Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  For several seconds, Dewey lay on the roof just inside the steel slat, near the edge, catching his breath. Then he started to crawl, staying as low to the roof as he could so as not to be blown off. He crawled to the apex of the roof and shimmied forward toward the first-class car. He came to the accordion that enclosed the connection point of the two train cars, being careful not to make any noise. He knew the two gunmen were standing just below the accordion. One false step, too much weight, an accidental grunt, and they would investigate. Dewey slithered over the accordion, like a snake, introducing his weight gradually.

  Once he was on top of the first-class car, Dewey crawled to the side, closer and closer to the edge. The roar of the wind mixed with a constant powerful grumble from the locomotive. He felt as if he were in the middle of a hurricane. He found the steel slat and gripped it. With his left foot, Dewey tried to hold his body steady, pressing the toe of his boot against the steel. Slowly, he inched his head over the edge of the speeding train, trying to get far enough out so that he could see into the windows of the first-class compartments. He started with the first compartment. In the dimmed light he could see two couples, all four people reading. In the next car, a table had been opened and four teenagers were playing a card game. He kept moving forward. Another compartment was occupied by two old men, one reading, the other spread out on the opposite bench asleep. Then he came to the next compartment and saw her.

  Her hair was cut short, nearly bald.

  She’s running.

  * * *

  Katie’s cell phone vibrated. It was a text.

  FRIEND TO THE MIGHTY

  “Mighty” referred to a standard code, one typically used during operations.

  Last letter of the first word: D = the 4th letter of the alphabet = 4.

  Four men were aboard.

  “To” = T means delay. O means time.

  “The” was for how long.

  Three letters = 3 hours.

  The chopper was delayed by three hours.

  Katie cursed under her breath.

  * * *

  Dewey remained still atop the car for a few more seconds, then backtracked, going in reverse, knowing that turning around would expose the heaviest part of his body to the wind and possibly result in being blown off the train.

  When he found the bathroom window, he stared in. A woman was washing her hands. When she left, he waited. Satisfied there was no one waiting to come in, he swung back to the side of the train, clutching the steel slat for dear life. He kicked the red window latch, opening the window. He stuck a foot on the sill, grabbed the upper edge of the frame, and yanked himself back inside the bathroom.

  He pulled off the ski mask as he moved to the door and locked it. He took off his gloves and put them in the pocket of the parka along with the ski mask, then took off the parka. He looked around, seeing a small stainless steel door beneath the sink. He took a pick gun from his pocket, stuck it in the lock, and pressed the trigger. A moment later, the door opened. Pipes from the sink took up some of the space, but there was room. He put his parka inside, reached to the paper towel holder to retrieve his eyeglasses and gun, and put the gun on top of the parka and shut the small door. He put on the eyeglasses and looked into the mirror. He was bright red and sweating. Still, his hair remained for the most part white. It didn’t matter anyway; there was nothing he could do at this point.

  Dewey found his walking stick and ambled down the aisle to his seat. He glanced at Beauxchamps, then climbed over the man next to him, who was still sleeping.

  In silence, Dewey stared out the window as he fought to catch his breath. He tapped his ear.

  “I found her,” he said. “Let’s get ready to move.”

  “Not so fast,” said Katie. “The chopper’s three hours away. Mack just texted me.”

  “Fine,” said Dewey. “So we wait.”

  “There could be a problem with waiting,” said Katie. “There are three other men aboard.”

  “We’re not going to make it three hours,” said Tacoma. “Dewey’s a sitting duck. We need to clear some of these motherfuckers out.”

  “I have an idea,” said Dewey. “Rob, meet me in the restroom. Katie, you watch the first-class car. If she is running—if someone is after her—they can’t get in there.”

  “Roger that.”

  Dewey stood up and stepped over the sleeping man. He nodded to Beauxchamps, indicating he wanted him to follow him to the front.

  * * *

  Four cars back, Reema sat alone at a table in the cafeteria car, sipping a cup of tea. She noted Sangar’s entrance out of the corner of her eye, though she didn’t acknowledge him.

  As Sangar passed her table, he placed a small piece of paper down and kept walking toward the front of the train. She waited several minutes and then looked at the paper.

  “Come.”

  Reema walked to the front of the car, looking for Sangar. The restroom was empty. She kept moving, pacing down the dimly lit aisle of the next car. At the front, through the doors, she saw Sangar, smoking a cigarette.

  “I saw him,” Sangar said quietly, in Persian.

  “Where?”

  “He’s in the second car, disguised as an old man. A sweater with buttons, big glasses. I’m going to kill him.”

  “I thought we’re supposed to try and apprehend him,” whispered Reema. “Kill him as a last resort.”

  Sangar flicked the cigarette to the floor.

  “Fuck that. Do you really think we can simply grab him and walk off the train with him? Now, are you coming?”

  Reema shook her head.

  “No, not yet. So you go up and kill him and then what, get arrested at the next stop? No, thank you. I’ll wait back here. If you kill him, I will help you escape. If you fail, I will still be free to try and do what we were supposed to do. Abduct him if possible, kill him if necessary.”

