Читать книгу Thieves of the Black Sea - Joe O'Neill - Страница 23

Wu Chiang sat in third class on a train headed for Paris, France. While biting into a baguette layered with hard-boiled eggs, salami, and lettuce, a bit of egg dropped on the lapel of his shirt. He wiped the yellow glob from his front, looked forward, and breathed deeply.

The passenger car was full of people, crammed together like cattle. People huddled together on the hard floor, as there were no empty seats in third class. Two windows on either side of the car were open and provided the only ventilation. Outside, the French countryside buzzed by and the rhythmic beating of railroad tracks was omnipresent. Most of the people were silent, just trying to get through an arduous journey.

Wu Chiang had spent the duration of the trip crammed into a corner with an obese man who reeked of body odor and sweated profusely pressed up against him. The man’s torso kept pushing against Wu Chiang, jamming him against the hard steel of the railway car and leaving sweat smudged stains on his entire left side.

He travelled in third class because nobody inquired about third class passengers, whereas a first class passenger might attract conversation and attention.

His thoughts turned to an ambassador’s dinner in three nights at the Hotel du Cecil. He knew from his spies that the Austrian ambassador to France would be in attendance. It was common knowledge that Austria and Germany were the closest of allies and neither country was on friendly terms with France.

He’d alerted one of his agents that there would be a mission and for her to ready herself.

A vendor came into the car selling cups of tea from a steel tray placed around his neck. The obese man purchased a cup, and as he turned to ask the vendor for some sugar, while the man’s back was to him, Wu Chiang casually placed four drops of liquid into his cup from a vial he’d hidden in his suit pocket.

The man continued to eat his sandwich and sip his tea. He licked the crumbs from his chin with his long, pink tongue and continued to look straight ahead.

After a few moments, the man’s face flushed and he began choking and gasping for breath. He grabbed his chest and fell forward. The other passengers, panicked, surrounded the choking man. His face turned a disturbing shade of purple as he gasped for air. Stewards rushed in. Someone loosened his shirt, but he suddenly went into convulsions, his body spasming so violently it shook the entire cabin.

Then the man stopped breathing and moving altogether.

A doctor was found on the train who arrived in time to pronounce the man dead. Everyone around was astonished, staring at the obese body, his left cheek on the floor and his lifeless eyes frozen open.

A few children cried and some of the older women said prayers and crossed themselves.

It took six stewards to remove the man’s body and place it in a baggage car.

Through all the commotion, Wu Chiang casually stood up and watched without emotion as the man died in front of him.

He calmly sat back down, stretched out, and finished his sandwich.

Going over his plan in his mind, he nodded into a deep sleep.

Foster stood at the Bremen train station, trying to decipher the train schedule. There weren’t a tremendous number of trains departing each day, perhaps a dozen, and most were spread throughout the day. Wu Chiang probably would have departed in the early afternoon, a few hours after the embassy bombing.

Only two trains left the station in the afternoon on the day of the bombing: a train to Paris, France and a train to Florence, Italy. Foster asked around among the many railway station workers, but none of them could remember seeing an Asian man on the platforms or in the waiting area.

Foster took out a coin from his pocket.

Well, he thought, we’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Flipping the coin high in the air, it rotated half a dozen times before coming to rest in his palm.

The side of the coin with the bearded head of Prince Luitpold stared back at him.

I guess it will have to be Italy.

He put his hands together and said a quick prayer that this was the right decision.

“What are you looking for, mister?”

The voice was that of a boy. Foster looked down and saw a street boy looking up at him. He was about fourteen and wore a brown flat cap with a dirty tan wool coat, brown trousers with a hole in one knee, and leather loafers that were at least three sizes too big for his feet.

“Eh, nothing, just trying to make a decision,” Foster replied.

“A decision about what?” the boy asked.

“A decision about a person,” Foster answered somewhat agitated.

“A person? I know just about everything that happens in this train station. What person are you looking for?”

“He would have been a passenger and only here for a few moments. You wouldn’t know him.”

The boy took a step forward.

“A mark if I can tell you about your passenger,” the boy replied.

“I can’t imagine you could assist me.”

“Try me.”

Foster was exasperated with the conversation.

“Fine, he would have been an Asian man carrying a large trunk leaving perhaps two days ago.”

“I know exactly who you’re talking about,” the boy answered in earnest seriousness.

“How could you possibly know?”

The boy lifted his sleeve. On his right forearm was a burn about the size of a cigarette burn.

“Because the man you’re looking for gave me this.”

Foster stared at the burn. It was deep and red and already oozing with pus.

“How on earth…?”

“He was having a bit of trouble with his trunk and I offered to help him—for a price of course! At first, he ignored me. When I tried to take the trunk handle from him, he took my arm and dug his cigarette into my skin.”

Foster immediately felt sorry for the boy.

“Do you remember what train he was getting on?”

“The train to Paris.”

Foster stared at the boy and flipped him not one, but two silver coins. The boy’s face immediately lit up.

“Thanks, mister!” he said and ran down the railway station.

Foster purchased a ticket on the train heading to Paris, which was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. He placed his leather bag in the compartment above his bed, and looked out the window as the train began to rumble and move away from the station. Onlookers cried and waved to their departing loved ones, all smartly dressed for a trip to the station, and Foster felt a slight longing for the circus and his friends. He noticed a mother with her young children waving—a boy about ten and a little girl about six. The little girl was sobbing. Foster guessed that their father was on the train. Foster smiled at the crying girl, who was dressed in a pink velvet bonnet and a black wool coat.

He settled into his compartment for the journey. Leaning back into a pillow, he closed his eyes and calmed himself. After a few moments, visions began to fill his mind.

Images that were neither memories nor dreams.

Two armies colliding, thousands of dead soldiers fallen in the mud and cold. Three young boys of some kind of ethnicity. A black panther. A sea captain. An ancient city. A Red Hand disintegrating and falling into the sand.

The Red Hand was reaching out to him, and he became immediately certain that time was of the essence.

If he didn’t stop Wu Chiang soon, the world would be plunged into chaos.