Strangers on a Train

"What?"

"Nervous. You suddenly look very nervous. More nervous than just a few minutes ago."

"I am."

"Me?"

"Certainly you. I've led you into real danger. Inadvertently, but nevertheless."

"That's okay. I can take care of it."

"Oh? Look, I don't know who you think you can call, maybe the Marines or something, but there are four or more hostile agents closing in on me -- as we speak, and you might get in their way. Understand?"

He nodded, took another cracker and spread hummus on it, shaved off another bit of gruyere and popped the whole thing in his mouth -- then he smiled at her.

She couldn't tell if he was deliberately trying to infuriate her, or if he was simply the most obtuse human being in the long, boring history of male chauvinism -- then he took yet another sip of champagne. 'I may kill him myself,' she thought, 'and save the world the trouble...' He looked up at her and grinned, blinked rapidly several times.

"You know, you're taking all this a little too seriously."

"Perhaps you aren't taking things seriously enough."

"Perhaps because I don't know what's going on. Just what on earth did you do? And to whom?"

"I'm sorry. I can't..."

"I know, I know. Well, tell me, did you kill someone?"

And she looked away, tried to hide her eyes.

"Ah," he said. "I see. So these gentlemen are a little pissed off."

"You could say that, yes."

He stood and pulled his suitcase down from the overhead rack, unzipped a side compartment and pulled out a little black pouch, then he put the suitcase back. He sat next and unzipped the case, pulled out a little Walther, and a silencer, then screwed it on. He took the magazine out and checked the load, then chambered a round -- and handed her the pistol.

"What," she said, "are you doing?"

"I'm assuming you know what this thing does, and how to use it better than I do, so you take it. If I tried to use it I'd probably shoot my foot off."

She looked at the pistol, an Israeli special. A TPK, 22 short, designed for close range head shots. "Ammunition?"

"Israeli," he said.

"Jesus."

"Don't hold it close. I keep it as far away from soft tissues as I can."

"Who...?"

"My dad."

"Is he...?"

"Yup. Career. Seventh floor."

"Oh dear God. This just gets better 'n better."

He laughed.

Emile knocked on the door, brought in two curries and a bottle of red. "They are in the dinning car right now. Six of them. Four Iranian passports, two Swiss."

"Emile? I'm going to need to use the radio-telephone."

"But it is not for public use, sir."

"I understand. Perhaps it will be better if a dozen or so people are killed by terrorists on this train during the night?"

"I'll have the conductor come by in a few minutes, sir."

"Thanks, Emile."

"We're going into the Alps now," she said. "Poor radio signal."

"We will be, until Milan."

"Where is this train going, anyway?"

He laughed. "That's right, I forgot. Rome -- by way of Milan, and Genoa. The coastal route. How's that curry, by the way?"

"Swiss," she said, not quite making a face.

"Ah."

"And where are you headed? Rome?"

"Paestum. I wanted to walk the ruins there. And you?"

"I was going to try for our embassy, but the way was cut off."

"So, any ole embassy will do?"

"Theoretically. I'll be blown, but yes."

"What's optimal?"

"Disappear. Make my way back to town."

"You married?"

"Me? Heavens, no. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Well, are you?"

"Married? No, I came close...but, no."

"What's next? Teach?"

"Maybe. My father would like me to sign up, grandfather wants me to go to State."

"What do you want to do?"

"I wish I knew..."

Another knock on the door, the conductor sliding the door open quietly. "You need to contact the authorities, Herr Fairchild?"

"I do," he said, then he turned to her. "And is there a name I should reference?"

She leaned close and whispered in his ear.

"You're joking!" he said, but she shook her head and he took off with the conductor -- while Emile came inside the little compartment and sat with her while he was away.

Which wasn't long.

"Did you get through?" she asked once they were alone again.

He nodded his head. "Yup, but the neighbors were watching."

"Indeed."

"The RT is right by the dining car. They're just sitting in there, drinking coffee."

"Gearing up for a long night."

"As will we," he said. "I've got strudel and coffee inbound, and I've got a deck of cards in the suitcase. Play gin?"

