'With me, too,' Tarkiz grunted. 'Sound like invitation to—'
'Shut up,' Indy snarled, stabbing a finger at Tarkiz. He turned back to Gale.
'You are not going to sleep alone in a compartment on this train. Take that as an order if you want. You'll sleep in one bunk and I'll sleep in the other. We have a direct telephone connection with Compartment E right next door where Tarkiz will be staying. We can be in touch with each other at any time. Do I make myself clear now?'
'You disappoint me, Professor,' Gale said lightly, 'but, yes, I get your drift.'
'We'll stay out here in the passageway while you do whatever you do at night,' Indy told her. 'When you're ready, open the door. If you don't open it in five minutes, we'll break our way in.'
She studied him carefully, the teasing gone from her words and her expression. 'You really are concerned,' she said softly.
He nodded. By now she could recognize the signs on his face, the slight furrowing of the brow, his heightened tension.
It's more than a sixth sense . . . my God, he knows we're vulnerable. He's expecting something bad tonight.
'All right,' she told him quietly. 'Whatever you say. I don't need to be in the compartment alone.' She swiftly drew a conclusion. 'I'm sleeping in my clothes.'
Indy seemed relieved. 'Good. Tarkiz, you all set?'
The Kurd nodded. He waited until Indy and Gale had closed their door behind them, then switched the nameplates on their door with that from his own. He slipped into his compartment, and tried the telephone line to confirm its working.
Then he tied a string about his own door latch, at the end of which was a small prayer bell. Its sound was barely audible, but to the man who had prayed all his life to the sound of that bell, it would serve as an instant alert to any movement of the door latch. He smiled.
Shortly after three in the morning, the train rolling steadily through the stormy night, he heard the whispered sound of his prayer bell. Immediately he moved to one side of the door, just before it opened smoothly. In the gloom he made out two forms. The moment the door
closed behind them, Tarkiz flung his net, studded with fishhooks, over their bodies. Shouts and cries of pain answered the hard yank he gave to the net, sending barbs into flesh. Tarkiz moved swiftly with a flexible metal rod, bringing it down with terrible force. He turned for a moment, and shoved open the compartment window.
Above the yelps of pain and cursing from the men struggling within the net, he heard pounding on the door. He shouted, 'I be right there! I—'
A knife blade stabbed into his leg, a white fire of pain. Tarkiz ignored the wound as one man freed himself from the net, looming before Tarkiz with the knife stabbing downward. It never reached the maddened Kurd. A single sideswipe with the metal rod smashed the knife into the wal.
Indy kicked open the door, the Webley in his hand, just in time to see Tarkiz heaving his attacker through the opened window space. In an instant he was gone, the train speeding onward. He turned to see the other assassin bringing down a curved blade.
Indy was already there, smashing the barrel of the Webley across the man's wrist. Bone cracked audibly, and the man screamed. Tarkiz spun about, but as he grabbed for the man his wounded leg gave way and he fell to all fours.
Indy moved forward, grasped a handful of hair and the belt of the killer, and hurled the man through the window.
Gale slipped past Indy and snapped on the lights. In a moment she took in the bloody leg. 'Tear me some bandages from the sheets,' she ordered Indy. She helped Tarkiz to his bunk. 'Your whiskey. Quickly,' she told him.
'Whiskey? I do not—'
'Shut up and give me the flask,' she snapped.
Silently, he handed her the flask from his pocket. She put it onto the bunk, soaked a towel in the sink, and washed away the blood. Indy had already tied a tourniquet above the wound. Gale opened the flask and poured whiskey into the wound to sterilize the exposed flesh, then wrapped the makeshift bandages about the wound.
'Only woman would waste good whiskey,' Tarkiz complained. But his eyes showed his gratitude.
'So you changed the nameplates?'
Tarkiz nodded. 'It worked, no?'
'You have any idea who they were?'
'Brown skin. One had turban. That means they were professional assassins.
Somebody not like you, Indy.'
'Yeah. I must have missed out on the popularity contest. By the way, that's a neat trick with that net of yours.'
Tarkiz beamed through his pain. 'Old Roman trick. Very old. Also popular with Mafia.'
'With me, too,' Gale added.
'Well, the lock on your door is gone,' Indy observed. 'You'd better stay with us the rest of the night.'
'No need. I sit here on bunk so I can see door.' He reached behind his back and withdrew a sleek .32 automatic from a concealed holster. 'Besides, Gale is good woman. She does not waste all my whiskey. Sometimes I like to drink alone. Good night.'
'Gale, take the upper berth.'
