he reached the door marked 211. He tried the knob and found it locked. Pulling a small utility knife and pick from his pocket and inserting it into the lock, he heard a click and slowly pushed the door open.
Empty.
Neither bed had been slept in. There was a half-empty bottle of Imperial vodka on the small table beneath the window and two glasses that appeared to have come from the lavatory. He looked up to the luggage racks above the berths, not surprised to find them empty. These men traveled with only the bare necessities: two guns and a bottle or two of cheap vodka.
They had to be in the club car. He was not at all surprised. KGB officers always ran true to form and he’d rather expected to find them there.
Before he pushed the button that opened the automatic pneumatic sliding doors to the final car, he peered through the frosty windows. The two Russians could be seen on a rounded banquette at the very rear of the car, opposite each other, drinking, smoking, and playing cards. Otherwise, the car appeared to be completely empty, just as you would expect at this hour.
After affixing a short silencer to the SIG’s muzzle, he returned the gun to its holster beneath his left shoulder. Hawke spent many long hours at the Six shooting range practicing his quick draw. He could draw his weapon and fire accurately in less than two-hundredths of a second, about as fast as the blink of an eye. He could also shoot a playing card in half-right through the edge of it-at twenty yards with the first shot, but that was just a killing machine showing off.
He pushed the metal button and the doors whooshed open. It was sleeting fiercely now, and the white flashes of ice in the dark whipped past the speeding train at warp speed.
He stepped inside the smoky club car, walked smiling toward the two men. Three packs of cards were scattered over the table. The air was blue with cigar smoke, and an ashtray had toppled over, leaving some butts on the floor.
His face and posture a mask of composure, whatever lurked inside him well battened down, Hawke said, “Good evening, gentlemen. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”
The Russians looked up in surprise and grunted something incomprehensible.
He was ready to draw if either made a move for his weapon, but neither did. Instead, they smiled and motioned him toward them as they might an old comrade. The effect that vodka had on one’s ego and the false sense of security it created had never failed to amaze Hawke. But he’d been counting on that effect at this late hour and he was not disappointed. The KGB had a well-known history with vodka and it was one that, over the years, frequently tipped in an MI6 operative’s favor.
“Sit down, sit down,” the one to Hawke’s right said, sliding over. It was the smaller one, not the one who’d tried to touch Alexei.
“Thanks so much, but I can’t stay long. I’ll take a drink though. Can’t sleep. Damnedest thing, insomnia. I’m Alex Hawke, by the way. Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself properly in the dining car, I’m afraid.”
The hefty cretin whose wrist he’d nearly fractured in the dining car poured him a glass of vodka, sloshing some over the side. Hawke stepped nearer to the table, took the drink with his left hand, downing a bit while keeping his eyes moving rapidly side to side, looking for any hint of aggression, and then spoke directly to the large Russian, his low voice dripping with menace.
“You seemed inordinately interested in my dinner companion earlier this evening. As I told you, I’m his bodyguard. You then made a threatening remark. Something about a long journey, perhaps we’d meet again. Well, here we are. We meet again. I don’t usually socialize with drunken thugs and paid assassins, but in your particular case I’m making an exception. I’m armed, of course, so don’t even think of doing anything foolish.”
He caught simultaneous movement, both to his right and left. Hands going for guns on both sides of the round table.
In a single fluid motion he brought his right foot up, viciously ripping the wooden card table from its base, pitching bottles, glasses, cards, ashtrays up into the faces of the two men. At the same time he whipped out his SIG. 45 and drew down on the two men before they could get to their weapons.
“Hands in the air. Now. Good. Now, one at a time, slowly remove your guns and throw them toward me. Not at me, on the bloody floor! Mind your manners, boys; I warn you, I’m pretty handy with this peashooter. I make nice tight patterns in foreheads when I shoot.”
The guns clattered to the floor, and the men looked at him, ashen-faced, waiting to be executed.
“I suggest we step out onto the platform. I’ve got a couple of very expensive Cuban cigars, Monte Cristo number 8. I thought you two cretins might enjoy a good smoke at the end of a long day.”
He pulled a single cigar from his breast pocket and passed it beneath his nose, inhaling the pungent aroma.
“Delicious. On your feet. We’ll step out onto the platform behind you. Get a little fresh air and enjoy a good smoke. You first, Ivan, then your comrade. Outside. Now.”
At the rear of the club car was a door opening onto a small half-oval platform with a railing. It was where one could smoke cigars, take the air, or wave farewell to friends at the station.
The Russian pulled the sliding door open. Sleet, snow, and freezing night air came rushing into the club car as first one, then the other, stepped outside.
Hawke remained in the doorway and withdrew the sword from the scabbard at his side.
“I could shoot you now, but I’ve a better idea. My terrible swift sword. I’m descended from a ruthless English pirate, you see. Chap called ‘Blackhawke’ and a right bastard he was too. When he wanted to dispose of someone, he’d make them walk the plank and sleep with the fishes. If they were reluctant, he’d give them encouragement with the tip of his blade. Turn around and face the rear, hands in the air.”
They did so, resigned to their fate now.
“Ivan, up on the rail. Do it now or you’ll get a very long knife in the back and a punctured lung. Your chances of survival are slim in any case, but probably marginally better if you jump. I’m waiting. You may have noticed I’m not a patient man.”
The train was racing through the night at speeds well over one hundred miles an hour, the trackless forests to either side receding in a white blur. The killer climbed clumsily up onto the rail, keeping his balance with one hand desperately clutching the ice-coated overhanging roof.
“Jump, damn you!” Hawke said, prodding the man repeatedly with his new sword. And the man, screaming, jumped to his death, hurling his body into the black night.
“You’re up, old sport. Time to fly.”
The second man turned toward Hawke, pleading for his life in a rush of garbled Russian.
“I’m sure your pleas for mercy are poignant and convincing, but they’re falling on deaf ears. Up on the rail with you, you sniveling bastard. Die like a man, at least.”
As the man struggled up on the rail, Hawke said, “When your employers in Moscow find your frozen carcasses, if they ever do, it will perhaps give them pause before any more such clumsy assassination attempts. I won’t tolerate threats to my son. Now, jump, you miserable shit.”
Hawke pressed the tip of the sword into the man’s fat buttock, “I said jump!”
Wailing in fear, he did just that.
Hawke wiped the blood from the tip of his sword and returned it to the scabbard. It had performed most satisfactorily. Captain Blackhawke would have been proud of his progeny. Then he turned to survey the scene of the crime. He bent to pick up the glass he’d used to drink the vodka. No sense leaving incriminating evidence about, he thought, and he heaved the glass over the rail. Then he closed the door. Messy enough. It looked like there’d been a drunken fight. Anything could have happened. Two passengers would be determined to be missing sometime tomorrow. In this godforsaken tundra, their bodies would not be found for days or weeks, if ever.
A mystery, perhaps not worthy of Dame Agatha Christie, but still a mystery sufficient to suit Hawke’s purposes.
A lexei, his face pink and angelic upon his pillow, looked precisely the way he had when his father had left him. Hawke, feeling relaxed for the first time since boarding the train, took down his false-bottomed travel case and returned his weapon to its compartment. Then he removed the sat phone, poured himself a small whiskey, and returned to the dreaded chair in the sitting parlor.
“Sir David,” Hawke said when his superior at MI6 picked up.
“Hawke?”