"Of course. And I'll beat your ass into the ground, too."

"That sounds kind of like a challenge," he said, grinning.

"No, not at all. More a warning, a fait accompli. I'm going to kick your ass all around this little compartment, that's all."

"Assuming your name isn't George Smiley, think you could tell me your real name?"

"George Smiley."

"I see. Guess I deserved that, huh?"

She smiled, tried not to be too ironic about it, then Emile knocked and cleaned up their dishes, spread a fresh tablecloth and laid out silverware for dessert and coffee -- then disappeared again, returning a moment later with two mountainous globs of strudel and a carafe of coffee. He produced a bowl of schlagsahne next, and heaped it on each pastry -- leaving the bowl with their coffees before he disappeared, and they looked at the size of their desserts, then at one another.

"Dear God," they said in unison, then they laughed for the longest time.

He took down his suitcase again and dug out his deck of cards, and when the cabin was squared away again he opened the deck and shuffled it. She cut and he dealt their hands, and a few drops in she ginned.

He raised an eyebrow, then dealt another hand -- and she smoked him, again.

'Something's not right,' he sighed, and he leaned forward, dealt again, and lost again.

"Odd," he said.

"Isn't it?"

Then he discovered her trick.

Dangling a shoe off her toe, moving her legs just so...and he grinned, went into the tiny head and stuffed a towel down into his briefs, rolled up just so. He went out and splayed himself just enough to reveal a monstrous bulge -- and he took the next four games.

"This is too much fun," he said, and then he moved around a little, pulled the towel up from it's hiding place.

"Bastard!" she cried.

"Bitch!" he echoed, then he leaned over and put her shoe firmly back on her foot.

"Oops."

"I've never seen such underhanded play before," he said, smiling.

"Works, doesn't it?"

"I suppose."

"I had you pegged after five minutes."

"I wonder what that says about you?"

She arched her eyebrows rapidly a few times, then grinned. "I'll never tell."

"You know, I feel certain you won't."

"Anymore coffee in that thing?" she asked.

And she felt the change before she heard anything -- he did, too. Someone outside their door, listening. Then trying the lock. Her hand, going for the little Walther. Then Emile's voice, down the corridor: "Excuse me, but you are in the wrong car! You must leave! NOW!" Hastily retreating footsteps -- she putting the pistol away -- then Emile, knocking on the door.

"Come in!" he said.

"This is the second time they have tried to come into this car. I have alerted the conductor, and we will try to put them off at the next stop."

"No need," she said. "They'll just put someone else on at the next stop, and then we won't know who they are."

"But..."

"My concern, Emile," he said, quickly trying to cover her mistake, "is the terrorists might set off a bomb if we tried that, or take hostages."

"Ah, I see."

"Just let them come, Emile," he added, "but turn off the corridor lights."

"Okay."

Emile cleared the dishes on the rolling trolley, and a few minutes later the lights went out.

"You do know," he said, "we're the last room in the last car of this train."

"Nothing behind us?"

"No. I, uh, well I borrowed Emile's key, unlocked the door."

"You didn't?"

"Here's my plan..."

A half hour later he felt that same presence, knew someone was just outside the door, and a moment later the door started to slide open. He saw a small silenced pistol slide past the curtain, then the man appeared -- and he seemed startled to find an American, alone, sitting there making a sh-h-h gesture -- with one finger up to his lips -- then pointing at the folded berth over his head.

"She's in there," he whispered, and the Iranian nodded his head as he stepped up to the bed and tripped the release...

At which point she stepped out of the tiny head and with one -- pffft -- the agent fell to the floor, grabbing at the small, fatal head wound.

"Okay," he said as he picked up the man, "you get the door."

She stepped out into the corridor, saw it was clear and stepped aft, quietly, then opened to outer door -- and he tossed the body out the back. Seconds later they were back in the compartment, and a minute later they heard Emile knocking on the door.

"Yes," he said as he slid the door open an inch or two.

"Did you hear something?" Emile asked, trying to see into the compartment.

