Red Templar

“Did somebody take him or did he run on his own?” Holliday wondered.

“There couldn’t have been much of a struggle-I would have heard, or the provodnitsa would have. No, compadre, we must accept that leaving us was his idea.”

“But why come all this way, lead us along, bring us into the middle of nowhere? I don’t get it, Eddie.”

“Nor do I, mi coronel,” responded the Cuban. He stared out the window. Holliday could see flickering bright images of a wide river through the trees. Most probably the Volga. He was riding through Russian history. Finally Eddie spoke again. “Have you ever played chess, companero? ”

“When I was a kid.” Holliday nodded. He sipped some of the scalding coffee. “My uncle Henry taught me. He said it formed the basis of most military strategy.”

“It was compulsory in my group of Young Pioneers. Our leader wanted to become the Cuban Boris Spassky.”

“What’s your point?”

“We are playing a game of chess and we have no idea what pieces we are-pawns, rooks or knights.”

“My vote would be pawns. Genrikhovich had a good story and we fell for it. I think the real analogy is that we don’t even know which side of the board we’re playing on, black or white.”

“Maybe red and white would be more apropiado, considering where we are.”

“Lets get back to the compartment; we’ve got some decisions to make.”

“Si,mi coronel, such as deciding whether we should stay on the board or absent ourselves, yes?”

“You bet your ass, Eddie.”

By the time they made their way back through the creaking, swaying cars the sun was fully up. Holliday wanted to ask their provodnitsa whether she was sure she hadn’t seen Genrikhovich earlier that morning, but she wasn’t in her usual place at the samovar or in her little cabin at the end of the car. Even provodnitsas took pee breaks, he supposed. He turned around and went back to their compartment. He slid the door open. Eddie was seated on the right-hand bunk. The provodnitsa was seated across from him. Instead of a little silver tray with glass cups of amber-colored tea, she was holding a nasty-looking Serdyukov SPS automatic in her hand, the nine-millimeter cannon of choice for the FSB.

“Zakryt dver,” said the woman, twitching the automatic in Holliday’s direction.

“She wants you to close the door,” translated Eddie.

“I figured that,” said Holliday, sliding the door closed behind him.

“Sadit’sya,” the woman ordered, pointing to the bunk beside Eddie. Holliday sat down.

“Bylo radio soobshchenie, Ya, chtoby derzhat’ vas zdes’, poka politsiya prihodyat.”

“It seems there was a radio message. She is to hold us here until the police come,” Eddie translated.

“When’s that?”

“Kirov Pass. Nine forty-five.”

“Ninety minutes.”

“Long time.”

“Heavy gun.”

“A kilo, at least.”

“Zavali yebalo!” the provodnitsa hissed.

“Shut up?” Holliday asked.

Eddie smiled. “Something like that.” The Cuban paused. He glanced toward Holliday. “?Entiende usted? Hay que matar a ella.”

“Matar?” Holliday asked.

“Asesinato, hacerlauna muerta.”

“Zavali yebalo!” the provodnitsa repeated.

“Gotcha,” murmured Holliday. The question was, how? If she somehow managed to fire the gun it would be a disaster, even if she missed. The noise would be deafening. The bullets for the SPS were designed to go through thirty layers of Kevlar, a requirement in these times, when the bad guys wore better body armor than the cops. The shock of a bullet like that hitting either one of them at such close range, even in an arm or leg, would be enough to shatter bone and induce instant shock. A hit to the body would probably be fatal.

The provodnitsa’s grip on the weapon wasn’t very practiced; her right hand was wrapped around the grip, her index finger on the trigger. Her left hand was on her knee, rubbing back and forth nervously. The safety on the pistol was in the down position, meaning that it was off. The hammer was at full cock.

“On three,” said Holliday softly. “I go low, you go high.”

“Si, entiendo.” Eddie nodded.

“One, two.”

“Zavali yebalo!” the provodnitsa yelled.

“Three.”

“Svyatoe der’ mo, smotrite na chto!” Eddie yelled, looking out the window.

It was just enough. The woman’s eyes flickered and the gun moved a fraction of an inch. Holliday’s right arm snapped across the space between him and the woman, his hand folding over the slide of the pistol, his thumb jamming between the hammer and the firing pin. For his part Eddie lurched forward, his left hand in a rigid four- fingered blade smashing into her larynx, crushing it.

Holliday tore the gun out of her hand, wincing with pain as the hammer slammed down on his thumb. He moved to one side, giving the Cuban room to maneuver. Eddie put one knee into the woman’s diaphragm, took his left hand from her larynx and grabbed her hair with his right, pulling her head back as far as he could. He slammed his left hand under her chin and there was a distinct snap as her vertebrae parted company with one another. She flopped down onto the bunk. The smell of urine filled the compartment as her bladder voided.

“Now what?” Eddie asked.

“Stuff her in one of the upper bunks and then get the hell off this train.”

23

The two men jumped off the Trans-Siberian Express just as it slowed to begin the sharp curve past the small village of Chandrovo. They swung down on the long steel handrails on either side of the doorway, dropping down in a roll on the cindered track bed, then scrambled into the ditch. They hunched low as the train rumbled past in the early-dawn light. Apparently no one had seen their escape.

“Not so bad.” Eddie grunted, getting to his feet.

“Sure,” said Holliday. “We just jumped off the Trans-Siberian Express in the middle of nowhere after breaking a young lady’s neck.”

“Companero, it was I who broke the young lady’s neck, and she was holding a pistol in our faces.”

“True enough,” said Holliday. They watched as the train disappeared into the distance. “I wonder how long we’ve got.”

“They will look for the provodnitsa and perhaps find her. The police were to be waiting at Kirov. According to the schedule they will not arrive there until ten o’clock. At best we have three hours, but I would not bet on it.”

“So what’s our best bet for getting to Yekaterinburg?”

Eddie pointed to the west across a series of rolling fields. In the distance, perhaps a mile away, Holliday could see the bright gleam of water. “The Volga,” said the Cuban. “It flows to Kazan. Perhaps we can catch a local