Алистер Маклин - Death Train

Whitlock moved to the front door and pressed himself against the wall inches from the broken pane of glass. The driver would have to put his hand through to unlatch the safety chain. Although the driver was wearing rubber-soled shoes Whitlock could still hear him moving stealthily across the porch until his silhouette loomed up against the rippled-glass door.

He grabbed the hand as it snaked through the broken pane and jerked it up on to a shard of glass. The driver screamed in agony as the glass sliced through the back of his hand. Whitlock quickly slipped the chain and yanked open the door, snapping the glass from the frame, and punched the driver hard on the side of the head. The blow knocked him backwards into the cane furniture on the porch. Recovering himself, the driver grabbed one of the overturned cane chairs and brought it up viciously into Whitlock’s stomach then vaulted over the railing and sprinted to the Mercedes, his left arm dangling limply by his side.

By the time Whitlock reached the Golf the Mercedes had already accelerated away from the house. He started up the Golf and sped after the black car as it hurtled down Boetckestrasse towards the docklands along the Rhine. The Mercedes failed to negotiate the bend as it cut into Rampenstrasse and slammed into the side of a parked Volkswagen. Whitlock brought the Golf to a halt and waited. The Mercedes, with smoke escaping from its crumpled radiator, reversed and narrowly missed a Renault van parked on the other side of the street. The driver swung the wheel violently as the Mercedes drew abreast of the nearest side street and somehow managed to negotiate the narrow entrance without damaging the bodywork any further. He could only have realized at the last possible moment that the side street led directly on to the wharf but when he slammed on the brakes the wheels failed to grip on the wet surface and the car cartwheeled once before slewing another ten yards and disappearing over the side into the water.

By the time Whitlock had cut the engine and run to the edge of the wharf the Mercedes was already sliding backwards into the water. He stood where he was for several minutes after the car had sunk but there was no sign of the driver. He returned to the Golf and drove back to the house. After checking that Karen was still asleep he made himself a fresh brew of coffee and took his mug into the lounge.

Seated on the sofa he closed his eyes and thought about Carmen back in New York. Within minutes he had fallen asleep.

A sharp rap on the compartment door woke Graham and Kolchinsky.

Kolchinsky climbed off the couchette and peered through the crack between the curtains. He unlocked the door and slid it back.

The assistant conductor gave him a tired smile. ‘ Buon giorno. Correggio, quindici minuti .’

‘ Grazie ,’ Kolchinsky replied and took the tray from him.

The assistant conductor closed the compartment door and headed off down the corridor, whistling softly to himself.

Graham rubbed his eyes sleepily. ‘Correggio?’

‘Fifteen minutes,’ Kolchinsky said and handed him a cup of coffee.

‘What time is it?’ Graham asked.

‘Five to four.’

Graham sat up and watched Kolchinsky shave over the small washbasin in the corner of the compartment. Each stroke of the blade was timed to coincide with the train’s systematic rocking. He then studied Kolchinsky’s white bodysuit.

‘Standard KGB issue?’

Kolchinsky met Graham’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror. ‘No, just common sense. It’s thermal, perfect for this kind of weather.’

Graham stretched, then got to his feet. He was wearing a tracksuit and a pair of thick woollen socks. He dropped nimbly to the floor and effortlessly executed thirty one-handed press-ups, alternating hands. This was followed by fifty sit-ups and he completed the short programme with twenty normal press-ups before springing to his feet and dusting his palms together.

‘Is that a daily routine?’ Kolchinsky asked, towelling his face.

‘It’s part of a daily routine. There isn’t time to do it all.’

Five minutes later they were both dressed in suitably warm, insulated clothes in readiness for the sub-zero temperatures they would encounter on leaving the train at Correggio.

‘Sabrina asked to be woken before we left. I think you should do it.’

Graham shrugged and opened the communicating door. She was curled up on the couchette, her knees drawn up to her chest, her right hand trailing on the carpet. The blankets had slipped down to her waist and although she looked uncomfortable her face was serene and peaceful. He was about to shake her then abruptly changed his mind and carefully pulled the blankets up over her shoulders, tucking them in gently around her neck. He considered slipping her arm under the blankets but decided against it; the movement would almost certainly wake her.

Kolchinsky stood aside to let Graham back into the compartment. He closed the communicating door silently. ‘So, there is another side to the cynical Michael Graham.’

‘What?’ Graham said sharply. ‘Why wake her now? She’s not involved in this part of the operation. Let the kid sleep, she’s had a couple of rough nights in police custody. Come on, the train’s slowing; we must be nearing Correggio.’

By the time they reached the end of the corridor the train had already pulled into the dimly-lit station. The platform was deserted and apart from a frumpy middle-aged woman with a whimpering child they were the only passengers to alight from the train. Graham picked up his two holdalls and followed Kolchinsky through the unmanned ticket barrier into the deserted concourse.

‘I’ll call Zurich and get them to send through a helicopter as quickly as possible.’

Graham sat on the nearest bench and watched Kolchinsky cross to the row of public telephones against the far wall. A prostitute entered the station from the street and approached Graham. She was a teenager with an attractive face marred by an excessive amount of make-up and a slender figure accentuated by the tight-fitting black leather jacket and mini-skirt. She rested one of her feet on the bench.

‘ Buon giorno, come si chiama? ’ she purred seductively and traced her finger over his lips.

He batted her hand aside and glared up at her. ‘I’m not interested. Take a walk.’

Although she understood no English the tone of his voice was enough to warn her off. She walked back towards the entrance leading out into the street.

‘Who was that? A prostitute?’ Kolchinsky asked when he returned.

‘Yeah, a baby-pro,’ Graham said dismissively.

‘A baby-pro?’ Kolchinsky asked, frowning.

‘Jailbait. A hooker who’s still under the legal age of consent.’ Graham gestured towards the telephones. ‘Did you get through to Zurich?’

Kolchinsky lit a cigarette then nodded. ‘We’ve had a stroke of luck. One of our helicopters is in Milan. It should be here within the hour.’

‘Where do we meet it?’

‘We don’t. Zurich said they’ll have a hired car waiting at the landing place so the pilot can come through and pick us up.’

Graham glanced at the prostitute standing in the entrance. ‘When I see a tramp like that I guess I should appreciate Sabrina a little more.’

‘I think you do already, only you won’t admit it. Take tonight for instance, on the train.’

‘I covered her up because the last thing we need at this stage of the assignment is her going down with pneumonia. You’re making a lot out of nothing, Sergei.’

‘Am I?’ Kolchinsky replied. ‘She thinks a lot of you, you know.’

Graham stared at his feet. ‘We’re so different. She’s the epitome of the little Yuppie girl. A slave of fashion, living in the affluent part of the city, eating out at all the chic restaurants, driving a Mercedes Sports bought for her by Daddy. That’s another thing, her father’s done everything for her. He bought her a flat, bought her a sports car, influenced the Secretary-General–’