Алистер Маклин - Death Train

‘Another time, Jacques. I want to get to Sion as soon as possible.’

Rust pulled on his jacket, then led the way out into the passage and through a side door into the street, the antiques shop now being closed. Sabrina zipped up her anorak as she stepped out into the cold night air and rummaged in her pockets for the keys to the Audi Coupé.

‘Come on, I’ll escort you to your car.’

Philpott gave her a reassuring smile, then he and Kolchinsky disappeared around the corner in search of the restaurant.

‘Want a push?’

‘It’ll be like old times again with you watching my back,’ Rust replied with a grin.

‘And look what happened,’ she said bitterly.

He looked round at her. ‘Why can’t you accept that it wasn’t your fault? If you’d stuck your head out to give me covering fire you wouldn’t be pushing this wheelchair. You know damn well I’ve never blamed you for what happened that night; it was one of those risks we had to take. Anyway, why must this discussion always crop up whenever we see each other?’

She remained silent.

‘How’s Mike these days?’ he asked, broaching the silence.

‘Fine,’ she answered absently.

‘Send him my regards,’ he said as they reached the Audi Coupé.

‘I will.’ She unlocked the driver’s door, hugged him and quickly climbed inside.

He waited until the Audi Coupé had merged with the evening traffic before making his way to the restaurant. Philpott and Kolchinsky were seated at the table nearest the trellised entrance of the small cocktail bar.

‘You didn’t have to sit here just because of me,’ he said, giving the barman the customary wave. It meant he would have his usual.

‘It saves you weaving through all those tables and chairs,’ Kolchinsky replied.

‘This is my very own Monza,’ Rust said, extending his arms.

‘How long before you get some feedback on Werner and the others?’ Philpott asked.

‘It’ll be brought to me as soon as it comes through. You suspect Werner, don’t you?’

‘I certainly think his company’s involved somewhere along the line. If it does turn out he’s personally involved I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be difficult as hell trying to prove it.’

‘Herr Stefan Werner.’

Heads automatically turned to look when the toastmaster made the announcement.

Werner was in his late forties with a short, stocky physique, thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed russet moustache that tapered down over the corners of his mouth. He had a charismatic quality about him that had long made him one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors.

He entered the palatial ballroom and took in his surroundings, mentally assessing the wealth of his hosts. He ignored the mottled marble floor, the neo-Doric pillars and the intricately carved oak ceiling. His only interest was in the collection of paintings lining the oak-panelled walls.

Houses could be paid off gradually; paintings had to be bought outright. He regarded it as a fairly accurate way of weeding out the pretenders from the cream of Europe’s opulent elite.

The hostess broke away from a clique of friends and bustled towards him, arms outstretched. They embraced fleetingly. She was the granddaughter of some forgotten Prussian nobleman and she and her husband had once owned a beautiful sixteenth-century castle overlooking the town of Assmannshausen in the Rhine Valley before selling it in favour of their present mansion on the outskirts of Berlin. They insisted it had been a step up the social ladder; he secretly disagreed.

‘I’m so glad you could make it tonight, Stefan. You know how popular you are with the single ladies.’

‘You flatter me, Marisa,’ Werner replied with an affected smile. ‘You know how much I enjoy your parties. I’m only sorry I had a prior engagement, otherwise I’d have been here much earlier.’

He had long since mastered the art of tactful lying.

‘You’re here, that’s the main thing. I believe you were at the theatre?’

‘At the Philharmonic actually. A recital of Handel’s Messiah by the Berlin Philharmonic and the Schönberg Boys’ Choir. I missed it the last time round.’

‘It sounds as if you enjoyed it,’ she said, leading him across the room.

‘It’s not enjoyment, it’s ecstasy,’ he replied, and helped himself to a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

He caught the tail end of a whispered discussion behind him regarding his worth and was horrified to hear the group settle on a figure of 150 million pounds. Had they trebled it they would have been nearer the truth. Not only did he own Werner Lines, a worldwide shipping empire with more than vessels in commission, but he had also branched out into the freight industry over the past four years and succeeded in cornering an important section of its competitive market by buying out a succession of small, struggling companies and amalgamating them under an experienced board of directors answerable only to him. With his freight company working hand-in-hand with his shipping line he was able to undercut his competitors by offering their clientele the kind of package deals no company director could resist. His success rate was obvious by the number of struggling competitors, many of whom he subsequently bought out to add to his ever growing empire

‘Stefan, I nearly forgot to tell you. There’s someone here to see you.’

Another of her unattached friends who always seemed to find their way on to the invitation list whenever she was certain he would be at one of her soirees. He knew she only had his best interests at heart but he had yet to meet one of these women whose interest in him stemmed beyond his bank balance. Anyway, his standing in society was far too high to have it blackened by the indiscreet infidelities of a wife bored with her husband’s success. He had seen too many prominent European industrialists toppled from their pedestals by tabloid revelations of the pathetic vanity of their wives, frivolously whittling away the family money on a succession of oversexed gigolos. Bachelorhood suited him perfectly.

‘He arrived half an hour ago and said he wanted to see you urgently. He said I should say “Brazil, 1967” and you’d understand.’

‘Where is he, Marisa?’ he asked, gripping her arms.

‘I put him in the study. Is he Russian?’ she asked, stressing the last word.

‘Yes, an old friend of mine.’

‘I suppose he’s with the KGB,’ she said, chuckling.

His eyes narrowed menacingly but he quickly checked himself and smiled. ‘You’ve been watching too many late-night movies. No, we’re in the same line of business.’

‘Is he married?’ she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

‘No, but I doubt you’d find too many takers here willing to give up the delights of the West for a Russian dacha.’

‘Perhaps we could get him to defect, is that the word they use?’

‘I doubt you’d get him to do that.’

‘I’ll get one of the staff to show you the way.’

The butler led him down the hall to a veneered door which he opened. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

‘No, thank you.’

The butler bowed curtly and closed the door behind him.

Benin embraced Werner then held him at arm’s length. ‘You’re looking well, my friend.’

‘I can afford to,’ Werner answered with a smile. He crossed to the sideboard. ‘Scotch?’

‘Please.’ Benin eased the velvet curtains apart and looked out over the brightly lit garden. ‘Is it safe to talk here?’

Werner poured two measures of scotch and handed one of the tumblers to Benin.

‘Quite safe. Any news of the man Hendrique saw? Or the one at the Mainz plant?’

‘Nothing yet, but I’ve got a team working around the clock so it should only be a matter of time before they come up with the answers.’ Benin moved to the writing desk and stared absently at the framed family photograph then turned back to Werner. ‘I’ve come here to ask you to direct operations from on board the train.’