Assault on the Empress (4 page)

“I don't have it.”

Vols smiled as he exhaled. “Now that's a silly thing to say, David. I mean, really. What if I were just traveling with some friends and didn't know anything about the little ampule you got from Voroncek? Wilton was a clumsy spy, as I'm sure you'd agree. But he had a certain audacity. Which almost paid off for you and your people. But, I'll tell you what, David. You tell me all you can about the Swiss businessman or whoever he is that you gave the thing to, and I'll let you off the train with an hour's head start. I can't promise you more than that, actually. Bit sticky for me at that, if you get my meaning. But, for old times' sake, I'm willing to extend myself.”

Stakowski's voice trembled when he replied. “Go to hell!”

“That's the spirit, David! Now, between you and me, I'm not really an atheist as I should be. I believe in God, Heaven, and, well, in my line of work, I certainly hope there isn't a hell. But I'm willing to risk a hell after death. But, the question before you, David, is, are you willing to risk a hell before death? Because we can make that. I mean, not me. I'm not into extracting information from people. But let me tell you, some of my associates are bloody rough on uncooperative sorts. Talk and you get that hour's start, David. And if you do get caught, I'll go to bat for you and pull some strings in the right places and make certain they just swap you back for someone right away. One of our johnnies is always getting caught at something or another in your country. So, what about it?”

Stakowski didn't speak.

Vols laughed. “Damn! You drive a hard bargain. All right! You win!” The cigarette was between his lips and he spread both palms outward toward Stakowski.

“What?”

“I'll tell you where to get a boat—tonight. Or this morning, I should say, that'll spirit you to safety right across the Adriatic up to San Marino where you were going in the first place. But, you've got to promise you'll never breathe a word of my complicity in the thing. It'd be bloody awful for me when it came time for May Day bonuses!” And he laughed. Stakowski laughed. “Well, what do you say, David?”

“What'll happen to Alyard?”

“That the fellow's name?”

“Thomas Alyard.”

“Well, we'll make a big flap over it, of course, but he'll be traded out rather quickly. Instead of you. What about it? We have an understanding?”

David Stakowski's eyes looked on the verge of tears and there as a puerile smile on his face. “You mean what you say, Vols?”

“Yes, I do. And I'll tell you something else. There're Albanian secret police on this train. I could tell you horror stories about their incompetence, believe me. The fact of the matter, basically, is that all of us are rational. You, me, this chap—Thomas Alyard?”

“Yes.”

“CIA?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. But you see,” Vols said, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned slightly forward, smoke exhaling through his nostrils, “this ampule of virus or whatever. I mean, my people will be careful with it. Just as yours would be. But I hear it's rather nasty stuff, if you get my meaning. Shouldn't want these Albanian secret police fellows to get their hands on it. Bunch of positive twits. They'd probably open the bloody thing and, well, it might well be over for everyone on this train and for some miles around. Ugghh,” and he shivered, not faking the reaction.

“What do you want to know?”

“Good man.” Vols nodded. “Right then.” He decided on asking something easily enough verifiable. “What name is this Alyard chap traveling under?”

“Thomas Rheinhold. Swiss, as I said.”

“And what's his status. I mean, is he a reasonable sort of fellow? Is he armed?”

David Stakowski's face soured. “I armed him. I picked up a gun when I took the ampule off Voroncek. I mean, you know I'm not that kinda guy, Vols. But I was scared.”

“Shouldn't blame you a bit, David. But what about this gun?”

“I gave it to Alyard. He didn't want it, but I made him take it. ”

“What sort of gun?”

“I don't know. It was an automatic of some kind.”

“Right. What's his escape plan?”

“He told me to wait it out for a while until the heat died down, then get out of the country.” Vols didn't push and ask how, just let David Stakowski keep talking. “He didn't get specific, but I bet he's got somebody to smuggle him across the Adriatic.”

“Likely correct, David. He didn't mention any names? Anything more specific?”

“No. There wasn't any reason for me to need to know.”

“Well, there you go. Good to see this Alyard chap evidently knows what he's about. Make it easier to talk sense with him. Now. You wait here until the train stops. Won't be all that long, now, and I'll make certain you walk out of the station with me. Then you get to that boat we talked about and your end of this whole affair is done with.”

