Paul Christopher - The Templar Cross

Caruso opened the sliding door and stepped aside. There was a drawing room with a long couchette, a folding screen drawn back to reveal two bunk beds in the next room, more wood veneer, more brass trim, more paisley carpet and matching upholstery.

There were four small black nylon suitcases stored under the couch and on a brass-trimmed overhead rack. Holliday could see a black dress and several suits on hangers stored in a narrow little cupboard next to the door. Neat, compact and elegant.

"It's a double stateroom, a suite they call it," the young lieutenant said nervously, his eyes on Peggy. "Ten single compartments in each car. These are number six and seven. There are three dining cars, a bar car and three sleepers behind us, four sleeping cars and the baggage car forward. Everything's completely private. Bathrooms at either end of the car. Except for that you don't have to leave the compartment until you get to Paris. The cabin steward will bring you your meals if you want. His name is Mario." Caruso shrugged. "I guess that's it then, sir." He held out his hand. "Do I get an A, Colonel?"

"A plus, Cadet Caruso," Holliday said with a laugh, taking the young lieutenant's hand. They shook.

"Good luck, sir."

The soldier stepped back, gave Holliday a smart, crisp salute and backed out of the compartment.

Holliday closed the door and threw the latch. He turned back into the little room. Peggy was already sprawled on the couch, her legs across Rafi's lap. Tidyman was seated closest to the window, looking out onto the platform. For the first time since the morning he realized that everyone in the room smelled like a hickory barbecue.

Holliday felt a hesitant lurching movement beneath his feet. There was the deep bass note of a generator gearing up, and then, almost imperceptibly, the train began to move, sliding silently forward so smoothly there was the brief illusion that it was the platform moving, not the train.

"We made it," said Rafi.

"I could sleep for a week," sighed Peggy, her eyes already closed.

"Being taken captive and held hostage by Tuareg terrorists will have that effect on you," said Rafi, smiling fondly at her. Holliday felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, remembering his time with Amy, so long ago now, before the awful tide of all-consuming cancer swept her away. He and his wife must have looked like Peggy and Rafi looked now.

There was a quiet knock on the door behind him. Holliday turned around and unbolted the door. He opened it a crack. A handsome thirty-something man in a blue uniform with brass buttons stood in the passage. He was actually wearing white gloves.

"I am Mario, signore, your cabin steward for the duration of your journey. For your pleasure cocktails are being served in the bar car at the moment. There is also a late buffet in the forward dining car."

"Thank you, Mario," said Holliday.

"Prego, signore." Mario gave a little bow. Holliday nodded, smiled briefly and shut the door. He threw the bolt again and turned back into the room.

"What do you think?" Holliday said. "Anyone up for it?" He shrugged. "I've got to stay up to meet this Czinner character at midnight."

"Pass," mumbled Peggy, already half asleep.

"Me too," said Rafi.

"I'll join you," said Tidyman.

"From the look on Mario's face when he saw how I was dressed, I think we'd better change first," said Holliday.

The suits were Zegna and Armani, the shirts were Enrico Monti, the ties were Cadini, the shoes were Mirage and everything fit like a glove.

They'd taken the clothes out of the narrow closet and closed the connecting panel of the screen. Peggy was fast asleep on the couch and Rafi was snoring sitting up. Holliday hadn't the heart to wake them for Mario to make up the bunks.

"I feel like an impostor," said Tidyman, grimacing at his reflection in the little mirror over the sink on their side of the compartment. He raked his fingers through his shoulder-length gray hair.

"You look like something out of GQ magazine," Holliday said with a grin, knotting his red- and-blue-striped tie.

"GQ for old men," grunted Tidyman. "After today's adventures I feel a million years old. I'm too old to be James Bond."

"Roger that," agreed Holliday. "Let's go get a drink."

The bar car was a comfortable arrangement of small tables and tapestry-upholstered wing chairs, with a bartender at the ready and a piano player noodling show tunes and Scott Joplin numbers on a baby grand. The bartender looked bored and the smile on the piano player's face looked completely and utterly insincere. There were only a few people in the car. Apparently if you had enough money to travel on the Orient Express, you were too old to party.

They sat down at the table farthest from the piano. A waiter in a short white jacket took their order and both men leaned back in their chairs. The wheels rattled and roared over the sleepers and the landscape was nothing more than flickering lights and shapes in the darkness, smeared through the heavy glass by the slanting rain that had begun to fall as they left Rome. The waiter reappeared with Holliday's Martini amp; Rossi on the rocks and Tidyman's brandy.

"Truly astounding," said Tidyman after taking a small sip from the large tulip-shaped snifter. "This morning men die at my hand and this evening I sip calvados in the bar car of the Orient Express wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit. The world is an amazing place, Colonel, wouldn't you agree?"

Holliday swirled the fluid in his glass, blunting the sharp edges of the ice cubes. He shrugged.

"We did what we set out to do," he said. "We rescued Peggy. The men that died today, the bald bastard priest in particular, were going to rape, torture and then kill her. People like that live in a different world, Emil, a darker world with darker rules. I just played by them."

"No remorse, no feeling?" Tidyman asked curiously.

"No more than they would have had killing you or me, or Peggy."

"A beautiful young woman," said Tidyman. "She and the Israeli truly seem smitten."

"Don't they just?" Holliday laughed. He took a slug from his glass, savoring the taste.

"She is small, your Peggy, petite," said Tidyman, his voice softening. "My wife was very much like her as well." The Egyptian's voice snagged and he turned away, staring blindly out through the dark window.

"I'm sorry, Emil," said Holliday quietly. "I know how it hurts. I lost my wife as well."

"Does the pain lessen?" Tidyman asked.

"A little," said Holliday. "It fades like an old photograph over time, but it never really goes away."

"Good," said Tidyman. "I don't want to lose her in my heart." His voice suddenly hardened and his eyes grew black as coal. "Nor do I want to forget what I will do if I ever find that Kekri Gahba, the desert pig, Alhazred."

The Egyptian smacked his right fist lightly into his open left palm and hissed a curse.

"Alaan abok, labo abook, yabn al gahba, okho el gahba, yal manyoch kess, ommek, o omen, yabetek!"

"Sounds very unpleasant," commented Holliday.

"You have no idea," murmured Tidyman. He stared out the rain-swept window, peering into the black night as though it might have answers for him. They sat that way for a long time, silently. Finally Holliday spoke.

"Tell me about your daughter," he said, and Tidyman turned away from the window, his face filling with light and life again.

They sat together in the bar car until they were the only ones remaining. The piano player eventually signed off with "Kiss Me Good-Night, Dear," then wandered away while the bartender ostentatiously began polishing crystal glasses that were already gleaming. Outside there were more and more lights flashing by as they reached the suburbs of Bologna. Holliday checked the time. Almost midnight.

Tidyman stood, a little unsteadily, exhausted by the day and feeling the effects of several brandies.