"I'm so sorry, Emile. When she gets on top she gets a little wild. I think it has something to do with the motion, ya know?"

"Oh, dear. Oh, no, excuse me..." Emile said as he retreated to his compartment at the other end of the car.

Twenty minutes later the presence announced itself again, and exactly as before the door slid open, the curtain parted when a silenced pistol entered, he sh-h-h'ed the man and whispered she was above, and when the man tripped the release she dispatched him. Two minutes later they were back in the compartment.

"This is too easy..." he said.

"They won't fall for that one again."

"Okay, let's try this..."

Twenty minutes later the door slid open and the gun appeared; when the man entered the compartment he saw another man splayed out face down on the floor, apparently dead. When he bent down to check for a pulse -- pffft -- down he went too, then out the back door.

"Was that number three?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What are they? Morons?"

She broke out giggling.

"This is like Laurel & Hardy. I thought these guys are supposed to mean, ruthless killers?"

"Well, they are."

"But they're fucking morons!"

"Stop it," she said, doubling over, laughing hysterically now.

The door flew open, the next assassin rushed in -- and he took the gun right out of the man's hand and she stuck the Walther up to his left eye and -- pffft -- down he went, right into his waiting arms.

"I'm getting tired of this," he said. "Maybe tie one hand behind my back? Something, anything to give these morons a fighting chance?"

Forty minutes later the last two were dispatched and they stood there, looking out the back door, letting the frigid mountain air wash over their sweat-soaked bodies -- when Emile walked up.

"This door is supposed to be closed, locked!" Emile said as he scurried up, and he shut the door, felt for his key.

"What are you looking for, Emile?"

"My key, for the door?"

"Is that it," he said, pointing at a key on the linoleum floor.

"Ah, just so. Thank you."

"Fell out of your pocket."

"Ah."

"Where are the Iranians?"

"They seem to have disappeared?"

"Really? How strange?"

"Yes, we just looked from one end of the train to the other, and not a sign of them."

"Curious. How long until we reach Milan?"

"Oh, about an hour."

"I'm expecting a business associate to join us there. Name is Jones."

"Of course, sir. You'll still be up?"

"Up? Why, yes Emile. I'll still be up."

"Very good, sir."

"You're awful," she said once Emile was safely out of range.

"I am? Why?"

"You'll still be -- up!" she said, her pointing finger popping straight up."

"Oh. That. Wishful thinking on my part."

She smiled. "It is?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Well, how long do we have?"

But he shook his head. "You know? I've never had a one night stand, and I'm not sure I want to, even with you."

And she kissed him, once, before she got off the train in Milan. Teams from the CIA and MI6 escorted her to a waiting transport, and she was in London hours before he made it to Rome. He walked the ruins in Paestum, and in the winter light the old Greek temples took on the soft aires of forgotten dreams. He walked and walked, took dozens of rolls of film, all black and white, which seemed to fit his mood better than color.

He flew home on a Pan Am 747 and once back in Boston he rode the T out to Cambridge and found he'd forgotten to leave the heat on inside his apartment. His jet lag was terrible for days, and he walked around in a fog, barely able to come to terms with the things he'd done, so the next weekend he hopped on the shuttle and flew down to National. His father was waiting for him at the gate.

And uncharacteristically, his father was very quiet on the ride home. Once they were home, once he'd put his suitcase back in his old bedroom, he went downstairs and got a Coke, then went to his father's study.

"Shut the door, son."

He did.

"So, how was Zurich? Get much done?"

"A bit, yessir."

"And how many people did you kill on that train?"

"Me sir? Technically, zero."

And his father smiled. "Let me rephrase. How men dead men did you throw out the back of that train?"

"Six, sir."

His father leaned forward, his face turning redder by the second, then all that pressure released. "Kind of fun, isn't it?"

"Sir?"

"Bad guys? It's kind of fun, popping them in the head like that. Sorry you didn't get to take out a few."

"Sir?"

"The first dozen or so are the toughest. Gets easier after that."

"Sir?"

"Still, everyone down in Yorktown that's read the after-action report thinks you've got what it takes, son. You know Russian, German and French, and you have the background. When are you going to decide?"

