The Templar Cross (29 page)

“I feel like an impostor,” said Tidyman, grimacing at his reflection in the little mirror over the sink on their side of the compartment. He raked his fingers through his shoulder-length gray hair.

“You look like something out of
GQ
magazine,” Holliday said with a grin, knotting his red- and-blue-striped tie.

“
GQ
for old men,” grunted Tidyman. “After today’s adventures I feel a million years old. I’m too old to be James Bond.”

“Roger that,” agreed Holliday. “Let’s go get a drink.”

The bar car was a comfortable arrangement of small tables and tapestry-upholstered wing chairs, with a bartender at the ready and a piano player noodling show tunes and Scott Joplin numbers on a baby grand. The bartender looked bored and the smile on the piano player’s face looked completely and utterly insincere. There were only a few people in the car. Apparently if you had enough money to travel on the Orient Express, you were too old to party.

They sat down at the table farthest from the piano. A waiter in a short white jacket took their order and both men leaned back in their chairs. The wheels rattled and roared over the sleepers and the landscape was nothing more than flickering lights and shapes in the darkness, smeared through the heavy glass by the slanting rain that had begun to fall as they left Rome. The waiter reappeared with Holliday’s Martini & Rossi on the rocks and Tidyman’s brandy.

“Truly astounding,” said Tidyman after taking a small sip from the large tulip-shaped snifter. “This morning men die at my hand and this evening I sip calvados in the bar car of the Orient Express wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit. The world is an amazing place, Colonel, wouldn’t you agree?”

Holliday swirled the fluid in his glass, blunting the sharp edges of the ice cubes. He shrugged.

“We did what we set out to do,” he said. “We rescued Peggy. The men that died today, the bald bastard priest in particular, were going to rape, torture and then kill her. People like that live in a different world, Emil, a darker world with darker rules. I just played by them.”

“No remorse, no feeling?” Tidyman asked curiously.

“No more than they would have had killing you or me, or Peggy.”

“A beautiful young woman,” said Tidyman. “She and the Israeli truly seem smitten.”

“Don’t they just?” Holliday laughed. He took a slug from his glass, savoring the taste.

“She is small, your Peggy, petite,” said Tidyman, his voice softening. “My wife was very much like her as well.” The Egyptian’s voice snagged and he turned away, staring blindly out through the dark window.

“I’m sorry, Emil,” said Holliday quietly. “I know how it hurts. I lost my wife as well.”

“Does the pain lessen?” Tidyman asked.

“A little,” said Holliday. “It fades like an old photograph over time, but it never really goes away.”

“Good,” said Tidyman. “I don’t want to lose her in my heart.” His voice suddenly hardened and his eyes grew black as coal. “Nor do I want to forget what I will do if I ever find that
Kekri Gahba
, the desert pig, Alhazred.”

The Egyptian smacked his right fist lightly into his open left palm and hissed a curse.

“Sounds very unpleasant,” commented Holliday.

“You have no idea,” murmured Tidyman. He stared out the rain-swept window, peering into the black night as though it might have answers for him. They sat that way for a long time, silently. Finally Holliday spoke.

“Tell me about your daughter,” he said, and Tidyman turned away from the window, his face filling with light and life again.

They sat together in the bar car until they were the only ones remaining. The piano player eventually signed off with “Kiss Me Good-Night, Dear,” then wandered away while the bartender ostentatiously began polishing crystal glasses that were already gleaming. Outside there were more and more lights flashing by as they reached the suburbs of Bologna. Holliday checked the time. Almost midnight.

Tidyman stood, a little unsteadily, exhausted by the day and feeling the effects of several brandies.

“Time to sleep, I’m afraid,” said the Egyptian. “Mario must surely have made up the beds.” He smiled. “I’ll take the bottom bunk if you don’t mind; I don’t think I could face a ladder right now.”

“No problem,” said Holliday.

“Many thanks for the conversation,” said Tidyman. “This is a hard time to be left alone with your thoughts.”

“My pleasure,” said Holliday. “Good night, Emil, sweet dreams.”

“Or perhaps no dreams at all,” said Tidyman. “Good night, Doc.”

