ready to mobilize NATO to get his train back. It took a l
ot of convincing to get him to let us handle it our way. I'm afraid if he hangs around that bar too long he'll start talking nuclear war again and won't be in any shape to help us."
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, Nick, I'm sorry for this little setback. And that's what it is, a setback. Let's not kid ourselves."
An admission of error was a rare thing from Hawk. It bespoke the gravity of the situation, and Carter treated it with the care it deserved.
"I'm sure this is going to work out."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event our initial goal has been met. Kobelev has come out from behind his curtain of security. He's accessible now and we can still take him."
"Yes, sir."
"The man has to be taken, N3. Has to, no matter what the cost."
"I understand that, sir."
Before Hawk rang off, the two men worked out some of the logistics Carter would need over the next few days. Hawk provided a list of AXE operatives in cities along the train's route and the number Carter could call in Washington should he run into trouble. They agreed that Vienna was a good choice for boarding the train as it was only half an hour by jet from Berlin and would allow Carter a few hours' rest at Kliest's before going on.
Then, when all the business had been conducted and mere was nothing left to say. Hawk lingered a moment on his end of the line. "Take care of yourself," he said finally.
Carter sensed he meant it. "I will. Thank you, sir."
Kliest, who had been sitting on the edge of his armchair listening to Carter's end of the conversation, abruptly stood and went into the kitchen area. When he returned he was carrying a tray piled high with German pancakes, sausages, and a liter stein of rich beer. "My wife made these up before she went to work. They've been in the oven warming. I'll make up the bed while you're eating."
* * *
Carter ate, made his travel arrangements, and slept. In a few hours Kliest woke him and drove him to the airport. As he was boarding his plane, Kliest gave his hand a firm shake and told him it had been a pleasure working with him. Between Kliest's sendoff and Hawk's good-bye over the phone, Carter wondered if anyone really expected him to come back from this assignment alive.
In Vienna he deplaned, stored his luggage, and caught a cab for the Sacher Hotel. Leonard Southby was at the bar hunched over a glass of scotch. Sitting next to him was a small man wearing large glasses.
"Mr. Welter," Southby said, introducing him after Carter sat down, "from our public relations department." Carter noticed the glasses achieved a friendly effect by being a shade too small to be considered comical.
Welter nodded brusquely. The glasses were friendly; Welter definitely was not.
"I'm not happy. Mr. Carter," Southby went on, motioning to the bartender to bring Carter a drink and freshen his own. "You're better than the combined police forces of France, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria because you're going to do the impossible. You're going to get my train back."
"Sometimes one man can do what many can't," said Carter. "As for getting your train back, let's put it this way. You and I both have an interest in seeing Nikolai Kobelev removed from the picture."
"Did you hear that, Sidney?" Southby asked in a loud voice, turning to Welter. "We have a mutual interest. Mr. Carter and I. A ten-million-dollar train at stake, not to mention the lives of a hundred and fifty fare-paying patrons for whom I am legally responsible, and Mr. Carter wants to talk about our mutual interest. Go away, Mr. Carter," he said angrily, turning back around. "I'm not interested in a man whose interests don't coincide exactly with mine. I don't trust a government stooge. You people are always looking to protect your precious state secrets. I buy and sell your kind all the time. I want a man on my payroll who will do exactly as I tell him."
Carter calmly swished the ice in his drink and laid the swizzle stick on the bar. "I'm afraid you 're stuck with me."
"I am not stuck, sir! I may be tired, overwrought, even half-drunk, but I am not stuck. We have ways of dealing with this kind of terrorism in Europe — men trained by the terrorists themselves who are enlightened enough to realize money is more important than ideals. I can afford to buy several of these men and have the OE back on schedule before she reaches Belgrade."