  70

  OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  King leaned an inch or two closer to Bruner. “What was Order Six?” he said.

  “There were many programs, Adrian. Many orders. I was preparing to leave the Agency. It was also some time ago.”

  “It was the only order Casey issued in six years,” said King.

  “Why don’t you have someone pull the file? Surely you didn’t bring me here just to ask me about some old CIA operation I was involved with? I was involved in quite a few.”

  “The files regarding Order Six were scrapped. Even the metadata.”

  Bruner paused and looked down, deep in thought.

  “Well?”

  “I’m thinking,” said Bruner. “Surely if it was Bill’s only order, there’s a copy of it somewhere. Have you asked Director Calibrisi?”

  “What was Order Six, Charles?” King repeated impatiently.

  “Let me see,” said Bruner, beginning the lie. “In 1983. You say it was a joint Agency-State program? I vaguely remember an initiative to infiltrate some of the early terror entities using both State Department and Langley people. Go in using diplomacy, but have force backup if necessary. A kinder CIA, if you will. But when I got to State, I wasn’t involved. That would’ve been the Agency. I became an administrator a million miles away from where the action was. It’s what I wanted.”

  “Did you keep any files?”

  “Of course not,” said Bruner. “It’s a felony, as you know. So I answered your questions, now answer mine. Why are you asking about this?”

  King reached over to his desk and grabbed a bottle of Poland Spring. He took a large guzzle, wiped his lips, then looked at Bruner.

  “They launched a satellite. They needed a closed-loop system so no one knew what they were doing. They launched it in 1994. The program was shut down in ’97. But someone’s still using it. Someone who was in Toronto the day of the massacre. Another call was made from the Hotel George Cinq—five minutes after Lindsay was killed. That’s why we’re interested.”

  Bruner nodded heavily, as if
suddenly understanding.

  “Now I understand why you want to know about this order,” he said. “Come to think of it, there was someone. He was chief of station somewhere. I need to remember his name. He was angling to run the program. As I recall, he was put in charge of it. He didn’t play by the rules. Keeping a satellite in the air? It’s definitely something I could see him doing. I just need to remember his name. Anthony. No Andrew. Andrew something.”

  King looked down at his desk, reading the list of names Calibrisi had sent over.

  “Flaherty,” said King.

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Bruner. “Andrew Flaherty. Short, glasses. He used to talk about moving to South America and having his own army, running it for profit. Crazy stuff like that. But an adept agent. A smart man.”

  71

  FRANCE

  Dewey entered the restroom, followed by Beauxchamps and quickly thereafter by Tacoma. He locked the door.

  “What are we doing?” said Beauxchamps.

  Dewey ignored him. He looked at Tacoma.

  “Do you have an extra earbud?”

  “Yeah.” Tacoma handed a small plastic case to Dewey, who gave it to Beauxchamps.

  “Put it in your ear,” said Dewey. “You tap twice to talk.”

  Beauxchamps put it in his ear, a confused look on his face.

  “What is going on?” he said.

  There was a sudden knock on the door, then a deep voice, speaking in French.

  “It’s the conductor,” said Beauxchamps.

  “Perfect timing,” said Dewey.

  Dewey went to the cabinet and removed his gun: Colt M1911A1 .45-caliber semiautomatic. He went to the door, just as the conductor banged again.

  Dewey opened the door.

  “Excuse me,” he said, nodding at the conductor.

  Dewey lurched—grabbing the large man by the tie and heaving him into the bathroom, throwing him down to the floor, at all times training the gun on his head. He locked the door as he kept aim on the conductor.

  Tacoma watched, his eyes slightly wide. Beauxchamps looked flummoxed.

  Dewey’s face was blank, emotionless. The conductor, who looked shocked, immediately threw his arms back, staring up at Dewey.

  “Do you speak English?” Dewey asked.

  The conductor nodded.

  “Don’t talk,” said Dewey. “If you want to live, do exactly what I say. You press an alarm in your pocket, yell something, you’re dead. Do you understand? I have no problem killing you. Frankly, it would be easier. Do you understand?”

  The conductor nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”

  Dewey scanned him. He had on a blue uniform, along with a cap. He glanced at Beauxchamps. It would be a little baggy.

  “Stand up. Take your clothing off,” said Dewey. “Put everything on the floor.”

  The conductor began to get undressed.

  Dewey looked at Beauxchamps. “You too. Strip. Put on the conductor’s stuff.”

  Over the next few minutes, Beauxchamps removed his clothing and put on the conductor’s uniform. It was too big, but it would suffice. The conductor, meanwhile, pulled on Beauxchamps’s clothing, which was several sizes too small.

  “Here comes the tough part,” said Dewey to the conductor, pointing at the window with the muzzle of the gun. “You can either jump out the window, or I can kill you and throw you out. It’s up to you.”

  “It’s … it’s snowing out. We’re already in the mountains.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Dewey pointed at the cabinet.

  “There’s a jacket in there. Put it on, it’ll keep you warm. Now listen, this is important. When you jump, hold your arms around your head, like a helmet. No matter what happens, keep holding on to your head.”

  The conductor nodded as he put on the parka.