He turned away, stumbling a little and swaying with the rhythm of the train. He pulled open the door, the sound from the vestibule between the carriages rising to a roar. Then the door swung shut and the Egyptian disappeared. The bartender gave Holliday a long, steady, meaningful look. Holliday ignored him and gazed out the window into the rain.

Fifteen minutes later the train pulled into the Bologna Centrale train station.

“How long do we stop for?” Holliday asked the bartender. He took fifty euros of the cash Caruso had given him and put it down on the cherry-wood bar. The man looked down at the folded bill disdainfully, his polishing cloth scouring the inside of a perfectly clean old-fashioned glass.

“Twenty minutes,
signore
, to change crews only,” the man responded. “Be careful or the train will leave without you,
signore
.” The man looked as though that was exactly what he would like to happen.

“Thanks,” said Holliday. For a moment he thought about putting the fifty-euro note back in his pocket, but in the end he let it lie. He left the bar car and went back three cars until he found a vestibule door that was open onto the platform. He went down the steps. The platform was dry but the air was still full of the sharp, clean taste of rain.

The platform was like every other train platform in the world: a long strip of stained concrete, a yellow line warning you that you were too close to the edge, bright industrial lighting turning night into day. Overhead there was a humming spiderweb of wires for the catenary electrical system that powered most European locomotives.

There were four other people on the platform with him, a young couple with backpacks lip-locked on a narrow bench that was advertising something called Zaza, a maintenance worker in a low-brimmed baseball cap and blue coveralls pushing a heavy broom, and a man alone in a trench coat who looked like a young Peter Falk in the TV series
Columbo
. He was carrying a battered, old-fashioned clasp briefcase and wore a rumpled brown suit. Seeing Holliday, he gave a little wave and trotted down the platform. Holliday stayed where he was. The man approached him, raising one hand in a little salute. The man’s shoes were black and highly polished.

“Colonel Holliday?” said Columbo. He had a sandpapery voice of the kind that usually meant a lot of booze and cigarettes. It was obviously American with the flat tones of the Midwest. Illinois or Kansas maybe, but with an odd twang. His expression was tense and wary.

“You must be Czinner,” answered Holliday.

“In the flesh,” the man in the grimy trench coat said. He held out his hand. There was a fat signet ring on the third finger. A West Point graduation ring. Holliday shook the extended hand.

“What a cool jewel you got from your school,” said Holliday, looking down at the chunky gold ring and the large ruby-colored stone in the center. The man looked puzzled for an instant. Then he got it.

“Oh, yeah, you mean the ring,” he said and nodded. He twirled the heavy gold band loosely on the finger. “Lost quite a bit of weight since then.”

“How are we doing?” Holliday asked.

“Could be better,” said Czinner. “Those Czechs, Pesek and his wife, arrived in Venice today. We spotted them at Treviso Airport coming off a SkyEurope flight from Prague. They don’t know they’ve been made by us, but we’re not taking any chances. We’re assuming there’s a contract out on you and your people. We’re getting you off the train early.”

“Where?”

Czinner looked around, clearly nervous.

“We can’t talk here,” said Czinner. “Let’s get you back on board the train.” Czinner looked around the platform again uneasily. The couple on the bench were still completely self-involved. The janitor had gone. Nothing else moved. Brake lines vented. There was an echoing laugh far away and then silence.

They climbed aboard at the first available set of stairs. Already blue-uniformed train men were coming down on the platform to look for stragglers. Czinner and Holliday walked down the train, going from car to car.

They went through all three of the ornate, empty dining rooms, already laid out for the à la carte breakfast, crown-shaped and crisply starched linen napkins marking each place, silver gleaming in subdued light, the crystal bud vases in the center of each table waiting for their fresh flowers. Checking his ticket, the man in the trench coat eventually found his compartment.

“Here we go, old man,” said Czinner, sliding open the door. He stood aside to let Holliday enter.

“After you,” said Holliday, deferring to the rumpled man. Czinner shrugged and stepped into the small room. Holliday followed.

