stationed between each car. And the windows… well, you can forget those.” He motioned to Hugo, who’d been standing nearby waiting to clear away the plates. Hugo began to crank down the window shutters again. Slowly the sunlight was sealed off. “Let’s make this a sporting contest, all right?” Sandler urged. “You do your part, and I’ll do mine.”
The last shutter closed. Hugo brought the key from his vest to lock them, and in the folds of his coat Michael saw a pistol in a holster.
“Don’t think about trying to get Hugo’s gun,” Sandler said, tracking Michael’s gaze. “He spent eight months on the Russian Front, and he’s an expert shot. Any questions about the ground rules?”
“No.”
“You really do amaze me, Baron. I have to say I thought you’d be on your knees by now. It just goes to show: you never know what’s inside a man, do you?” His grin was all teeth. “Hugo, will you return the baron to his quarters please?”
“Yes, sir.” The pistol emerged from his holster and was pointed at Michael.
When the door to his room was closed, Michael found the chamber altered. The mirror, the table, the white bowl, and the towel were missing. Also the single hanger was gone from the closet. Michael had been looking forward to using shards of the mirror, pieces of the bowl, and the hanger to slash his way out of this. The light globe remained, however, and Michael looked up at it. The globe was out of reach, though he felt sure he could devise some way to burst it to pieces. He sat down on the bed to think, the train gently swaying and the wheels clattering on the rails. Did he really need weapons to beat Harry Sandler at his own game? He didn’t think so. He could change into a wolf and be ready to go once the alarm buzzer sounded.
But he didn’t change. He already had the edge in instincts and perception. All changing would do was lose him his clothes. He could walk on two legs and think like a wolf, and still beat Sandler. The only problem was that Sandler knew the train better than he. Michael would have to find a place suitable to set up an ambush, and then…
Then the heavy weight of the Countess Margritta would be lifted from him. Then he could write finis to that sorry episode of his life, and turn away from the compulsion of revenge.
He would beat Harry Sandler as a man, he decided. With hands instead of claws.
He waited.
Perhaps two hours passed, in which Michael lay down and rested. He was totally calm now, mentally and physically prepared.
The alarm buzzer went off, a jarring note. It lasted for maybe ten seconds, and by the time it had ended Michael was out the door and on his way toward the locomotive.
2
The soldier at the connection of cars shoved Michael along with the point of his pistol, and Michael went through the door into the opulent car where breakfast had been served. The soldier stayed behind, and the door hissed shut at Michael’s back.
The metal shutters were all drawn. The chandelier lights burned low, as did the carriage lamps. Michael began walking through the car, but he stopped at the white linen-covered table.
The plates had not been cleared away. And there, in the remains of Sandler’s steak, was the knife, stuck upright, the handle offered.
Michael stared at the knife. This was an interesting situation; why was the knife still there? One answer: Sandler expected him to take it. And what would happen if he did? Michael carefully placed a finger on the knife handle, felt all around it with a gentle touch, and found what he was seeking. A thin, almost invisible filament of wire was twined around the handle. It went up, hidden in the dimness of the room, to the chandelier overhead. Michael inspected the light fixture. Hidden in the ornamentation was a small brass pistol, and the filament was attached to its cocked trigger. He judged the angle of the barrel, realizing that if he’d pulled the knife from the steak the trigger would’ve tripped and a bullet would have gone through his left shoulder. Michael smiled grimly. So that was why he’d been left in his room for two hours. During that time Sandler and his train crew had been busy rigging up devices such as this. A ten-minute head start indeed, Michael thought. This game might’ve been over very quickly.
He decided to give Sandler something to think about, perhaps slow him down a little. He stepped aside, out of the pistol’s line of fire, and kicked a leg out from underneath the table. As the table fell, the filament snapped and the pistol went off with a loud, sharp crack. The bullet blew splinters from the rosewood wall. Michael picked up the knife, and was amused anew; it had only a useless stub of a blade. He took the pistol from the chandelier, but he already knew what he would find. There had been only one bullet in the cylinder.
So much for that. He let the pistol fall to the carpet and went on through the car. But his steps were slower now, more wary. He looked for trip wires stretched along the floor, realizing at the same time that a trip wire might be waiting to brush through his hair. He paused at the door to the kitchen, his hand near the knob. Surely Sandler would expect him to try this door, to get at the utensils that might lie beyond it. The doorknob had been recently polished, and it shone like a promise. Too easy, Michael thought. Turning that knob might pull the trigger of a gun set up to blast him through the wood. He drew his hand away, retreated from the door, and kept going. Another soldier stood guard in the next connection between cars, his heavy-lidded eyes showing no emotion. Michael wondered how many of Sandler’s victims had even gotten past the first car. But he couldn’t congratulate himself yet; there were three more cars between here and the locomotive.
Michael went through the door into the next car. There was a central aisle along its length, and rows of seats on either side of the aisle. The windows were sealed with metal shutters, but two chandeliers spaced equidistantly at the ceiling glowed with false cheer. The car swayed gently back and forth as the train followed a curve, and the whistle blew a brief warning note. Michael knelt down, looking along the aisle at knee level. If a trip wire was there, he couldn’t see it. He was aware that Sandler would be after him by now, and at any moment the hunter might burst through the door at his back. Michael couldn’t wait; he stood up and slowly began walking down the aisle, his hands up in the air in front of him and his eyes watching for the glint of a wire at his knees or ankles.
There was no wire, either above or below. Michael had begun to sweat a little bit; surely there was something in this car, waiting for him to blunder into it. Or was it empty of traps, and this simply a mind snare? He approached the second chandelier, about twenty feet from the next car. He looked up as he neared the chandelier, his eyes searching the brass arms for a concealed weapon; there was none.
His left foot sank about a quarter inch into the carpet, and he heard the small, soft click of a latch disengaging.
He had stepped on a pressure pad. He felt the cold wind of death on the back of his neck.
In an instant Michael had reached up, grasped the chandelier, and pulled his knees up to his chest. The shotgun that was hidden at the floor to his left boomed, the lead pellets passing across the aisle where his knees had been two seconds before and slamming into the seats on his right. In another heartbeat the shotgun’s second barrel fired, demolishing the seats. Shards of wood and pieces of shredded fabric whirled in the concussion.
Michael lowered his feet to the floor and let go of the chandelier. Blue gunsmoke drifted around him. One glance at the wrecked seats told him what the shotgun would’ve done to his knees. Crippled, he’d have writhed on the floor until Sandler arrived.
He heard the whoosh of the door opening at the far end of the car. He looked back. Sandler, wearing a khaki hunter’s outfit, lifted his rifle, took aim, and fired.
Michael was already diving to the floor. The bullet sang over his left shoulder and thunked off a shuttered window.
Before Sandler could fix his aim again. Michael leaped up in a blur of motion and crashed headlong through the door at his end of the car. A soldier was there, as Michael had expected. The man had a pistol in his hand, and reached down to grasp the back of Michael’s coat and pull him to his feet.
Michael didn’t wait for the man to haul him up; he sprang up under his own power, slamming the top of his head against the soldier’s chin. The man staggered back, his eyes wide and blurred with pain. Michael grasped the man’s wrist, keeping the gun turned aside, and struck with the flat of his hand upward against the sharp Germanic nose. The soldier’s nose shattered, the nostrils spraying blood, and Michael grabbed hold of the Luger and slung the
