Locking the door of the claustrophobic toilet, he again sat on the seat and read the text on the screen.
“The picture you sent could be Habiba. NLN. See attached photo. Habiba is believed to be a woman born in Spokane (Wash.) of an American mother of Bosnian descent and Saudi father. She gave her name in college as Abeer Al-Wafd and was active in radical, pro-Islamic causes. She was believed to have been active in the Balkan War 1990–1995 and was convicted in absentia in 1998 by the International Criminal Tribunal of the murder of Serb Catholics by Bosniaks (Bosnian Moslems). She is suspected of planning and participating in both the 2000 attack on the Cole and the 2002 bombing of the resort in Bali, Indonesia. Because of her European looks and fluency in both English and Farsi, Habiba, as she calls herself, passes easily from the Islamic world to the West without detention so far. The last-known contact was a security camera at Heathrow that photographed a physically similar woman disembarking from a flight from Sana’a, Yemen, a week ago today.”
Jason called up the attachment, a fuzzy black-and-white snapshot of a woman in a hijab, the head scarf common to Bosnian Moslems, not the niqab, the full robe and veil revealing only the eyes, hands, and feet, common to Yemeni women as demonstrated by a woman to the left of the picture. The scarf, of course, concealed the hair; and, pulled tight around the face, could be distorting the features.
Could be Natalia. Could be the person he was going to see, this Herka Kerjck, had mentioned she was expecting him. Could be idle conversation had gotten to the wrong ears in time to set up an attempt to stop him. Could be. Jason wasn’t sure; he didn’t have to be. One of the many things he had learned working for Narcom was that suspicion and paranoia were good for the health.
As he walked back to his seat, a glimpse out of the windows told him the train was climbing a grade cut into the mountainside. To his right was sheer rock; to his left, empty space. Mountain roads have tunnels, he thought. He took his seat, giving Natalia a smile. And tunnels meant darkness. Maybe not. He could see lights recessed into the car’s ceiling. He looked around, failing to see a switch.
“Looking for something?”
“Yeah.” He pointed upward. “How do you turn those lights on?”
She put down the copy of the magazine she had gotten from somewhere, a magazine with a man in a suit on the cover along with Cyrillic letters. His practiced, sincere expression told Jason he probably was involved in politics.
“They come on automatically when it gets dark in the car, why? You will have arrived at Gospić, Lika, before sunset.”
“Just curious.”
She gave him a questioning look before returning to her magazine.
He was about to ask about the lunch lady when the car seemed to blink: It went ink dark for less than a second, then full light retuned. Before he could comment, it happened again.
Jason tensed, anticipating what he guessed was coming. He didn’t have long to wait. The car plunged into midnight again, this time for longer than before. There were no lights from above. Quickly and silently, Jason jumped into the aisle, only a split second before he heard something rip the seat’s fabric, something that he guessed would have stabbed into his chest had he not moved.
There was heavy breathing. He sensed movement from across the table. Jason froze, fearful any move would give away his location.
Then it was light again, a transition so sudden he was nearly blinded by it. But not so blind he could not see the sun’s reflection shimmering along the six or more inches of steel embedded in the seat back where he had been sitting.
He didn’t have long to look.
Natalia snatched the blade out of the slash in the fabric. Her pretty face was contorted in hatred as she jumped onto the low table, the knife held close inside the limits of her body, the stance of someone experienced in knife fighting.
Jason backed away, eliminating the height advantage the table gave her. “Damn, Natalia — or should I say Habiba? I’ve had women get pissed at how long I stayed in the john, but never that pissed!”
“Make your stupid joke, Peters. It will be your last.”
Jason’s right hand went to the small of his back, the touch of the Glock comforting. No. Easy enough to shoot this woman, not so easy to explain to the local authorities, who would, at the very least, be less than thrilled with the gun he was carrying in undoubted violation of national law. The killing knife on his leg was useless for the moment: She was too close for him to stoop and pull up his pants leg to draw his own knife from its scabbard.
She took a step forward, her eyes searching to try to find a clue as to his next move. In training for what the army described as “close combat,” Jason had learned that watching your opponent’s eyes could get you killed. Arms, hands, feet, and legs, as well as hips and elbows, cleared the way for the fatal opening to slide a blade into another body. Eyes were merely a distraction for the unwary.
Her shoulder tipped off her next move, a mere twitch but Jason saw it coming: a wide swipe of the blade, one meant not to kill but to disable. In the confines of the railroad car, the standard counter-move, ducking the opposite way and coming up under the arm wielding the knife, was not possible and she knew it.
“Not so easy,” he said evenly. “Burning woman, children, and the elderly in their homes is one thing, maybe even easier than planting a bomb to kill Australian tourists. Facing someone not totally defenseless must be unnerving. You have become used to killing only the innocent.”
Taunting to distract an opponent.
“Among the infidels there are no innocents!” she spat.
Behind her, the conductor entered the car from the one in front. She must have seen his reflection in a window.
“Lock the door,” she ordered. “We need no one to enter this car until I have finished.”
With a dull sense of surprise, Jason watched him comply. That explained why the lights had not come on. This was no longer a two-person show.
That was Natalia’s first mistake, not coordinating exactly with the conductor so that Jason would be between the two.
If she saw it as error, she didn’t show it. Instead, she advanced with the knife. Jason had little choice but retreat. His back came up against the door to the car behind. His hand found the handle and he opened it. Now he was on the platform between cars enclosed by two doors through which passengers would board or depart. He could ill afford to let himself be distracted by the view rushing by, a snowy precipice barely wider than the train itself. He thought he saw the silver ribbon of a river half a mile straight down. The other side was a wall of granite.
No time for sightseeing.
He stretched out as though participating in some form of calisthenics, his left foot jamming the latch that allowed the door to slide open. His right leg extended toward the following car as he used both hands to furiously roll up his pants leg. It was a position he could not long maintain. But he didn’t have to.
The door flew open just as Jason snatched the killing knife from its scabbard, throwing him against the door to the next car. He rolled violently to his left as Natalia’s knife thumped against the metal, a strike that would have gutted him like a fish had it found its mark.
It was then she saw what he held for the first time.
She backed up warily. “How unchivalrous, using a larger weapon. And against a woman, too.”
They were circling each other, a move that would not have been possible with seats and tables on each side.
“I must admit, I don’t recall killing a woman before. But then I’ve never had one attack me with anything sharper than fingernails, either. I doubt that’s something you learned in school as a young girl.”