"Sir, I've put in my application, with the Peace Corps."

He flew back up to Boston on Sunday morning, still unconvinced that a life of killing spies was the life for him, but he had promised his father not to decide about the Peace Corps until his dissertation had been defended and approved for publication, so he sequestered himself in his apartment and began writing in February, and he emerged from time to time, for groceries, mainly, and he wrote and wrote. March passed, then April and May. Then June and July. And August, too, but at last his work was at an end and he took it to a professional typist, then to his advisor, who took it first to one committee, then another. He was called in the middle of September to defend his dissertation, and he did so on the third day of October. A month later he was notified: he would receive his PhD in December.

"So GramPa, what'd you do next?" his granddaughter asked, swaying in the rail car.

"Well, when I walked home to that little apartment, your Grandmother was waiting for me right there, out on the front steps."

"Yes, but who was she?"

"Who? Oh, that spy, from Britain."

"From Devonshire?"

"That's the one. She was waiting, said she had been for a few hours, and that's when we made your father."

"GramPa! You're not supposed to say things like that!"

"What? We didn't do it in the road! We went upstairs!"

"So, you're telling me GramMa was a spy?"

"Yup. And a pretty good one, too, as it turned out."

"Golly, that's kind of hard to believe, you know?"

"Hmm? Why's that?"

"Well...it's GramMa! I mean, she's just a little old lady!"

"Oh...is that what she is...?"

"I guess she's more than that, huh?"

"You know, you never seem to talk to her all that much and I think she misses that. Maybe she'd like to get to know you better."

"It looks different out here," the little girl said -- going to the window, looking out over passing farmland and trees.

"How so?"

"Like there's more water here, more rain."

"That's true. This part of England gets a lot of rain. Do you know why?"

She shook her head, still gazing out the window.

"Well, it has something to do with a water current. Does that ring a bell?"

"The Gulf Stream!"

"That's right. Now why don't we go down and talk to GramMa for a while."

"I don't know. I think I'm a little afraid of her now."

"Afraid? Why?"

"Well, you said GranMa killed people..."

"Yes, so? Soldiers kill people all the time? Are you afraid of soldiers?"

She nodded her head. "Yes. Kinda."

"And police officers kill people too. Are you afraid of them, too."

Again, she nodded her head.

"What about those big, bad terrorists? Are you afraid of them?"

"Uh-huh," she said, nodding her head big time.

"Well, somebody has to kill the terrorists too, don't they?"

"Yes," she said quietly, "I suppose so."

"You suppose?"

"GramPa, why are we going out to that old house?"

"To Devonshire?"

"Yes."

"Well, after your grandmother and I got married, we lived there for a long time. I worked in London, and your GramMa continued to work, well, as a spy. Your father was born here, too."

"Did she kill more people?"

"Why don't you go ask her that? You can ask her about all kinds of things, you know? She helped a lot more people than she hurt."

"Did she?"

"Yes." He stood and held out his hand, helped her out the door and down the narrow little corridor, and he knocked on her door.

The nurse came and let them in, and his granddaughter slipped inside, through the little curtain beyond the sliding door, then he turned and went back to his compartment. He sat by the glass, looked at the passing landscape through a reflection he saw there. His face, staring back, and the passing landscape beyond, merging. He hardly recognized the old man in the glass, then realized he hardly knew that old man at all.

The trees and farms looked the same, he thought, but not me. Everything out there looked caught in amber, frozen in time, but not me. Not her.

How many more weeks do we have together?

Time, so precious now. So inescapably precious.

His time, with her, the most precious thing of all. But so too was the little time those two could share. So much would be passed along. Memories would be made, memories to last a lifetime. The little girl was old enough now, and she was bright enough; she would remember. His wife would pass along the secrets of a lifetime, just as he had passed on those secrets to his son.

He looked at the eyes in the glass. His eyes, so unchanged, looking back into God only knows -- like strangers on a train, chancing to know one another.

*

© 2017 Adrian Leverkühn | abw | fiction, and nothing but.