Алистер Маклин: Death Train

He was a forty-four-year-old with a light complexion for an African-born black, his grandfather having been a British Army major stationed in Kenya at the turn of the century.

The sharp nose and thin lips gave his angular face a harshness which was softened by the neatly trimmed black moustache he had worn since his early twenties. He had been educated in England and after graduating from Oxford with a BA (Hons) he returned to his native Kenya where, after a short spell in the national army, he joined the Intelligence Corps. In his ten years with Intelligence he rose to the rank of colonel, but his superiors’ prejudice against his British ancestry and education became unbearable and he resigned to take up the post offered to him with UNACO. To all intents and purposes he was an attaché with the Kenyan delegation at the United Nations and the only person outside UNACO who knew the truth was his wife, and even she had only been briefed in the vaguest possible terms. He never discussed the nature of his work with her.

‘I thought the chef might like a beer.’ Whitlock smiled and took the Budweiser from Kruger.

‘Don’t lie, you’ve just had enough of Dr Kildare.’ He had never lost his distinctive public school accent.

‘I don’t know how Carmen can put up with him.’

‘Carmen?’ Whitlock snorted. ‘Spare a thought for me. At least I’ve got an excuse to miss today’s lecture.’ He picked up the tongs to check the meat. ‘Carmen regards him as a kind of guru and I’m the first to admit he’s been an invaluable catalyst in her career, but I wish he could talk about something other than medicine.’

Kruger grinned then moved to the railing where he watched two female joggers passing beneath him, their bronzed legs moving in rhythmic unison. When they disappeared he turned his attention to a couple of girls who were laughing and giggling as they flung an orange frisbee at each other.

‘You should get yourself a telescope C.W. You could spend the whole day stargazing.’

‘I’d see a lot more stars when Carmen hit me over the head with it. Anyway, those two aren’t much older than Rosie.’

‘None of us are getting any younger,’ Kruger replied wistfully.

‘How is Rosie? We haven’t seen her around here for a while.’

Kruger put a hand on Whitlock’s shoulder. ‘I know. We were counting on her coming with us today but she’d already made plans to meet some friends in Times Square.’

‘Come on Eddie, it’s hardly fair to expect a fifteen-year-old to give up her Saturday, especially one like today, to sit around with a bunch of old fogeys. It’s only natural she should want to be with kids her own age.’

Carmen appeared in the doorway, her hands pushed into the pockets of her flared skirt.

‘How’s the food coming on?’

‘A few more minutes yet. Is school out already?’

She rolled her eyes then returned inside.

Kruger stared after her. ‘It’s weird, a peadiatrician without kids of her own.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Whitlock replied without looking up from the grill. ‘You can have too much of a good thing.’

The telephone rang in the lounge and Carmen answered it on the extension in the kitchen.

‘C.W., it’s for you,’ she called out, her hand cupped over the mouthpiece. He went through to the kitchen and knew immediately who the caller was by the apprehension in her eyes. She handed the receiver to him and left the room without a word, closing the door quietly behind her.

When he emerged Carmen was absently rearranging the chrysanthemums in the crystal vase on the table in the hallway. As he approached her he thought of Mike Graham, the third member of the team, who had lost his family so tragically the year prior to his recruitment by UNACO. What if Carmen’s life were put at stake as a direct result of a UNACO assignment?

Would he react as Graham had done? He dismissed the question as so much supposition, but when he tried to give her a reassuring hug she wriggled free and went out on to the balcony to join the others.

The question stayed in the back of his mind.

‘Get rid of the bum!’ Mike Graham snapped when the radio commentator announced the second strike against the batter. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his eyes riveted to the portable radio at his feet as he waited for the pitcher’s next delivery.

‘Strike three, side out,’ the commentator shouted above the disparaging cries of the partisan crowd.

‘Why the hell didn’t they sell you to the Angels when they had the chance?’ Graham hissed angrily.

It had been an indifferent season for the New York Yankees, the team he had followed faithfully for thirty years, and, at 4-1 down to the Detroit Tigers with two innings left, defeat seemed to be on the cards for a third successive game.

As the commentator began to analyse the Yankees’ seasonal batting averages Graham looked around slowly at the tranquillity of his surroundings. In front of him, as far as the eye could see, was the serenity of Lake Champlain, and all about him were the lush verdant forests of southern Vermont. The panoramic grandeur of the place seemed a world away from New York, which had been his home until two years before. New York was 130 miles away and, apart from business trips, he only ever returned there to compete in some of the city’s more gruelling and arduous marathons. He lived alone in a log cabin beside the lake, his only company a portable radio and television. The nearest town was Burlington and he travelled the five miles there each Monday morning in his battered white ‘78 Ford pick-up to collect enough supplies to last him through the week. He had always been friendly but reserved with the townsfolk who, in the main, accepted his reclusive lifestyle without question. He never spoke of the tragedy which had driven him into seclusion.

He was thirty-seven years old with tousled collar-length auburn hair and a youthfully handsome face marred by the cynicism in his penetrating pale-blue eyes. He kept his firm, muscular body in shape with an hour’s run every morning followed by a demanding work-out in the small shed adjacent to the cabin which he had converted into a mini-gym soon after arriving from New York.

Sport had played a significant part in his life. He was granted a football scholarship to attend UCLA and after graduating with a degree in Political Science his dream was realized when he signed for the New York Giants, the team he had supported since childhood, as a rookie quarterback. A month later he was drafted into Vietnam where a shoulder wound abruptly put an end to his promising football career. He subsequently became involved in the training of Meo tribesmen in Thailand and joined the elite Delta anti-terrorist unit on his return to the States.

His dedication and expertise with Delta were finally rewarded after eleven years when he was promoted to leader of Squadron B, with sixteen men under his command, but while he was on assignment in Libya his wife and five-year-old son were abducted by Arab terrorists in New York. Despite a nationwide search by the FBI he never saw either of them again. He was immediately given extended leave to undergo psychiatric therapy but refused to cooperate with the medical staff and was retired from Delta at his own request a month after he returned to work. At the suggestion of the Delta Commander he applied for a post at UNACO and was finally accepted six weeks later after a succession of exhaustive interviews.

The spinner dipped under the water. He had a bite. As he reeled the fish in he listened with a growing sense of dismay and despair to the baseball commentary on the radio. The score was unchanged and the Yankees were batting in the ninth, and last, inning. He landed the fish without any difficulty. A five pound pike, hardly worth the effort. The bleeper attached to his belt suddenly shrilled into life and after silencing it he eased the hook from the mouth of the pike thrashing about at his feet and brushed it back into the water with the side of his boot.