Алистер Маклин - Death Train

‘We’re in business,’ he said when the relevant entry appeared on the screen. ‘The fingerprints check out to one Kurt Rauff.’

‘What have you got on him?’ Philpott asked.

‘You British have a term for him. An international milk thief.’

‘A petty villain in other words,’ Philpott replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘What was he mixed up in?’

‘This and that. He had a number of convictions, all small sentences. Pickpocketing, cheque fraud, embezzlement.’

‘Hardly your gun-toting sniper,’ Sabrina said.

‘Not so quick, chérie ?’ Rust replied, holding up a finger. ‘It seems he’s elevated himself into the big league these past four years. He was involved in gunrunning for the likes of Dauphin, Giselle and Umbretti.’

‘It’s audacious enough for any of them,’ Philpott said, biting the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. ‘Any luck yet with the two men Mike saw on the train?’

‘We’ve come up with a few names. Most of them correspond with the list your boys drew up at the UN. I’ve got men asking around.’

‘May I see that telex?’ Sabrina asked.

Rust pointed to it lying on his desk.

She read it through then looked up at Philpott. ‘You haven’t mentioned that the black-haired man has different coloured eyes.’

‘What?’ Philpott replied in bewilderment.

‘Didn’t C.W. tell you, sir?’

‘I didn’t speak to him. He called at night and spoke to the duty officer. That’s the description he passed on to me.’

‘Jacques, you might–’ she trailed off seeing Rust’s grim expression.

‘One brown, one green, n’est-ce pas ?’

She nodded slowly.

Rust stared at the screen. ‘His name’s Joachim Hendrique.’

‘Balashikha,’ Kolchinsky whispered, ashen-faced.

‘Balashikha? The KGB’s training school for Third World terrorists?’ Philpott asked, staring at Kolchinsky.

Kolchinsky nodded. ‘Run by Directorate S, the most feared division within the KGB itself.’

‘There’s no mention of Balashikha here,’ Rust announced after scanning the screen.

‘I’m not surprised. The true identity of Balashikha graduates is known only to the most senior members of Directorate S. The whole place is shrouded in secrecy.’

‘So how do you know about him?’ Philpott asked.

‘Hendrique was reputed to have been the best student ever to graduate from Balashikha. That kind of information tends to leak out to other members of the KGB hierarchy. Accidentally-on-purpose, if you get my meaning.’

‘Was he one of the names on the list?’ Philpott asked Rust.

Rust shook his head. ‘The only known photographs of him are a series of blurred snapshots taken by the CIA official in Nicaragua. The features must have been too indistinct to program into the computer. The identikit can only match faces already stored in the memory bank.’

‘Yet you knew who he was the moment I mentioned his eyes,’ Sabrina said, sitting forward, her interest stimulated.

‘He once tried to kill me. It happened while I was still with the SDECE. We’d received a tip-off about a shipment of cocaine due in at Nice aboard a South American freighter, so when it was unloaded we were able to apprehend the gang without much of a struggle. A couple of them made a break for it. I chased one into a warehouse where he managed to double back and attack me from behind. He knocked my gun from my hand then pushed me up against the wall, pressing his own gun into my stomach. He was wearing a balaclava so all I could see was his eyes. One brown, one green. He pulled the trigger but the chamber was empty. Most criminals would have panicked at that moment. He just laughed. Then he hit me with the butt of his gun and the next thing I remember is coming round to find my colleagues crouched anxiously beside me. He’d escaped. I’ll never forget those eyes as long as I live.’

‘If you never saw his face–’

‘Having differently coloured eyes is rare enough but he also had the distinctive physique of a bodybuilder,’ Rust said, cutting in across Kolchinsky’s words. ‘It’s the same man, Sergei, I’d stake my career on it.’

‘What does it say about him?’ Philpott asked, pointing to the VDU.

Rust read through the text, translating the salient points from French into English. ‘He was born in Chad in 1947 and raised by missionaries. He ran away to sea at fifteen and made a name for himself as a good, but sadistic, fist fighter. He next surfaced in Amsterdam in 1969 as an insurrectionist amongst the more seditious members of the hippy community and was instrumental in provoking clashes between them and the police. He was never caught. He went to ground and wasn’t heard of again until 1975 when word reached the CIA that he was training the Marxist MPLA soldiers in Angola. After Angola he went to Nicaragua where he fought with the Sandinistas until the downfall of Somoza in 1980. Since then he’s become involved in illegal gunrunning operations across Europe. He’s also known to deal in drugs in and around Amsterdam where it’s rumoured he lives on a houseboat somewhere in the Jordaan area. His favourite weapons are a .357 Desert Eagle, which he always carries on his person, and a Franchi SPAS shotgun. There’s one point that isn’t in his dossier. He never works for himself. He merely employs the muscle and makes sure the whole operation runs according to plan.’

‘You have to give him credit for his choice of weapons, especially the Desert Eagle,’ Sabrina said.

‘Can you put a name to his accomplice?’ Kolchinsky asked.

Rust opened the file on his desk and ran his finger down the list of suspects. One name caught his eye and he programmed it into the computer. ‘Akkid Milchan. Thirty-seven years old. Six feet five. Egyptian. Mute. His face was scarred in an explosion aboard a Liberian tanker in 1979. He also lives in Amsterdam and has been working, off and on, for Hendrique since 1981.’

‘At least now we’ve got an idea who we’re up against. Jacques, you said this Rauff has been mixed up with the likes of Dauphin, Giselle and Umbretti. Find out if any of them has been linked to Hendrique over. the past few months. I also want Werner checked out, but for God’s sake be discreet.’ Philpott crossed to a map of Europe on the wall as Rust reached for the telephone to relay the orders. ‘Sabrina?’

She sprang nimbly to her feet and approached him, her hands thrust into the pockets of her baggy camouflage pants.

‘The train’s stuck at Sion,’ he said, prodding the name on the map with the end of his pipe.

‘And will be until morning,’ she added.

‘Precisely,’ he said, giving her the kind of look a great thespian might give an impish soubrette who had just delivered his punchline. ‘I know it’s been a long day but I want you to drive to Sion tonight. You’ve got a berth reserved on the train so you’ll be able to get some sleep once you get there. Mike needs to be filled in on the latest developments.’

‘You think Stefan’s involved, don’t you?’

‘Not necessarily, but I do think the crate contains the kegs.’

‘What makes you so sure, sir?’

‘Instinct.’

She smiled. ‘You sound like Mike.’

Rust manoeuvred his wheelchair out from behind the desk and stopped it in the centre of the room. ‘Anyone hungry? I know this little restaurant round the corner that serves a delicious choucroute garnie .’

‘I’m famished,’ Philpott said, then turned to Sabrina. ‘Have something to eat with us before you go–’

‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll grab a bit on the way there.’

‘ Friture de perchettes served in butter sauce? Your favourite, chérie .’ Rust said, then kissed the tips of his bunched fingers.