He examined the window latch and saw that it would be easy enough to force it open and slip out. What should he do? If he was caught here like this the Colonel was just the sort to shoot first and ask questions later. If he jumped from the moving train at this point he could be hopeless miles away from the ambush at Kilometer 172. That was the key. He remembered working it all through with Maeve. They decided that the best way to try and spare the second train was to get at the wires somehow. If he was to have any chance of doing that he had to get as close as possible to the ambush. How could he remain on board and yet be undetected?
Nordhausen said it was an old locomotive, overburdened, and prone to many stops along the way. If he could hide himself he might have a chance to slip off as they approached Minifir. But he had to make it seem as though he were gone. He moved on an impulse, unfastening the latch and forcing the window open. The sound of the train blew in with the cold morning air. He breathed deeply, suddenly feeling very much alive. He wanted to stay that way, and the adrenaline in his system began to gear him up for the trial ahead.
He stuck his head out of the train and felt the cold mist on his face. He could not see much, but it looked like he could get up on the roof from here. Thankfully, this window was on the opposite side of the train from where the Colonel had exited. What would he think when he returned to his coach and found his prisoner missing? Would he stop the train and begin a search?
Paul realized that it all depended on when the Colonel returned. If he was planning to reach his coach soon, then Paul had no choice and he had to act now. If the Colonel was riding out this segment on another train car, then it would probably be another twenty kilometers before the train would stop again. I want him to think I’ve jumped, he thought. That way he won’t be likely to mount a serious search.
He padded back to the desk, and found the Colonel’s ink pen next to a half filled dipper. He took a leaf of paper from the man’s brief and dipped the pen to write a note on the back… “Good-Bye, Colonel. I’m off to my desert. I hope you enjoy the coffee!” A moment later he was squeezing up through the window, gathering his robes tight about him and grateful for his long, slim build. He was hoping the Colonel was forward on another car.
He won’t stop the train, Paul thought. He’s a man on a mission. There’s another train coming down from Damascus and he has to clear the rail line by at least reaching Deraa before it gets there. Besides, I could be anywhere in a twenty kilometer area for all he would know. A search would take too much of his precious time. No, he’ll just curse me, punish the guards, and move on.
He passed a precarious moment, his body extended out of the window as he strained to gain a hand hold near the roof. He managed it with one arm, then the other, as he slipped up through the window and struggled to pull himself up with as little noise as possible. His boots thumped on the window sill, but he made it. Wind ruffled his lanky frame as he settled onto the roof and stretched out behind a raised manifold. The guards assigned to his coach were very close, just at the rear of the car on a low porch. Paul squinted into the chill wind, looking ahead to see if there might be a better place where he could conceal himself. If he moved forward he would be farther from these two guards, but he would risk discovery. The noise of the train had masked his movements thus far, but he had been climbing on the roof of an empty car. The cars ahead were probably packed with troops and officers, and someone could easily hear him on the roof if he risked moving.
He decided to let well enough alone, and stay put, lying as low as he could and using the manifold to break the cold wind that washed over his body. There was a wide, shallow groove in the roof, probably a gutter, and he wedged himself into it, trying to conceal as much of his body as possible. It was going to be a miserable ride, he thought, cold and wet when the rains began again. If the guards on the porch saw their Colonel had not returned, would they venture inside the coach to warm themselves? He couldn’t bother himself with all the potential possibilities any longer. He had made his choice, a single cast of the die, and his fate would now have to ride upon it. If I’m discovered, he thought, then I’ll just have to keep my wits about me and hope they don’t shoot me down. Anything I can do to delay, and get myself closer to Kilometer 172, plays in my favor.
Thankfully, circumstances appeared to favor his bold move and he was not immediately discovered. His guess about the Colonel was about to be severely tested. He sensed a gradual slowing of the train, and strained to see ahead, catching the vague shape of a low, squat building complex off to the left. There was a water tower with a wind mill, and a few plain wood buildings.
The line curved a bit as they approached the depot and Paul caught the dark shape of a man emerging from a small wood-framed guard house at the edge of the station. He squeezed himself low, hoping his body would remain concealed in the depression of the gutter on the roof. His heart beat faster as the train came to a gradual stop. The moment of truth was soon upon him when he heard the crunch of heavy boots on the gravel bed of the station. Several men were making their way towards the back of the train.
The engine hissed and vented a billow of gray-white steam. Paul waited, breathless when he heard boots on the porch at the back of his car. Harsh shouts of alarm sounded and he heard someone jostling at the window just below his position. He closed his eyes, as if the darkness behind his eyelids would serve to hide him from the Turks. Another voice sounded, low and threatening, and Paul immediately recognized it as the Colonel. He had come back to his coach and was clearly not pleased to find his captive missing.
Time seemed suspended and Paul gritted his teeth as he waited out what seemed like an interminable interval. Then the shouting began again as the Colonel was obviously chastising the guards who had been posted on the porch. He heard a hard slap, like the leather of a glove being raked across a man’s face. There were harsh words, and Paul’s temples pounded with the tension. This was the moment. What would the Colonel do next?
The train was starting to move again, gliding slowly forward on squeaky wheels. Apparently this was just a brief stop, possibly to deliver a mailbag or some other goods to the depot. The Colonel used the interval to return to his coach, but he was still embroiled in a shouting fest with his guards as the train began to gather momentum. Paul heard the hard scrape of the window being shut below him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His guess had been right. The Colonel had a schedule to keep and he knew it would be fruitless to launch a search for his missing prisoner. God help the guards, thought Paul. I hope Masaui was not one of those men. He closed his eyes again, imagining what the Colonel must be doing in the coach below.
It would take him some time to compose himself, Paul thought. The poor guards were probably standing there under his withering stare. He would let them wait in the silence of his anger, their faces red and scared with the shame of his punishing blows, their eyes sullen and diverted to the soiled floor of the coach. Then Paul heard a sharp order and the sound of the guards hurrying back through the door to the outer porch.
Paul knew that the Colonel would soon be settling in to his chair at the desk, mulling and brooding over the loss of his prisoner. The hard thump of a fist on the desk top was audible even through the roof and over the growing noise of the train. Paul smiled, knowing that the Colonel must have seen his note.
Well, he thought, the man will certainly think he was right about me after reading that note. He said I was a spy, and I suppose I am—though not nearly so clever as the Colonel might suspect.