Carter took a close look at Southby over the rim of his glass. The man was obviously on the brink of nervous exhaustion. "Apparently they didn't tell you who we're dealing with," he said, putting his drink back on the bar. "Nikolai Kobelev is no ordinary terrorist. He's Russian. KGB. The men around him are all handpicked, I'm sure. Efficient killers, each one of them. Handling this sort takes a certain talent, shall we say, a talent you can't buy, Mr. Southby, at any price. I don't think Kobelev is interested in your train as such. It merely provides a means to greater ends, namely to recover his daughter — who is in our custody — and to give him the opportunity to wreak vengeance on me. He will take your train to Istanbul, where he has no doubt made additional arrangements for his transportation into Russia, then leave it. On the other hand, if it suits his purpose to blow up your ten-mill ion-dollar toy, he will do so without a moment s hesitation. If Kobelev manages to recover his daughter and eliminate me, he will have gone a long way toward capturing what he really wants."
Southby's stern expression softened. Like many a man who has spent hours in a bar wallowing in his trouble, his moods changed rapidly from anger to maudlin self-pity. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, truly I am, but the Orient Express is my life. When I first bought her she was a broken-down rusted mess, headed for the scrapyards. I reclaimed her from oblivion. I painstakingly restored every inch of her, put new leather on her seats, new drapes; I hired the finest wood-crafters in Europe to repair her interior. There are no new cars on that train. She's exactly as she was in 1929 in her heyday. I put a fortune into her and built a fortune with her. She's my baby."
"All this is very touching," said Carter dryly, "but beside the point. What I need from you, Southby, is a way to board her without being immediately recognized."
Southby quickly drained his drink and put his glass on the bar with a heavy sigh. "Welter and I have discussed that," he said. "Vienna is a dinner stop. We thought there might be some way to poison the food."
"Highly unlikely," said Carter, "unless you want to poison everyone on the train and they all start eating at exactly the same moment. But what do you mean by dinner stop? I thought there were dining cars."
"There are. You see, the Orient Express isn't a passenger train as such anymore, in the sense that people get on and off at different stops. It's a package tour. You buy a ticket in Paris and ride all the way through to Istanbul. Of course, there are extras along the way. Tonight was supposed to have been dinner here at the hotel for all the passengers, then an evening at the opera. Naturally, in view of recent developments, all this was canceled. But we've contacted Wagon Lits, who does our catering, and they've consented to send down one of their chefs from the Paris office. We have to keep up appearances. We've arranged to have him board here and cook a gourmet meal right on the train."
"And Kobelev is going along with this?"
"Oh, he's been very accommodating. Said he'd be perfectly willing to let us wine and dine him in the best style Europe has to offer if that's what we want."
"I can imagine. This chef, when does he arrive?"
"He's here now, at our branch office. He's due to board at four."
"Call him. Tell him he can go back to Paris. I'll be taking his place tonight."
"If you insist." Welter put a commiserating arm around Southby's shoulder.
"Don't worry about a thing," said Carter.
Southby groaned.
* * *
Carter found the chef, a rotund, genial little man, sitting in a straight-backed chair in the front office of Special Tours, Inc., a black overcoat draped over his shoulders and a battered suitcase at his feet. He told Carter he'd been ordered home, a circumstance to which he seemed resigned, as though his world consisted of contradictory ord
ers to do one thing, then to turn around and do the opposite with no explanation whatever.
From him Carter learned things the tour staff had known from the beginning but which had never penetrated the upper echelons of management. The train engineer, for example, belonged to several Communist Party organizations in Paris; and the night before, when Kobelev had flagged the train at a crossing outside Dijon, it was thought the engineer was in league with them. He had since disappeared, and one of Kobelev's men was running the train. Carter made a mental note to have the man picked up and questioned.
He learned, too, that Cynthia was still in the wheelchair, and when she boarded the night before, she'd seemed dazed or drunk. Carter assumed drugs. The chef had heard this from the woman in the office who had been in radio contact with the train before the Russians had commandeered all communications aboard. Carter added another note to talk with her before he left.
The chef went on to say that Cynthia was being guarded by Kobelev and two of his men in the salon car, which was in the middle of the train, and that four others, two with machine guns, were circulating among the other passengers. This meant eight Russians in all, including the man at the controls.
When he felt he'd found out all he could from the chef. Carter excused himself, went outside, and ducked into a small bistro down the street. He purchased a bottle of cognac and two glasses. When he returned he and the chef toasted one another's health and the health of President Mitterand and most of the French parliament before the chef had to leave for the train station to make his connection for Paris. Before he left, the chef thanked him effusively, and Carter made him a present of the rest of the bottle.