Stakowski audibly sighed. Vols felt sorry for him. There was no way that Stakowski wouldn't wind up in the hands of the Albanians, but he would try to do what he could to get him as quickly as possible back to Moscow. The treatment would be considerably more humane. He told Stakowski sincerely, “Thank you for your help, David,” then stood up.

He caught Anna's eye and she nodded that she understood and he walked out the door, shivering as he crossed from one car to another, hurrying into the warmth. A half-hour remained until they pulled in at Durazzo station.

As he passed the compartment where Ivan was listening he knocked and entered, Ivan wheeling toward him with a gun in his hand. “Relax.” He closed the door behind him for an instant, leaning against it.

“Yes, Comrade Major?”

“Meet me in the corridor in sixty seconds.”

“Yes, Comrade Major.”

“You're too formal, Ivan.” He let himself out, passed Alyard's compartment and let himself in to see Piotr. “Come with me.”

Piotr nodded.

As Ivan came into the corridor, Vols could see Anna coming down the corridor.

Vols gestured with his thumb toward the door, Piotr taking the right side, Ivan the left. Anna held back, a Walther like his own coming out of her purse. Piotr and Ivan had their guns drawn as well.

Vols knocked on the compartment door. “Mr. Alyard? My name is Ephraim Vols. I'm a friend of David Stakowski.”

There was no answer.

“I'm coming in, if I may. I'm not here to harm you.”

He glanced to Anna, then Ivan and Piotr.

Vols licked his dry lips and turned the door handle.

“Shit!” He started under his sweater for the P-5 automatic, crossing the compartment in two strides, the compartment window cut out neatly just inside the frame, his breath making steam as he exhaled. He leaned out into the slipstream, gun in hand. He heard the excited voices of Ivan and Piotr. He thought he heard Anna laugh.

He saw nothing but darkness, drew his head inside. “Up on the roof. Be careful. If he's up there, comer him and one of you come back. Quickly!”

He looked at Anna. She showed no evidence of laughter, except in her eyes. “This American or Swiss—”

“He's American. CIA.”

“He's very good.”

“Probably got off the damn train when I got on.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. He opened his eyes. “Heavy breathing when he was sleeping!” And he looked again at the cut-through window and cursed his own stupidity. He folded his arms around Anna and he embraced her.

“I still think you're a marvelous secret agent,” Anna cooed.

And Ephraim Vols started to laugh….

Thomas Alyard, the PPK in his fist, moved through the windward edge of the woods just a hundred yards or so from where the tree line broke into the open snowswept pastures beyond. He had used the fourth diamond, the one given him just in case, locking it into his nail clipper when the train had slowed for no apparent reason back some miles ago. It had been cheap glass, thank goodness. He doubted the improvised cutter would have done nearly so well on good old American safety glass. He had cut out a handhold that he had knocked out with the butt of the PPK, scarring the plastic grips and nearly breaking them, then kept one gloved hand through the handhold while he'd cut out the rest, then juggled the glass adroitly enough to get it inside rather than letting it fall out and crash. But by that time, the train had picked up speed again and he had doubted whether he would be able to jump from the train. Without killing himself.

But the train had slowed again for a grade and he had decided it was then or never and clambored through, held on, thrown himself outward, prayed. His suitcoat had tom, but he had thrown his overcoat out ahead of him and pulled it on over the torn jacket. His suitcase had gone with the overcoat, and once he had made it deep enough into the tree cover, he had changed into the heavy sweater and pulled a second pair of trousers on over the ones he already wore. The neck scarf had gone up over his head and ears to guard against frostbite. But he had still felt silly tying it under his chin. An extra pair of socks on his feet and then another pair over his shoes, the trouser bottoms bloused inside this outer pair to keep the snow at bay. And then he had started on. There was no need for a compass with the tracks and power lines to guide him. He knew where he was going, coming at it from the opposite direction. A once privately held farm with an abandoned barn, a car inside it. If he could get the damned thing started with the cold.

The barn with the car had been for a British operation that had been scrubbed—how the CIA had found out about it from SIS was something he hadn't been told. But the car was his only way out now, his only way to the boat waiting for him in Valona that he hoped would still be able to get him across the Adriatic. And he had to be there by dawn when the fishing fleet went out or else he'd never get out at all.

Something had gone wrong. He had sensed it in more than David Stakowski's manner, more than Stakowski's words.

