The Romanov Conspiracy (74 page)

In the Opel, Sorg watched Kazan step into the carriage, holding the white handkerchief. He felt a hatred so powerful that it almost overwhelmed him. He looked down at his bound hands. He tried to loosen the rope but it was useless. The pen was in his right pocket, but he couldn’t reach it from a sitting position, the rope too tight.

If Anastasia wasn’t already dead, she soon would be—the troops would make sure of that. He accepted his failure. It was all a disaster. But if they were both going to die, he wanted to be with her. Something else he wanted: to kill Kazan.

If I could get on board the train …
He shifted his body weight to the right and struggled to grasp the pen.

The driver in the front seat was still busy watching the carriage.

Sorg felt the nub of the pen through his pocket. But he couldn’t stretch his fingers far enough to reach. He twisted his body more, felt an intense stab of pain in his wounded side, and grunted.

The driver snapped his head round, waving his gun. “What are you up to?” he demanded.

Sorg groaned. “My—my wound’s bleeding.”

The man grinned. “Tough.” He turned back to watch the carriage.

Sorg twisted his body until the pain in his side became so intense he
could hardly breathe. He felt himself passing out. His fingers grasped the pen. He tried to inch it out of his pocket.

The pen slipped onto the floor.

The man in the front turned round again. “What was that?”

“My … wound … the bleeding’s getting worse.”

“Let me see.”

Sorg lurched forward, groaning as if in pain. He felt for the pen on the floor, grasped it between his fingers, and managed to unscrew the top with his thumbs and forefingers.

The guard twisted to look into the backseat. “I said let me see! What are you up to—”

Sorg’s hands came up and skewered the blade into the man’s windpipe. Blood gushed, cutting off the cry in his throat. He slumped forward, gave a tiny grunt, and fell still.

Sorg, drenched in sweat, managed to cut the rope with the blade, freeing his hands. They were covered in blood. He wiped them on the dead man’s clothes and grasped the pistol. Looking behind him, he saw that most of the troops on the platform were watching the train, but several observed him. He saw an officer stare back at him. He hoped the man was too far away to see what had happened.

Sorg gave him a nod.

The officer nodded in reply.

It occurred to Sorg that the troops might not know if he was held prisoner, or if he was one of Kazan’s men. He’d have to take the risk.

Sorg slipped the pistol into his pocket. Two thoughts seared his mind.
Find Anastasia. Kill Kazan
. His rage boiled, but there was a strange calmness in him, too, as if he had already embraced death.

He stepped out of the Opel and strode toward the train. Three wagons back from the lead carriage, he opened the door and climbed aboard.

“Time’s up. What’s it to be?” Kazan said.

Boyle looked at Andrev and their demeanor said it all, total defeat on their faces. Andrev said, “Why don’t I trust you to keep your word?”

Kazan drew his pistol. “You have no choice. Be sensible. Place all your weapons on the table and move to the end of the carriage.”

Boyle placed his Colt on the table, and Andrev his Nagant.

Kazan said, “The woman, too.”

Lydia produced the Mauser and tossed it with the others.

Kazan gestured with his gun at Yakov. “Move to the end of the carriage and join them.”

“Kazan, you’ll die for this.”

“The only one who’s going to die is you.”

In a rage, Yakov lunged. Kazan stepped back. His weapon came up and he clubbed Yakov across the head, who stumbled back against the wall. Kazan said through gritted teeth, “Get over there and join the others. I want the pleasure of seeing you face a firing squad.”

Yakov lurched to his feet.

Kazan said to his men, “Search them all. Make sure they have no more weapons.”

One of Kazan’s comrades, standing near the open window, spotted their prisoner stepping out of the Opel and calmly striding to the train. Curious, he leaned his head out the window and saw the prisoner step aboard, about three carriages back.

In disbelief, the man said to Kazan, “Inspector …”

“What is it?”

“The prisoner just boarded the train.”

116

Sorg moved through the carriage corridor. He clutched the pistol in one hand, the pen in the other. He listened, every sense alert, but heard nothing, not even voices, and that made him suspicious. His heart raced.
Where’s Anastasia?

He came to the end of the deserted aisle. A door led to a short footbridge that crossed to the next carriage. He opened it, moved across, and slowly turned the handle on the next door.

It opened with a squeak. He stepped inside the next carriage, closed the door softly behind him, and made his way along the corridor. He never checked the lavatory he passed, which was his mistake, because just then he heard a distinct click behind him and felt a cold gun barrel pressed into his neck. A man’s voice said, “Throw it down, or I’ll drop you.”

