Dine and Die on the Danube Express (31 page)

“Place that gun on the floor, Herr Kramer, and do it very, very slowly.”

Kramer froze, the gun held firm in his outstretched hand.

“On the floor!” said Conti in an icy tone, and Kramer obeyed.

“Now step over the gun and kick it back here.”

Again, Kramer did as he was told. Conti was behind Kramer but within my line of sight. I watched Conti pick up the weapon and drop it into his pocket.

“Now,” Conti said, “take that key wallet out of your pocket and do the same with it. Do it slowly.”

Again, Kramer obeyed.

I watched Conti examine the wallet. It was evidently still programmed for the door through which we had entered. He used it to lock the door, then turned his attention to the sliding door on the side of the coach and punched numbers. He appeared dissatisfied with the result and did it again. He took two long steps and pressed the muzzle of his gun against my temple.

“Turn this way, Herr Kramer,” he instructed. “Stop!” he ordered when Kramer had turned enough to be able to see both Conti and me.

“The code for the key to the side door of this coach is evidently different from the door through which we just entered,” Conti said.

Kramer said nothing.

“You confirm that is so? No matter. I know that it is. Now, you will tell me the code for the side door, or I will pull this trigger.”

The voices on the recorder were continuing but, with the cold muzzle of the automatic burning the skin on my forehead, they sounded to me like the chatter of goblins, murderous, insane goblins.

Kramer spat out some numbers, his blond hair seeming even blonder and his glare at Conti even more baleful. The gun at my temple did not waver as Conti, one-handed, tapped on the keys. The side door began to slide open steadily.

“I was supposed to have an assistant to do this,” said Conti, his mood and tone lighter now. “It’s a little more difficult this way but, don’t worry, it will still get done.”

He took the gun away from my head and stepped away from me, keeping Kramer and me covered as he moved to the open door.

“Fraulein Svarovina must not have liked the idea of being your assistant,” said Kramer grittily. “Did she object, and you had to kill her?”

“I had known her sometime ago. When this job came up, I learned that Malescu would be on the train, and I knew that Talia would be with her. I offered her the chance to make enough money that she could give up the menial job of being Malescu’s lackey—she was getting tired of being in the shadow of the great star anyway.”

He glanced out of the open door. What was he looking for? I wondered. He did not relax his focus on us, however, and he went on. “Stupid girl! She was already blabbing Malescu’s intimate details to Czerny—then she wanted a bigger share, otherwise she threatened to spill the story of this job so Czerny could have an even bigger story.”

“So, in your guise as an agent for
Amici della Uva,
you developed a friendship with Miss Tabor, to find out if Talia had fed her any titbits on the theft of the vines?” I said. “One of my informers saw you with her a few times.”

He nodded, but the gun didn’t waver. “Right—and Talia had given her some hints about a robbery. Elisha couldn’t wait to get more of the story, greedy bitch. So I had to get rid of her, too—I wasn’t sure just how much she knew.”

The voices ceased. The tape was probably repetitive and would start up again.

Conti stood by the open door and looked down. From what I could see, all that lay out there was a dizzying drop down a cliffside. At the foot of the cliff would be the Danube, though I couldn’t see it. The train was stationary, perched on the end of the high bridge.

“How did you get the train to stop here?” asked Kramer in a conversational tone.

“A length of rail is tied across the tracks,” Conti said carelessly. “It was easy to estimate just how far ahead of it the train would stop, then I simply added the length of the train and that gave the position that this coach now occupies.”

“You have a boat on the river, I presume,” Kramer said. I presumed he was keeping Conti talking until he saw some chance—but of doing what?

“More than one boat,” Conti said airily, “just to confuse any pursuit. Now, can I persuade you to push that coffin-shaped crate toward this door?”

I saw the look of surprise appear on Kramer’s face. “Sure you don’t want the manuscript, too?” he asked.

“Not me,” was the prompt reply. “You two can take it if you like and say I took it.”

Neither Kramer nor I moved, and Conti shook his head.

“I’m still waiting for you to push that crate,” he said, but neither of us responded or spoke.

