“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 The picture had been overstamped and was clearly out of date, but at a quick glance the body on the bed would have passed.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.
“Rafi!”
There was a pause and then a groan.
“Who is it?” Rafi’s voice.
“It’s Doc! Open up!”
“What time is it?” Peggy’s sleepy voice this time.
“Open the damned door!”
There was a sigh and then another groan and finally the sound of movement. The partition door bolt slid back and the door opened. Rafi stood there, bleary-eyed, but still dressed. Peggy, tousle-haired, was sitting up on the couchette behind him. Rafi’s face was full of sleep but he finally took in Holliday and the blood dripping from his arm.
“What the hell?” And then he saw the scene in the other compartment. “Dear God,” the archaeologist whispered. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” said Holliday. He stepped into their compartment and shut the door. “Tidyman’s dead. We have to get off the train. Now.”
“But . . . ,” Peggy began, still not understanding.
“Don’t argue, kiddo—there’s no time.” He opened the passageway door and looked out. Empty. Everyone was asleep. Through the passage windows he could see yellow arc lights glowing, reflecting off the dark still waters of the river just ahead. Farther upstream, past a sleeping little industrial park at the edge of a small town, there was a low-slung bridge for cars and trucks. The river looked about a thousand feet across. He turned back into the compartment.
“Come on,” he said.
Still half asleep, Rafi and Peggy followed as Holliday went down the corridor to the door between the cars. He pulled it open and stepped out onto the little platform. Mario had awakened as the train halted and come out to see what was happening. He’d put down the steps and climbed down to see why the train had come to an unscheduled stop.
Mario saw Holliday and then Rafi and Peggy crowd in behind him. The steward shook his head and came forward, making a little pushing gesture with his hands as his shoes crunched on the gravel roadbed.
“No, no, please,
signore, prego
. Remain on the train. There is no cause for alarm. We have only stopped for the
segnale di ferroviario
, how do you say, the train signal, yes? Back on the train,
signore
, please.”
Then he saw the blood dripping down from Holliday’s arm and paled.
Holliday fished the Walther out of his pocket and pointed it down at the uniformed man.
“Signore?”
the steward whispered.
“Back up,” said Holliday, keeping the gun up as he came down the steps. The steward did as he was told, his eyes glued to the flat black pistol. Holliday waved Rafi and Peggy down with his free hand. He lowered the gun, keeping it at his side as they descended.
Holliday looked left along the train. The bridge was built with two side-by-side spans, each with its own track, the two tracks converging at a switch point and signal just in front of the waiting locomotive. The signal showed two red lights, one above the other. Suddenly the top light went out and the bottom light changed to green. The riverbank was two hundred feet beyond that. The train whistle blared.
“Mario, I want you to listen to me,” said Holliday, his voice firm but calm.
“Yes,
signore
.”
“I want you to get back on the train and go to your compartment.”
“Yes,
signore
,” Mario said and nodded.
“Stay there. If I see you again, or if the train stops or if anyone comes after us, I will kill you,
capisce
?”
“Yes,
signore
.”
“Good. Do it.”
“Yes,
signore
,” agreed the steward fervently.
Holliday stood aside and let Mario pass. The whistle screamed again. Mario pulled in the steps and slammed the door. Holliday looked up at the train. Right now Mario was probably making a beeline for the conductor.
“What do we do now?” Rafi said.
“Run,” said Holliday.
He led the way, pelting down the roadbed, heading for the river, trapped in the yellow glare of the industrial lights beside the twin bridge spans. Beside the running figures the train began to move. The whistle sounded for a third time and directly ahead Holliday saw the signal change to double green. Still no alarm. The train began to gather speed and Holliday felt a surge of hope. Maybe they were going to get out of this after all. The locomotive reached the bridge and the train began to thunder over it.
They reached the first bridge supports and Holliday saw the narrow footpath in the dirt between the twin spans, just as the false Czinner had described it. Holliday paused, hands on knees, panting as Rafi and Peggy caught up with him.
“What are we doing?” Rafi insisted. “I thought you were meeting Czinner. Now Tidyman’s been killed.”
“Czinner’s dead, too, or at least a man posing as Czinner. He was one of the priest’s crew. He was an impostor.”
The train rumbled past, leaving them beside the empty track. Mario had taken his threat seriously, thought Holliday. He popped the magazine on the Walther and checked. Fully loaded. He pushed the magazine back into place, feeling it lock with an efficient Teutonic click.
“What are we doing out here?” Peggy asked wearily.
“This was Czinner’s escape route,” explained Holliday. “Now it’s ours.” He dug around in his pocket and found the suppressor. He screwed it onto the tapped muzzle of the short-barreled pistol.
Rafi stared at the weapon.
“Expecting trouble?”
“You never know,” answered Holliday. “Czinner’s ride is down there. Maybe it comes with a driver.”
“I don’t want Peggy hurt,” cautioned the Israeli, putting his arm around her shoulders. She shook it off.
“I can handle myself, Rafi,” she said, annoyed.
“Nevertheless, stay back, both of you. And
keep
back until I whistle Dixie.”
“Dixie?” Rafi asked.
“
‘Hava Nagila’
for Southern crackers,” explained Peggy. Rafi looked confused.
“Just stay back until I whistle,” said Holliday.
Leaving them behind, he followed the path down between the bridges, turning under the low left-hand span. A dense row of willows and alders stood at the top of the bank, screening the path along the river edge. The arc lights beside the train track were behind Holliday now and the way ahead was lost in gloomy darkness. He could hear the water, a light lapping noise against the soft earth of the muddy riverbank and a different sound with it—the river slapping quietly against the hull of a small boat.
A lanky figure rose out of the darkness directly in front of him. A man in a dark sweater with something slung over his shoulder. The shape was familiar enough: an old Colt Commando from the Vietnam War, the short version of the M- 16. The dark figure unlimbered the old assault rifle.
“Padre?
” the man whispered harshly. He was less than fifty feet away.
Holliday didn’t wait for the sound of the rifle’s slide as a round popped into the chamber. He lifted the Walther in a two-handed grip, pointed the pistol at the man’s chest and fired six times in quick, evenly spaced succession, the silenced rounds sounding like someone snapping dry twigs.
Whatever else Czinner had been, he was a professional when it came to his job. To be that quiet the rounds had to be subsonic. Given that they were in Italy that probably meant Fiocchi Super Match. The man with the rifle turned into an empty bag of flesh and slid to the ground, face in the dirt.
“No,” said Holliday. “Not your murdering padre.”
Holliday waited. Nothing stirred. The only sounds came from the river’s movement. He approached the fallen man, keeping the Walther pointed at the back of his head. He checked the pulse. Nothing, which was as he’d expected at that range. He stood up.
Behind the man a sleek-looking old-fashioned wooden speedboat was tied up to a crumbling concrete dock that looked as though it might have been cast off during construction of the bridge piers. Holliday had seen one just like it in the ruins of Milosevic’s summer home on the Danube years before.