He simply had to think. And fast. Because whatever the nature of those horsemen who had taken Anton hostage, time was running out. If George was to survive to reach Luxoria, there was not a moment to lose.
Inside, the porter was gathering together his few possessions. Waving his arms about, he shouted to George and ushered them outside. As they watched he seized their luggage, dragged it outside and locked the door of the hut, turning on them a face of furious indignation.
Faro began to protest but George translated. 'It's no use, sir. He says he's an old man and he's not going to be at the mercy of brigands. He has never experienced anything like this before, they have always left him alone and now he is not prepared to risk his life. He is going back to his village, four kilometres away, and the railway can find a younger man to deal with their freight trains and be shot at.'
It was quite a speech and the old man strode off without another word or a backward glance, leaving them helpless beside their forlorn pile of luggage.
Faro looked at the railtrack winding away into nowhere. The landscape was empty, but somehow menacing. The brigands had vanished, yet he felt the prickle of unease, an intuition that he knew better than to ignore, that the danger was by no means over.
Death was close at hand.
'Pick up your bag, George.'
'I'll carry Anton's,' said George. 'I can't leave it behind.'
Faro tested the weight. It wasn't heavy. 'I'll take it,' he said and with little idea where their next meal would be coming from, he gathered the remaining food from the picnic hamper.
'Now let's get away from here.'
As he started off down the line, George asked, 'Where are we going, sir?'
'We'll head towards the telegraph office, find out about trains.'
'Shouldn't we wait for a while, just in case - '
In answer a violent explosion split the air behind them. Faro threw George to the ground and sheltered him with his body.
The great whirlwind of noise was followed by an eerie silence. Cautiously Faro raised his head. Where the hut had been there was only a mass of shattered smoking timber.
'Someone blew it up, Mr Faro,' George screamed in terror. 'We might have been inside.'
Faro regarded the ruin grimly. 'That, I think, was the general idea.'
'It wasn't the porter, surely. He seemed such a nice old man.'
'No. It wasn't the porter.'
'But he must have known.'
‘He didn't, George. He wouldn't have put our luggage outside and bothered to lock the door if he'd known we were all to be blown up.’
‘But why? Who?'
Gazing anxiously at the horizon, Faro said, 'Let's keep going. We shouldn't linger, in case they come back to inspect the damage.' And seizing the bags, he walked rapidly down the line.
'Was it an accident, sir, do you think?' George asked hopefully.
When Faro shook his head, he said: 'If it was the brigands, then it was as well they got chose to get Anton out first.'
Faro stopped in his tracks and said 'Exactly, George. And that, I am afraid, was the plan. We were the target - and the old man, if he had been foolish enough to stay around.'
'What will they do to Anton now?'
'I don't think we need worry too much about Anton. Nothing is going to happen to him.'
'But they kidnapped him. He'll be a hostage.'
They had been walking for some time before Faro decided it was safe to stop by a curve in the railway line, well out of sight of the pile of rubble that had been once been a railway waiting-room. There were some boulders by the side of the track and Faro said, 'Let's sit down here for a moment.'
George sighed. 'I don't understand, Mr Faro. We both saw that man with the white flag come and take Anton.' He shook his head. 'We saw it with our own eyes - '
Faro remembered that well-dressed, smartly turned-out band of brigands with their fine horses and military precision.
'They kidnapped him, sir. Took him hostage,' George repeated.
'That, I'm afraid, is what we were meant to think. Think back, George, were you near enough to hear what the man said to Anton as he lifted him on to the horse?'
George shrugged. 'I thought he was telling him not to be afraid - that all would be well. Something like that.'
'Exactly. Nice soothing words. Not quite what one would expect from a savage blood-thirsty brigand.'
George thought for a moment. 'Actually, he had quite a nice voice, sir. Well-bred, you know.'
Faro nodded grimly. 'And I would have expected Anton to struggle more and for the man to be a little more convincing, rougher in dragging away a frightened and unwilling victim.'
George didn't answer and Faro continued, 'That wasn't the way you reacted with your kidnappers at Glenatholl, was it now?'
George shook his head. 'No. I fought and kicked and struggled.' Wide-eyed he stared at Faro. 'You mean - you mean, it was all pretend?'
'I'm pretty sure of that.'
'But why did they do it then? And what will they do with Anton?'
'That, my lad, is what I want you to tell me.'
'I don't understand.'
'I want you to tell me everything you know about Anton. Who is he, for instance, this vague cousin who was sent to Glenatholl as your companion?'
George was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. 'I'm not supposed to tell anyone, ever.' He looked up at Faro. 'You see, Anton is actually my half-brother.'
'Your - what?'
'Yes, our father is President Gustav, but we have different mothers.'
At last, thought Faro, a lot of things were becoming clear, not exactly crystal, but well on the way.
So Anton was the President's natural son, the boy who had been an infant when Amelie came to Edinburgh, childless. His mother was the President's mistress, the reason why he wanted rid of Amelie, to marry her... And declare their son Anton