“A kneecap shattered by a bullet is very painful,” Conti said, “and often it never heals.”

He held out the automatic and took aim at my right knee. “If the first shot doesn’t get you to push that crate over there, the second will.”

There was a long silence. Nobody moved. Conti let out an audible sigh. “Too bad … very well.” His finger curled around the trigger …

A
beep-beep-beep
sounded. In the quiet coach, it seemed loud. None of us moved, then Conti lowered the gun. It was the cell phone at Kramer’s belt.

If it had not been so dire a situation, it would have been comical. I could almost see the thoughts nickering through Conti’s head as if they were appearing on a screen. His first thought would be to tell Kramer not to answer the phone—but then someone would be alerted and a hunt for Kramer initiated. In the confines of the train, that would not take long; in fact, it would take very little time because I recalled Thomas’s words that the equipment in the communication center showed which doors and windows were open, anywhere in the train.

On the other hand, if he permitted Kramer to answer, Conti had to risk the use of a code word or even a hurried warning. I had a personal interest in his thought processes, as the consequence in the latter event could involve my kneecap.

Conti must have reviewed both alternatives more than once. He made his decision. He stepped closer to me, took a new aim at my kneecap, and said to Kramer, “Answer it. Answer only with one word at a time.”

Kramer looked him in the eye, unhooked the phone and put it to his ear. “Kramer,” he said in a voice remarkably close to normal. There was a pause, and he said, “Yes.” After another pause, he said, “No,” and immediately closed the connection. As he replaced the phone on his belt, he looked defiantly at Conti.

“Good,” said Conti, who had probably been expecting more resistance. He kept the automatic leveled directly at my knee, which had already attracted more attention today than either of Magda Malescu’s. To Kramer, he said, “Push the crate to the door.”

Kramer resisted to the last second, then did as he was told. The crate was not as heavy as it looked. The vines it contained could not weigh much. Conti waved the gun, telling Kramer to back away. It also took the focus of attention away from my knee, for which I was profoundly grateful.

Conti went to the container that had been the source of the bodiless voices and ostensibly held artifacts for the museum. The facility with which he opened it one-handed indicated that he had probably packed it. He reached inside, pulled out a tiny tape recorder, and thrust it into his pocket. He reached in the container again and took out a nylon net sack with a length of nylon cord attached.

Still keeping us covered with the gun, he draped the sack around the crate of vines and tied the other end of the nylon cord around a handle of the door. It was obvious that he had intended to have an accomplice, for these tasks had to be performed with one hand. He tugged at the cord a couple of times to make sure it was secure, then straightened up and, without taking his eyes from us, pushed the crate with one foot until it teetered on the edge of the doorway.

Holding the frame tightly with his free hand, still covering Kramer and me with the gun in the other hand, he leaned out and took some quick looks down. He was evidently lining up the position of a boat and the bank of the Danube far below.

He seemed dissatisfied, paused, and tried again. “Just a minute or two more,” he reassured us, and I presumed that he was mentally cursing the local help and its tardiness.

The hiatus that followed put pressure on all of us. Conti held the gun unwaveringly, pointed in our direction. Kramer tried to shuffle sideways very slowly, evidently with the idea of making it impossible for Conti to keep us both covered at the same time, but Conti saw it and impatiently waved him back.

I was relieved that my knee was no longer such an attraction, but a bullet anywhere else was not much more desirable, and my body was beginning to ache with the tension of keeping still.

Kramer’s cell phone beeped again.

Conti made up his mind more swiftly this time. “Tell them you’ll call back. Say nothing more than that, or I’ll shoot.”

Kramer did as he was bid, taking a long time for each movement. Opening the connection, he said the few words as he was told. He closed the phone and replaced it on his belt.

Conti’s impatience was beginning to show. He grasped the doorframe and leaned out again. Once more, he took quick glances down.

I had been studying the position of the crate with the vines. It was inches from the edge of the floor. A strong push would send it out. I had also been pondering over Conti’s probable future action. If he intended to lower the crate to a boat waiting below, how did he intend to escape? What did he plan for Kramer and me?

