Nick Carter - The Istanbul Decision

Her thoughts centered mostly on Nick, on how he was doing, if he would ever come back to her, and what she would do if he didn't. She told herself she definitely didn't love him, although even before the words had fully formed in her mind, she knew it was a lie. And yet she knew, too, that love between them was impossible. They were two professionals, each with his job to do. They would love briefly, and they would say good-bye, and their love would be sweeter and more poignant because of it. These were her thoughts, but in the cold darkness of the engine cabin, her heart spun out fantasies of the two of them running, laughing into a pounding tropical surf as though they hadn't a care in the world.

Minutes crept by. Time seemed to pass like sand in an hourglass, one infinitesimal grain at a time. Occasionally she would think she couldn't stand it any longer, and she would pace the cabin and strain to see if there weren't two figures trudging toward her at the head of a long column of footprints that would signal her vigil had finally come to an end. Once, by some convoluted reasoning, she even fired a machine gun burst into the air, thinking it might help lead them home. It was only frustration expressing itself, and when she thought of the possibility of the gunshots starting another avalanche, she was horrified. She took up her position in front of the furnace again and vowed not to leave it until Nick himself pried her away.

The hours marched by and sleep tempted her, although the ache in her stomach kept it from being much of a threat. She hadn't eaten since Nick had found the lunch box with the rolls, and although since then she'd gone back and licked the wrappers, it had far from satisfied her, and her stomach had groaned for more. But when nothing was forthcoming, it eventually grew quiet until it lay dormant between her ribs and she forgot about it. Then sleep tugged on her more and more insistently, so that when she heard the first of the cries, she wasn't sure whether it was real or she'd been asleep and dreamed it.

By the second cry, there was no possibility of mistake. Someone was out there in the dark. A woman in trouble. She first thought it was Cynthia returning without Nick, and a stab of cold went through her. But then she realized whoever it was didn't know her name, and she felt confused and afraid.

She pressed herself against the wall by the brakeman's window and quickly glanced outside. In the snow one hundred feet away stood a woman about the same height and general coloring as Cynthia, only dressed in furs. "Help!" she yelled for what was now the third time.

"Who is it?" Roberta shouted, being careful to keep her head well back out of any line of fire.

"Cynthia Barnes. A friend of Nick Carter's. You speak English?"

"Of course I speak English. But you're lying. You're not Cynthia Barnes. Nick left here with Cynthia Barnes about three hours ago. You must be…"

"No! Nick was fooled! I'm Cynthia Barnes. When he came to get me to take this assignment, I was working on a production of A Streetcar Named Desire. Shall I do a few lines to prove it to you?"

At this moment, against all her training, Lieutenant Commander j.g. Roberta Stewart committed a momentary lapse of security. In the parlance, she "dropped her guard." The thought of Nick out somewhere on the mountain at the mercy of Tatiana Kobelev (for who else could it have been masquerading as Cynthia?) so startled her, she stepped into full view in the window. A shot sounded, like a brief thunderclap, somewhere below and to her right. There was a sharp sensation on her head, as though she'd stepped into a whirling propeller blade, and she flew backward.

She lay on the floor, conscious but unable to move, listening as powerful footsteps mounted the metal ladder into the compartment.

"My God, she's still alive!" cried Cynthia, her voice strident. She was scared out of her wits.

"It's of no matter," said another voice, masculine this time, and while there was no accent, Roberta noticed school-book English.

Strong hands took hold of her arms at the elbows and dragged her to the opening. Then she plummeted to the snow.

"You can't just leave her like that!" said Cynthia, tears filling her eyes.

There was a short derisive laugh from the man. "You're quite right. It's most uncivilized of me. But there simply isn't time to call an ambulance. We must be going."

"Aren't you going to wait for your daughter?"

More laughter amid the cranking of valves being opened and the hiss of steam. "You understand nothing of what I've been telling you. I've trained Tatiana to master any situation. Did she not escape the United States under the heaviest security possible? Did she not find me on the Orient Express in the middle of western Hungary? It is a game we play, she and I. It keeps us strong."

The engine whistle sounded, signifying the boiler was ready. The enormous pushrods extended and fell to, and the ground beneath Roberta shook as the huge train began to move down the trade.

Carter found her almost by accident, lying face down in the snow, thrown there so carelessly, her machine gun was still strapped to her back, standing on end with its muzzle in the air. It was the machine gun that led him to her. He'd seen it as he approached, thinking it was another of the shovels Kobelev and crew had been using to clear the track. Then he'd noticed the lump beneath it was the same color as Roberta's parka.

It was hard to say how long she'd been there. Thirty minutes, maybe more. Her lips were blue and her cheeks had a bloodless, ivory pallor that frightened him at first. But as he rubbed her hands and slapped her, buds of color began to appear under the skin. Soon she felt warm, and in a few minutes she opened her eyes.

"Oh," she moaned as she reached for the streak of blood that ran along the side of her head.

"Don't touch it," he said, gently pulling her hand back. "It's just a scratch. You were very lucky."

"Nick!" she cried, suddenly remembering what had happened. "You're alive! I thought Tatiana…"

"Was going to kill me? She tried, but she got distracted."

"Did you…?"

Carter nodded. "I did. The others are dead, too. Including the engineer and the brakeman."

"Kobelev was here. He had Cynthia with him. They took the train."

I know. Don't upset yourself. They haven't got much of a lead."

"But how are we…? "

"Trust me."

He helped her to stand, then picked her up in a fireman's carry over his shoulder.

"Nick!" she exclaimed. "Are you strong enough for this?"

"Don't worry about me," he said with a grunt. "But do me a favor. Don't gain any weight en route."

He carried her, staggering only slightly, until she said she felt up to walking, in fact walking would probably be less strenuous than bouncing on his shoulder like a sack of flour. By this time they were half a mile around the curve in the track. He put her down, and when she turned around her eyes lit up with surprise.

"A helicopter!" she gasped. "Where did it come from?"

"I sort of boosted it from the Hungarian People's Army. They were going to deport me in it. Can you fly?"

"You bet. Part of my naval training."

"Good," Carter said. They climbed up into the cockpit and strapped in. He watched her as she studied the instruments and controls. "Are you going to be able to handle this?"

She looked at him and nodded, then turned back, started the machine, and they lifted off. They found the train within a few minutes, steaming along on a relatively flat, open section of track.

"This is the place to intercept him," Nick said. "The wind here isn't so irregular that you'll have trouble holding us steady. Just match his speed somewhere over the middle of the train. With the noise of that steam engine, he probably won't even know we're here."