Алистер Маклин - Death Train

His only regret was that the figures hadn’t been released any earlier. Most of his critics were dead, the victims of the fear syndrome he had tried so hard to make them understand.

The ladder was swaying wildly by the time he reached the halfway point. He could see a couple of lights further down in the train, presumably in the coaches, but the front of the train was shrouded in a veiled mist as the first light suffused the distant horizon. Carrie had always maintained there was nothing more beautiful than a New York sunrise. He had disagreed.

Beauty to him was the symmetry of the perfectly delivered curved ball in baseball or the angled precision of a flawless touchdown pass in football. He put those thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the next rung of the ladder. The train was less than ten feet away and he was already planning how he would land and get to the bulky padlock securing the door on the side of the freight car.

‘Michael, I’m picking up something on the radar, dead ahead.’

The powerful spotlight underneath the helicopter illuminated the whole train. They both saw the stone bridge thirty yards away.

‘Take me up!’ Graham shouted into the mouthpiece.

‘I’m going down,’ Kolchinsky replied and dipped the helicopter towards the roof of the rear freight car.

‘It’s too dangerous–’ Graham started, then felt his dangling legs touch the roof.

The helicopter tilted and the rope ladder swung away from the freight car. As the momentum swung him back over the car he let go, landing heavily on the roof.

Kolchinsky immediately nosed the helicopter upwards, desperately trying to avoid the bridge.

He couldn’t clear it in time and the right landing pad struck the stonework and buckled. Stones and masonry tumbled on to the track below as part of the bridge disintegrated from the force of the impact. He managed to regain control of the helicopter but there was a grating sound emanating from one of the Rolls-Royce turboshaft engines and seconds later black smoke began to pour out from the upper fuselage where they were located.

Graham had fallen heavily on his shoulder and instinctively grabbed on to a ridge in the freight car’s roof. It had saved his life. Had he rolled off the roof he would have been flung against the steel stanchion erected to support the reinforced archway. He lay on the roof, momentarily winded, his face screwed up in agony as the pain throbbed through his left shoulder. ‘Michael! Michael!’

He winced as Kolchinsky’s raised voice seemed to reverberate through his head. ‘Michael!’

‘Stop shouting,’ Graham shouted.

‘Are you all right?’ Kolchinsky asked anxiously.

‘I’m alive. My left shoulder hurts like hell though.’

‘Abort–’

‘Forget it,’ Graham snapped.

‘What chance have you got against Milchan with an injured shoulder?’

‘I’ll shoot the son-of-a-bitch, it makes no difference. I’m going in.’

‘One day you’ll surprise us all by actually obeying an order.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Graham replied. ‘What happened to you? I heard a bang as I went under the bridge.’

‘I hit it. I’ve had to land in some field, the engine’s damaged.’

‘And you?’

‘Whiplash, that’s all. If your shoulder’s bad I want–’

Graham didn’t hear the rest. He pulled the headset out from under the balaclava and tossed it away. He realized he was sitting in the dark and flicked on the switch of the Halolight.

Nothing happened. If it had been damaged he knew he could forget about trying to get into the freight car until daybreak. He gave it several taps with his forefinger before it finally came on.

As he moved, a sharp pain shot through his left arm and he pulled it protectively against his body. He waited until the throbbing subsided then made his way to the edge of the roof where he grabbed the top rung of the metal ladder and began to descend the side of the freight car.

Despite the almost unbearable pain in his shoulder he managed to reach the padlock and attach a small magnetized transmitter to it before climbing back up to the roof. Once he was there he removed a matchbox-sized detonator from a pouch on his belt, extended the aerial and turned the dial to the transmitter’s wavelength. There was a muffled explosion as the padlock was destroyed. He was reaching for his Beretta when Milchan’s massive hands appeared on the top rung of the ladder. A moment later his horrendously disfigured face appeared above the level of the roof. Milchan grabbed Graham’s and jerked it sharply. The bullet went wild. Milchan chopped his wrist and the Beretta tumbled from his hand then slid agonizingly slowly down the side of the sloping roof. The butt snagged on the raised ventilator.

Graham ducked a wild punch and made a grab for the Beretta. The train jolted over a fault in the line and the Beretta came free. His fingers raked the roof in desperation only inches from it and he cursed as it slid over the side. He swivelled round to face Milchan, his left shoulder now a constant source of pain. He could barely move his left arm; it seemed dead as it hung limply at his side. This only added to his anger and frustration. He lashed out sideways with his foot, catching Milchan on the side of the face. Milchan dabbed his bleeding lip with the back of his hand then grinned. Graham lashed out again but this time Milchan grabbed his foot and pulled him effortlessly towards the ladder.

Graham saw the punch coming but his left arm refused to respond when he tried to raise it to defend himself.

Then nothing.

The sharp rapping on the door brought Sabrina out of her deep sleep.

‘ Si ?’ she asked, slipping her hand around the Beretta under the pillow.

‘ Buon giorno. Caffè ?’ the assistant conductor asked through the locked compartment door.

‘ No, grazie .’ She glanced at her bare wrist then remembered her watch had been confiscated in Fribourg. ‘ Che ore sono ?’

There was a pause before he answered. ‘ Le otto e un quarto .’

‘8.15? Oh God!’ she hissed under her breath. ‘ Grazie ,’ she called out, then scrambled off the couchette and opened the communicating door.

The adjoining compartment was empty.

‘Thanks for waking me, you guys,’ she muttered angrily, her hands on her hips.

After a cursory wash she donned the habit and wimple, slipping the Beretta into her pocket.

She went directly to the dining car, pausing in the doorway to look around. Her luck was in.

Werner, Hendrique and Kyle were having breakfast, and judging by the food still on their plates they would be there for some time to come. It was the perfect opportunity for her to search their compartments, especially Werner’s. He might be the kingpin but he was also the weak link. Hendrique and Kyle were seasoned criminals; Werner was a businessman. She knew if there were any clues to be found, his compartment would be the place to find them.

First she returned briefly to her own berth to fetch the keys Kolchinsky had taken from the dead conductor.

Her instincts had been right: both compartment doors were locked. Knowing she had only a limited amount of time she decided to go through Werner’s compartment first. The corridor was deserted. Quickly she unlocked the door and went in, fastening it again behind her. There were two pieces of luggage on the overhead rack, a small beige suitcase and an attaché case manacled to the steel pipe against the wall. She climbed on to the couchette and turned the attaché case round to face her. It had a combination lock. She knew the odds against her cracking the combination, even if she had all day, but having learnt never to discount the obvious she tried the locks anyway. They opened. Her astonishment turned immediately to suspicion. Even a harmless businessman would scramble the combination before leaving his case unattended. It had to be a trap. She took a nailfile from her pocket and traced it along the seam, checking for wires. There was none. She looked around the compartment for something with which to lever open the lid. All she could see was a newspaper so she rolled it up and stood to one side, holding it at arm’s length as she lifted the lid up several inches. Nothing happened. She exhaled deeply. Discarding the newspaper she opened the lid. A silver box and a miniature console were the case’s sole contents. Just as she was going to try to lift out the box she heard a key being inserted into the lock of the compartment door. She jumped off the couchette and pulled out her Beretta, aiming it at the doorway.