The compartment was a half-sized version of the suite Caruso had arranged for them. A single bunk had been made up from the couchette and a folding table was set up beside the window. Czinner slid between the bunk and the table, then reached up and pulled down the roller blind. He turned back to Holliday.

“Can’t be too careful,” he said. He sat down on the bed and patted a place beside him on the tightly tucked-in blanket. “Have a seat,” said Czinner. He dug around in the pockets of his trench coat and pulled out a Trenitalia schedule and a folded map. He laid both out on the little folding table.

Holliday sat down beside him. Caruso was absolutely right; there was actually an honest to goodness mustard stain on the man’s Windsor-knotted tie and the trench coat smelled of mothballs. His cologne on the other hand was Roger & Gallet. Holliday would have expected something like Old Spice.

Czinner took a fat, expensive- looking ballpoint pen out of his inside pocket, then flipped open the schedule to a turned-down page. He found what he was looking for on the map.

“This is Bologna,” he said, pointing with his pen to a dot on the map. “And this is the main line to the Po River, about fifty kilometers north of us. There is a town called Pontelagoscuro, about six thousand people, a nothing place but it has a railway bridge across the river.” Czinner paused, looking over at Holliday.

“Are you with me, Colonel?”

“I’m with you,” Holliday said and nodded.

There was a piercing whistle from outside and the train began to move and gather speed. Czinner went back to the map.

“At the speed we travel it’ll take us about forty-five minutes. The bridge is for high-speed Eurostars and slower locals like this one. We fixed the signals at the bridge to read double red so the train will stop to let the Eurostar go by first, coming from the opposite direction. It will take them at least ten minutes to figure out that the Eurostar isn’t coming and that the signal is wrong. That gives us all time to get off the train.”

“What then?”

“There’s a footpath down to the river. The terrain is quite flat and the banks aren’t steep. Under the bridge there will be a boat waiting. The boat will take us upstream to the town of Ferrara. From there we’ve got a plane laid on to get you into Switzerland.”

“Very efficient,” said Holliday. “I’m impressed, especially on such short notice.”

“It’s what we do,” said Czinner with a shrug. He clicked the ballpoint pen. Something flashed. The lights flickered and went out for a second as the train slid under a faulty catenary wire and Czinner made his move. Holliday moved first.

He’d been tensed and waiting for it. As Czinner backhanded the pen around in a sweeping arc Holliday lifted his left arm to block the lunging thrust to his throat. At the same time his right hand came around, palm up, the heel of his thumb catching Czinner under the chin.

The man’s head snapped back and his legs came up, smashing into the underside of the table. Holliday twisted around, caught Czinner’s right arm under his own elbow and wrenched it back until he heard bone snap. Czinner screeched and Holliday used the same elbow to crack him across the mouth and nose, silencing him with a gout of blood and broken teeth.

Barely pausing, Holliday gripped Czinner’s right wrist and bent it backward at an impossible angle. Bone snapped again and the lethal pen dropped from the killer’s nerveless fingers. Holliday scooped it up as Czinner struggled beneath the trench coat with his left hand.

The false agent finally managed to extract a flat automatic pistol from the coat, fumbling clumsily with the safety. Holliday didn’t hesitate. Using exactly the same kind of backhanded sweep that Czinner had tried on him, Holliday drove the needle tip of the hypodermic pen into his attacker’s throat. Czinner instantly began to convulse. His feet drummed on the floor and his arms began to flap and jerk.

His eyes bugged and stared as his throat went into spasm. He foamed at the mouth, making horrible gagging sounds. Finally his back arched and his swollen tongue thrust out between his lips. His entire body fluttered on the bunk in a final spasm and he died, the skin of his face flushed in a grotesque parody of rosy health, his eyes wide open, staring into eternity. Curare or strychnine or something like it. Just like the killer who’d attacked him at West Point. Holliday looked down at Czinner. If his reflexes had been a fraction of a second slower, it would have been him instead.

Holliday reached out and took the automatic out of Czinner’s dead grip, then put it in the pocket of his own jacket. He slipped the West Point ring off the dead man’s finger and dropped it into his pocket along with the gun.