Paul Christopher - The Templar Cross

The man's head snapped back and his legs came up, smashing into the underside of the table. Holliday twisted around, caught Czinner's right arm under his own elbow and wrenched it back until he heard bone snap. Czinner screeched and Holliday used the same elbow to crack him across the mouth and nose, silencing him with a gout of blood and broken teeth.

Barely pausing, Holliday gripped Czinner's right wrist and bent it backward at an impossible angle. Bone snapped again and the lethal pen dropped from the killer's nerveless fingers. Holliday scooped it up as Czinner struggled beneath the trench coat with his left hand.

The false agent finally managed to extract a flat automatic pistol from the coat, fumbling clumsily with the safety. Holliday didn't hesitate. Using exactly the same kind of backhanded sweep that Czinner had tried on him, Holliday drove the needle tip of the hypodermic pen into his attacker's throat. Czinner instantly began to convulse. His feet drummed on the floor and his arms began to flap and jerk.

His eyes bugged and stared as his throat went into spasm. He foamed at the mouth, making horrible gagging sounds. Finally his back arched and his swollen tongue thrust out between his lips. His entire body fluttered on the bunk in a final spasm and he died, the skin of his face flushed in a grotesque parody of rosy health, his eyes wide open, staring into eternity. Curare or strychnine or something like it. Just like the killer who'd attacked him at West Point. Holliday looked down at Czinner. If his reflexes had been a fraction of a second slower, it would have been him instead.

Holliday reached out and took the automatic out of Czinner's dead grip, then put it in the pocket of his own jacket. He slipped the West Point ring off the dead man's finger and dropped it into his pocket along with the gun.

"You won't be needing this where you're going."

There was a discreet tapping at the door. Holliday jumped.

"Biglietto, signore," a voice outside the door said quietly. For some reason the conductor assumed he was Italian.

"Momento," said Holliday. He turned and dug frantically in the pockets of the dead man's trench coat. He found the blue and green folder and turned back to the door. He switched off the overhead light and cracked the door an inch or two, then slipped the ticket folder through the opening.

"Prego," said the conductor. There was a tearing sound as the conductor ripped off the appropriate flimsy, and then it was slipped back through the crack. "Conserva il biglietto fino alla fine del viaggio, signore," he added.

Keep your ticket until the trip is over? Something like that.

"Prego," answered Holliday.

"Buona serata, signore," the conductor said politely. Brain frozen, Holliday took a guess.

"Buona serata," he answered.

Holliday slid the door closed, squeezed his eyes shut, then held his breath, praying hard.

The conductor moved off down the passageway. Holliday began to breathe again. He stayed that way for a long moment, back against the door, standing in the darkness, Czinner's corpse a dark shadow on the bunk. According to the schedule the train got into Venice at about three in the morning. The passengers wouldn't be awakened until the calls for breakfast beginning at seven, before they began their day of sightseeing in the ancient city of canals and gondolas. Seven hours or so between then and now. Not enough of a head start but it would have to do. He flipped the light on again. Gritting his teeth, he went through Czinner's pockets more carefully, looking for anything he could use.

He had two passports, one a black and gold U.S. passport in the name of Peter Paul Czinner, forty-two, born in Chicago, Illinois. The picture had been overstamped and was clearly out of date, but at a quick glance the body on the bed would have passed.

The other one was a Vatican Diplomatic Passport for someone named John Pargetter of Toronto, Canada, which explained the odd twang. According to the passport Pargetter was an official Vatican photographer. The face in the photo definitely belonged to the dead man on the bed. Father Thomas again. It made sense. They seemed to be everywhere, so why not in the U.S. embassy? Somehow they'd found out about Caruso's operation and the John Pargetter character on the bed had been dispatched to intercept Czinner and take his place. It had almost worked.

In addition to the passports there was a billfold with ten thousand euros in large-denomination bills, a single key on a worn leather ring, a folding Buck knife with bone handles and a brass tang, and a Gemtech suppressor for the Walther P22 semiautomatic. The dead man wore a religious medal around his neck. A bald, bearded and emaciated St. Nicholas in gold. Holliday smiled sourly. Someone had a sense of humor. St. Nicholas was the patron saint of military intelligence.

Holliday took the Buck knife, the silencer, the key and the billfold. He left the medal where it was. He stood and looked at his watch. They'd reach the bridge in less than twenty minutes. He had to wake the others quickly. They were running out of time. He stood, turned out the light a second time and went to the door. He slid it open and looked out. The passage was empty, the overhead lights glowing dimly. He slid the door open fully, slipped out of the compartment, then closed the door firmly behind him.

He headed down the train, moving softly down the corridor, then went through into the next car. A steward was dozing in his little alcove across from the toilet. Holliday eased by and continued on. The next car was his. The door to Mario's little cubicle was closed. Holliday went down the corridor to bedroom seven, praying that Tidyman had remembered to leave the door unlocked. He tugged the brass handle and breathed a sigh of relief as the door slid open easily. He stepped into the room, turning to shut the door behind him.

Time stopped.

The violet-colored night-light in the ceiling of the compartment was on. A figure in dark blue coveralls was crouched on the floor, rummaging through a suitcase. The janitor with the broom on the train platform in Bologna. Emil Tidyman lay on the bed, eyes shut, a rubbery, gaping wound in his slit throat still seeping blood into the already soaking sheets. Murdered in his sleep by a thief in the night. He never had a chance.

The man in the coveralls rose up, turning, a heavy rubber-handled commando knife in his hand. Holliday stared, horrified. It was Rafik Alhazred, haggard and drawn, a wild, desperate look in his eye. He lunged forward.

"Wad al haram!" Alhazred hissed, the big knife flashing down.

Years before, a Ranger drill sergeant and instructor with the unlikely and unfortunate name of Francis Marion had told Holliday that only an idiot talked in the middle of a knife fight and only an idiot would try to stab you like Anthony Perkins in Psycho.

Holliday reacted exactly the way Francis Marion had trained him. He kicked Alhazred in the kneecap, kneed him in the groin and used the flat of his palm to crush the cartilage of his nose.

Alhazred's knife glanced off Holliday's forearm, gashing through the fabric of Holliday's suit jacket, drawing blood, and then Alhazred was on the floor, facedown. Holliday barely noticed, continuing the attack.

He stamped hard on Alhazred's wrist, disarming him, then dropped his knee across the back of Alhazred's neck, breaking it with a distinct wet cracking sound. Holliday stood up, his breath coming in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his arm.

"You cowardly son of a bitch," said Holliday slowly. "You killed my friend." He sagged against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.

The train slowed and then came to a lurching halt. They had reached the railway bridge across the Po.

Holliday tried the latch on the partition door between the two compartments. It was locked. He hammered on it.