One thing appeared obvious—Conti would have to dispose of us. I was trying to catch Kramer’s eye, and, when I did, I was reasonably sure he was thinking the same thing. That made some immediate action vital, risky as it might be.

I put every nerve and sinew that I possessed on full alert, concentrating my vision and my mind on Conti while keeping Kramer within peripheral range.

I was ready for whatever desperate measure might be necessary …

C
ONTI’S MOUTH WAS TIGHT
, the engaging grin notably absent. His gaze was wary. He was in a difficult position and he knew it but he was tough and resourceful. He was no doubt willing to make any sacrifice to achieve his goal—unfortunately, Kramer and I were like the proverbial tethered goats.

He looked outside again, scanning the bank of the Danube beneath us, alternating his scrutiny with quick glances at Kramer and me. He was about to duck his head out again when a new sound came. It was a clattering, thumping noise that vibrated the air, a sound no longer unusual in today’s world—it was the beat of a helicopter motor and the accompanying pulse of whirring blades.

Conti relaxed visibly. A half-smile showed, and he waved the gun happily. “The alternative route! Reinforcements at last!” He stole a look out the open door, this time upward. I could see the craft, and Kramer turned his head so that he could see out the door, too.

The helicopter came dropping down into our field of view. It was light gray in color, with burn stains streaking back from the engine nacelle. It steadied and began to move closer in a curious, crabwise motion.

The thump-thump of the rotor blades pressed tighter on my eardrums. Kramer and I watched impotently as the chopper grew bigger and bigger in our view. Thirty or forty yards away, it stabilized, no longer moving, just hanging there in the air.

So that was how Conti intended to make his escape—his talk of a boat on the Danube must have been to mislead us in case Kramer was communicating to the outside in some way. It left our fate in the realm of doubt …

The helicopter looked large, filling most of the view out of the open door. It began to move. Where was it going? It wasn’t moving away. It seemed to be staying in the same location—then it became apparent that it was rotating. It was turning slowly and ponderously. It stopped when it was broadside on to us. Kramer gave a sudden barking laugh.

What was the matter with him? I saw nothing funny. Then I could make out big white letters on the side of the aircraft announcing ‘
MST
’. Between them and the nose, a door slid open, and something poked out, glinting in the sun.

A gun!
was my first thought, but why was Kramer still laughing? He controlled himself, looked at me, and saw my lack of comprehension.

“MST!” he shouted over the helicopter noise. “It stands for ‘Hungarian Television Service’! You’re going to be on every screen in Europe tonight, Conti!”

Conti made an involuntary start at moving away from the open door of the train, understandably camera-shy, but he stopped and stared out. I could not see why at first, then I was aware of the increase in the clamor of engines and blades.

Beyond the television helicopter came another aircraft, similar in general appearance but darker gray in color. It had no markings, and came up past the TV craft in a purposeful sweep. It was so close that the roar of its motor was deafening, and a blast of air funneled in through the open door. For a second or two, it blocked the view completely, then the craft disappeared and a banging noise came from overhead—once, then a second time. The coach rocked slightly; the latest arrival had landed on the roof above us.

Conti had a new awareness now, confident that help was at hand. He held the gun pointing steadfastly at us. He was too far away for us to attempt to rush him. Sounds came from the roof, and a pair of feet appeared in the top of the doorway. They slid down to reveal legs in dark brown army fatigue pants. A voice called out words that were lost as the blades still clattered.

What was there to hold on to out there? I wondered. Besides that, train roofs were curved, weren’t they? After the figure had released the helicopter landing rail, what was out there that—I didn’t even finish the thought.

There was a cry, and a figure dropped into sight. He was straining to get his legs forward and into the coach. He was too late—his feet hit the edge of the doorway, then he fell backwards. Conti momentarily forgot us and moved to the doorway to try to grab the man, but he was already falling out of sight. If he yelled, the sound was lost.

Kramer had been alert, and now he moved fast. As Conti lunged for the falling figure, Kramer took a few paces to intercept him, but the Italian was fast, too. He swung around, sidestepping and raising the automatic. It was at that moment that another figure appeared in the doorway.