Sorg tossed down his gun.

Ahead of him another of Kazan’s men, the one wearing the gray slouch hat, stepped out of a compartment and grinned. “We meet again. Who’s a glutton for punishment?” He knelt, picked up Sorg’s gun, and slipped it into his pocket. “Make sure he has no more weapons.”

As the man behind him patted him down with one hand, Sorg glanced at him over his shoulder.

“Look straight ahead,” the man ordered.

Sorg chose the nearest target first. His hand came up, gripping the blade, swinging it over his shoulder with a tremendous force. He stabbed the man just below the left eye.

He screamed and fell back, clapping a hand to his face.

The man in front of him was already reacting, leveling his pistol
as Sorg arced his arm again, this time lunging forward to plunge the blade into the man’s heart.

His victim gasped aloud, the force of the blow causing him to stagger backward before he slumped to the floor.

Sorg turned back to the first man. He was still screaming, a hand over his bloodied face, his other hand blindly waving his gun. Sorg stabbed him in the chest, finishing him off, and the man pitched forward.

Sorg knelt, retrieved the gun, and picked up the dead man’s gray slouch hat.

He tugged it onto his head and strode toward the front carriage.

They all heard the scream and a look of panic spread on Kazan’s face. “Stay still, all of you. Nobody utter a sound.”

He tried to cover his prisoners with his gun as he inched toward the door leading to the next carriage. He peered through the glass but saw no one.

The screaming had died abruptly. He looked uncertain.

Kazan licked his dry lips nervously. “I warn you, if anyone attempts to leave the train, the troops on the platform have orders to kill every one of you. Remain here.” He carefully opened the door and moved out into the aisle.

He had gone barely five yards when he hesitated. Ahead of Kazan was a deserted corridor. The silence in the carriage was ominous. Fearful, he drew back to the carriage door again and called out, “Federov! Sakovitch!”

His men didn’t answer.

Kazan kept his pistol at the ready, beads of sweat rising on his face. “Federov! Sakovitch!” he called again.

A figure rounded the corner, head down. Kazan startled, about to shoot, but then he recognized Federov’s gray hat. Kazan said, “What kept you? Where is he?”

Kazan relaxed for a split second, but it was too long because the face that looked up wasn’t Federov’s.

A hammer clicked and the pistol in Sorg’s hand pointed straight in the middle of Kazan’s forehead. The rage in Sorg’s eyes was like a living thing. “Let it drop.”

Kazan dropped his pistol with a clatter on the floor.

“Where are the others?” Sorg demanded, his gun barrel still pointed to Kazan’s head.

Sweat formed on Kazan’s upper lip. “In—in the carriage behind me. Don’t make the mistake of shooting me, or the guards on the platform will come running. It will only make things worse for you and your friends.”

“Worse? I don’t think it can get any worse, Kazan. Do you? But don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you.”

Kazan relaxed, swallowing hard. “That’s very wise. Surrender now, and I promise your death will at least be quick.”

“Where’s Anastasia?”

“In the carriage behind me.”

“Is she alive?

A savage look of victory lit Kazan’s face. “Yes. But who’s to say if it will be for long?”

Sorg felt his heart beat faster. “Tell me, Kazan, have you killed many people?”

Kazan’s eyebrows knit. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’ve been a secret policeman a long time, and no doubt you have. Do you remember a man named Jacob Sorg?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would. But I want you to remember his name.”

“Why?”

“He was my father, and it’s the last name you’ll ever hear.”

Sorg’s hand came up, clasping the pen. He embedded the blade deep in Kazan’s neck, striking bone.

Kazan staggered back, a look of utter disbelief on his face, and then he reeled like a wounded bear, grabbing the air with outstretched hands and crashing back the way he had come, through the carriage door.

A sense of physical release surged through Sorg. He followed
Kazan’s path into the carriage and watched him collapse on the floor with a thud. His eyes bulged in death. The others in the carriage stared at him, then at Sorg.

Anastasia was in the far corner, her eyes closed, and she was half-covered with a blanket but she appeared to be still breathing. A man with a black bag attended her. Sorg’s heart thudded with elation but it was short-lived.

Boyle stepped over and tipped Kazan’s body with the toe of his boot, then said with an edge of bitterness, “That may be the second bad mistake you’ve made tonight. Did you have to kill him?”

“You don’t understand. It was personal.”

Andrev said in Russian, “What about his men?”

Sorg flashed the steel pen. “Dead, a few carriages back.”

Boyle understood, and raised his eyes. “They say it’s the quiet ones you want to watch.”