  “Once you land, climb back up to the tracks. You know where we are better than I do. Walk to the nearest town.”

  Dewey pulled the window open. The conductor trudged reluctantly to it. He looked out, climbed to the sill, and hesitated. Then he jumped.

  Tacoma started to shut the window, but Dewey stopped him.

  “I’m going back out. Listen carefully. This is how it’s going to work…”

  * * *

  In the first-class dining room, Romy sat down at an empty table. The small brass lamps atop each table cast a golden color through the room, which reflected off the windows. The tablecloth was white and the table was set for two, along with wineglasses, water glasses, and silver.

  Romy was hungry. Famished. She hadn’t eaten in two days. All she could think about was eating. Yet she couldn’t help glancing around the room. Several couples were enjoying a romantic dinner. A pair of children—perhaps seven or eight years old—were enjoying large bowls of ice cream, giggling as they ate.

  When the waiter came by Romy’s table, she looked up, momentarily startled.

  “Good evening, madame,” he said. “May I start you off with something to drink?”

  “Mademoiselle,” Romy corrected him. “A glass of wine, please. Red, a Bordeaux.”

  “Of course. And will you be dining with us this evening?”

  “Yes.”

  The waiter extended a menu to her.

  “I’ll be right back with that glass of wine, mademoiselle.”

  “Merci.”

  She stared out the window at the swirls of snow. As much as she tried to put it out of her mind, she couldn’t. The man on the platform. Why was he there?

  Not everything has to do with you.

  She smiled for a brief moment at the thought. It’s true, she’d fallen into a state of constant paranoia, always looking over her shoulder, and yet not every strange incident, not every odd look, had to do with her.

  For a few brief seconds, Romy enjoyed the thought. Maybe the man on the platform was just that, a weird incident. Then she remembered Marseille, and her smile disappeared. She could never rest again. She would never be the same again. This was to be her new life, running from someone or something she didn’t understand, running from men sent halfway around the world to kill her, running to places she didn’t know, her only protection the simple fact that she didn’t know what she was doing, her every move was unpredictable because she didn’t know what she was going to do until she had to do it.

  Romy’s temporary joy at forgetting slipped away and a dark fear reclaimed her.

  “Mademoiselle, your wine,” said the waiter, placing the glass in front of her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you had time to look at the menu?” he asked.

  “No. Could you recommend something?”

  “Of course. Do you like lamb chops? They’re very good, purchased this morning from the market in Avignon.”

  “That sounds good,” she said.

  * * *

  Kyrie looked at Fortuna. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  “How do I know you don’t work with him?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. If I worked with him, I would’ve killed you by now. My guess is, he’s alone. He works alone.”

  “I don’t need you,” said Fortuna. “I can kill him myself. I found him, didn’t I?”

  “You did? Where is he?”

  Fortuna grinned. “He’s on the train.”

  “You haven’t found him,” Kyrie whispered contemptuously. “You might be on the same train as he is, but there are a thousand passengers. Did you think you’d just waltz down the aisle, identify him, and shoot him? He’s highly trained. That’s why you only have two men right now instead of four.”

  “I appreciate your offer, but I don’t need you,” said Fortuna. “I’ll blow up the train if I have to.”

  “Wrong,” Kyrie said.

  “What do you mean, wrong?”

  “I saw your man at the station,” said Kyrie. “Chalon-sur-Saône. It was obvious. If you’re going to carry explosives, don’t act like it. He carried the suitcase like it was about to explode. No one carries a
suitcase that way. I followed him onto the train. He put it in the overhead, and when he sat down, I waited. He was looking at his reflection in the window, making sure he still looked good. I took the suitcase and carried it off the train and put it next to the garbage can. If you don’t believe me, go look. I kill people like you for a living, Nebuchar. Blowing up the train is not an option, and by the way, I don’t care if Andreas lives or dies. I want what he’s after, that’s it.”

  “What is that?” said Fortuna.

  “None of your business.”

  “Someone? Who? If we’re going to work together, I should know.”

  “None of your fucking business,” said Kyrie. “I don’t need your help. You, however, need mine. The deal is simple. I help you find Dewey Andreas, and you and your team of scumbag Muslims kill him and then get off at the next stop. I don’t want added complications after Andreas is dead.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Distraction,” said Kyrie. “Elimination of a competitor. And, frankly, it would be fun to see if you can do it. My money says no—even with my help.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” seethed Fortuna. “There’s no greater force than hatred, the desire for revenge. He killed my father. He killed my brother.”

  “Your brother tried to destroy America. Then your father tried to kill him. I’d want revenge, too, but don’t try and tell me they didn’t deserve it.”

  Fortuna stared angrily into Kyrie’s eyes.

  “Andreas is focused on something else right now,” Kyrie said quietly. “It took something to track him here, I’ll give you that. You’re already two steps ahead of your father. Your biggest asset right now is that he’s distracted. His greatest asset is he knows you’re here—that and the fact that you can’t identify him. But I can. You and your men will have a tactical advantage. It will only last for a short amount of time. Minutes, not hours. You need to be ready and you need to move quickly.”