He held out the Luger in its leather holster, which was shiny from constant handling. "Normally, you see, I wear her under here." He held the holster up under his arm. "But I can rig the straps around my waist, like this." He put the holster on like a belt and turned the gun until it rested in the small of his back. "This makes it more difficult for them to find in a search. What I need, then, is a little extra give in the pants to cover it. Maybe an insert or two."
The tailor nodded and quickly took some measurements of the gun and of Carter's waist with the gun in place. Then he left, and Carter took a chair in the front of the shop and began reading the Viennese daily he found lying across it.
There was nothing in the newspaper about the train or the kidnapping, and this pleased him. Apparently the authorities were cooperating as Hawk had said.
In less than an hour the uniform was ready. Carter tried it on, and the jacket and pants fit perfectly. Even Wilhelmina was snug and virtually undetectable in a V-shaped pouch at his back. A white chef's hat and he could easily have passed for a Cordon Bleu graduate.
He thanked the tailor and told him to wrap the uniform. Then he dressed again in his street clothes, gathered up the packages, and left. On the way back to the tour office he bought a secondhand leather suitcase covered with stickers from European resort cities.
He put the uniform on in a small washroom in the rear of the tour office, then pulled all the American labels out of his clothes and packed them in the old suitcase. Then he put on the chef's hat and looked at himself in the mirror.
He felt vaguely ridiculous, but that was to be expected. The big question was: would he be recognized? Kobelev would know him immediately, of course, having met him before, but he was fairly certain Kobelev would not be doing the preliminary inspection. According to the chef, members of the train's staff who had put in twice their normal shift had been allowed off in Salzburg and replacements allowed to board (which gave one some indication of the importance Kobelev placed on his personal comfort). These replacements had been given only the most cursory going-over by a big Russian guard whom the chef had described ("Grand, monsieur, très grand. As beeg as le grand Charles himself. Beegair.") and whom Carter was certain he'd never seen. All this assumed, of course, that this guard — whoever he was — had never seen Carter's photograph, and while Carter made it a point of professional caution never to have pictures taken, it was always a risky business betting what Russian intelligence did or did not let its underlings know and see.
At any rate, he felt he didn't need any more of a foothold than mere access to the train. Once on, he'd find Kobelev and do what he had to do.
As he stared at his reflection, a number of things went through his mind, including the fact that Kobelev was by far the most able adversary he'd ever faced. For a moment the thought made him uneasy. But then he felt Hugo strapped to his arm, Wilhelmina against the small of his back, and Pierre in its pouch high on his thigh, and there was solace in knowing they were close at hand.
After all, he was well-trained. Hawk saw to that. Refresher courses every six months in small arms and antipersonnel technology, not to mention constant workouts to keep himself in peak physical condition. And his instincts, too, honed by invaluable experience — a million refinements of the agent's art accomplished by years of grinding daily routine. He was, in short, the best the American side had to offer.
Unfortunately, he thought, as he packed up the suitcase where it lay across the toilet seat, Kobelev was the best their side had as well.
Outside, the woman behind the desk excitedly told him about a piece of luck she'd had locating suitable identification. One of the porters had lost his passport on board, and it had been found by a maintenance man and left in the office. It even had a card from the French caterer's union. Of course, she said, only a myopic customs official on a foggy day would ever think the man in the photograph and Carter were one and the same, but still it provided something for him to flash in case he was asked.
Carter, who carried his own false papers, could not bring himself to disappoint her. He thanked her with a tip of his chef's hat and stuffed the passport in the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he said good-bye and strode out the door.
Two blocks away in front of the Osterreicher Hotel he caught a cab and told the driver to take him to the headquarters of the Viennese police. The driver turned into Goethestrasse, jerked to a halt in front of a gargoyle-encrusted building. Carter got out of the cab and went in.
At the front desk he identified himself as the American agent come to handle the kidnapped train. He was immediately ushered in to see the superintendent who turned out to be a small balding man with a Prussian mustache. The police chief studied his papers, then tossed them back across the desk. He said he assumed Carter was in disguise and had not come to cook him dinner.
Carter assured him he would make no attempt to take over the train while on Viennese soil, and the superintendent asked if he could extend that to include all of Austria and not move against the Russians until the train reached the Austro-Hungarian border sometime the following morning. After all, he explained, the Russians still enjoyed favorable relations with the Hungarians, and one must live with one's neighbors, wasn't that so? His friends in State Security would appreciate it.
Carter agreed to the superintendent's request, even though in truth he hadn't the vaguest idea of what he was going to do once on board. The superintendent then made a call and when he hung up, told Carter he was cleared to board the train whenever he wished. Carter thanked him and left.
Surprisingly, the train was not surrounded by police barricades and crowds of onlookers as Carter had expected. The entire fifteen cars of the Orient Express, including its gleaming black antique steam engine, rested on a side track in a far corner of the rail yard awaiting the time it could resume its scheduled place in the scheme of European rail traffic, and although movement was visible behind the dusty car windows, the area around the train seemed deserted. All the same, as he made his way across the tracks, he had the feeling he was being watched.
The feeling was confirmed when a door opened in a small weathered shack nearby and a policeman wearing the typical Austrian helmet, similar to those worn by the Kaiser's army in World War I, came out to intercept him. "Who are you?" he asked in German.
"The chef," Carter replied. He didn't know if the cop had been informed of what was happening or not.
"Your papers."
Carter handed him the passport the woman in the tour office had given him. The man studied it, shook his head, and gave it back. "I don't know who you people think you're fooling," he said with disgust. "Special forces. Secrecy. Nonsense, if you ask me. Hit them hard and fast. That's the way we would have done it in the old days."
Carter nodded and grunted and shoved the porter's passport back into the pocket of his jacket and continued his solitary way to the train.
He chose a middle car, threw his bag to the top of the boarding ladder, and was about to climb up when a snub-nosed revolver appeared out of the darkness at the top of the stairs. The barrel looked to be the size of a bazooka. Carter raised his hands and backed off.
As the hand holding the gun emerged from the gloom and became an arm, then a shoulder, Carter's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Coming toward him was one of the largest, most simianlike men Carter had ever seen: head as large as a bowling ball, covered with short black hair and looking about as impenetrable; forehead of an ape, only inches from widow's peak to bushy brows and yet two handspans across, framing a lantern-jawed face in which each feature was grossly outsize, including huge lips that ill concealed a set of broken, ragged-looking teeth. And yet, big as it was, the head was too small for the body. An enormous physique stuffed into clothes that looked as though he'd swum in them, let them dry in place, and they'd shrunk several sizes. Biceps, deltoid, and pectoral muscles threatened to burst every seam. Carter assailed the man first in German, then in French, neither of which seemed to have any effect. The monster only grunted several times and motioned with his gun for Carter to raise his hands even higher.