As he forced his way partially over and partially through a snowdrift that rose to his waist, he patted the little maroon box with its deadly cargo.

If there had been KGB on the train, then when the train had slowed it had slowed to pick up someone who was responsible, in charge. That was the only thing that fit. And Alyard couldn't risk a battle with the ampule on him. A bullet could punch through the little protective box and rupture the ampule. And then the horror would be unleashed.

Alyard kept going, despite the numbing cold.

He let his bags drop to the floor. His left foot kicked back slightly and contacted the door and he slammed it shut. His eyes moved across the cabin. It wasn't as spacious as the apartment he'd leased month-to-month in the overpriced foreigners' ghetto a few blocks from the Vatican, but it was furnished better.

Abe Cross lit a cigarette and walked toward the window, reminding himself consciously that it was a porthole and to think of it as that. It faced the dockside and he saw virtually no movement as he looked out. But at this time of the morning he hadn't expected any. After all the years in the Navy, he still felt very little at home aboard a ship. In the SEALs, he had spent most of his time running, swimming, lifting weights and shooting, then teaching the men under him how to do the same.

The
Empress Britannia
was owned by the same company that owned the hotel.
The Empress Britannia
's lounge pianist, it had been explained to him by the hotel manager, had a personal problem.

“Drinking?”

“Yes. I suppose it doesn't matter to tell you.”

“It's an easy problem to get when you spend your nights in a bar from sundown until closing.”

“I've seen you drink maybe twice, Mr. Cross.” She had smiled, pushing a lock of blonde hair up from her forehead with the back of her left hand, the nails bright pink and immaculately manicured.

“I'm a secret drinker.” He'd grinned.

“No you're not.”

“Let's say I had the problem once and some friends helped me out of it.”

“You're lucky you can still drink. I mean, if you don't mind my saying that?”

“I agree. So, what's my unfortunate fellow pianist's dilemma have to do with me?” He'd lit a cigarette. He kept himself to less than a pack a day these days.

“I've been watching you.” She smiled and her cheeks flushed a little. “I mean, that sounds, well … anyway. You're good. Very good. You could be playing concert halls instead of lounges.”

“I like the people in lounges better.” He'd smiled.

“The
Empress Britannia
sails tomorrow evening on the tide.”

“Better than under it, I guess.”

“Look. I'm trying to offer you something.”

“All right. You want me to take over for the guy who has the problem. ”

“Right. The
Empress
is continuing on to New York, then through Panama to California and up to Alaska and across to Japan. It should be quite a voyage. First class all the way. I can offer you five hundred more a month, and of course all of your expenses will be paid, so except for cigarettes and incidentals, you'd make out quite well.” And she had laughed. “And with your eye for the ladies, those last words of mine you could take literally. Lots of pretty girls with nothing but money to spend on a handsome lounge pianist.”

“You're too kind.”

“Do you want to do it? You'd have to get on board right this evening. Or morning, I should say. You'd have rehearsals starting at noon.”

“Rehearsals?”

“You'd also accompany Doris Knight.”

“Any relation to Doris Day?”

She'd laughed, her eyes sparkling. “No. It's a stage name. Kind of silly, I suppose. But she's a good singer, I'm told. Does a lot of forties and fifties songs already in your repertoire.”

“The arrangements would be different.”

“I hadn't thought of that.

“Nice cabin. The whole lot. The company needs you,” she told him. “You'd make big points with the management. Maybe enough to get you out from behind that piano if that's what you're after.”

“I don't know what I'm after. I'll do it on one other conditions.”

“What's that?”

“What are you doing after closing tonight?”

“Mr. Cross!” And then she had smiled again. “Nothing. What do you have in mind?”

He'd explained that to her at some length afterward, which had been part of the reason he'd gotten in so late. It was five in the morning now and he looked at his watch. His now erstwhile employer had let him off early from the piano bar to help him get packed. Or, he reflected, stubbing out his cigarette, that was one way of putting it, however crudely.

In seven hours, a rehearsal with a singer he'd never heard with arrangements he'd never played, and this Doris Knight would probably resent him anyway, taking over for her cashiered accompanist.

Cross shrugged out of his windbreaker and started to undress, trying to remember in which bag he'd packed his alarm clock. He could cop six hours if he was quick.