"What about documents?" Holliday asked.
Caruso pulled himself together, blinking.
"Uh, right here, Colonel." He took a thick envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. "Passports for all of you, well used, new names. Some credit cards, some cash. When you get to Paris, go to the embassy and we'll take it from there."
"We're going to Paris?" Peggy asked dreamily. She yawned and leaned sleepily against Rafi. He didn't seem to mind at all.
"You're booked on the train all the way, Venice, Vienna, and then west to Paris. I've arranged for a shepherd to meet you in Bologna at around midnight. His name is Paul Czinner-he knows all about you."
"How do we know him?" Holliday asked.
"He dresses like a slob and he'll be wearing a ring from the Point," said Caruso. "He's one of us."
"Good enough for me." Holliday nodded.
A railway security officer in blue slacks and a blazer weaved through the pedestrian traffic on a humming Segway transporter, looking distinctly out of place beside the elegant old train. Holliday looked away, his heart rising into his throat. The railway cop cruised by, heading down the platform, and Holliday relaxed.
"Weapons gone?" Caruso asked softly.
Holliday nodded. "Into the Tiber."
The platform around them was crowded now; last-minute buzzing swarms of well-dressed people speaking half a dozen languages were milling around, followed by attendants in blue uniforms hauling overloaded luggage dollies piled high with designer suitcases.
"I don't think we're dressed for this," said Holliday, looking around at the obviously upscale passengers.
"All taken care of," said Caruso. "Suitcase for each of you already in your compartments." He paused and pulled a second folder out of his pocket, this one secured with a rubber band. "Tickets." Holliday took them.
"How'd you know my size?" Peggy asked.
"Uh, the colonel described you, ma'am," said Caruso, blushing furiously again. "I used to work summers at my uncle Ziggy's place in the garment district. He ran a fashion knockoff shop and sold stuff on Canal Street. I used to hang out with the models. You sounded like a size six to me."
"You're a sweetheart," she said, smiling. Caruso reddened yet again. He looked at his watch. "Time to get aboard, sir."
Caruso led them up into the train. There was a bit of a crush in the narrow corridor, but they eventually reached a doorway midway down the car. The door was made of some sort of burled exotic wood veneer. The fittings were brass. The carpeting in the corridor was a dark paisley pattern, the corridor lights above them soft and muted. Everything looked expensive. The effect was like stepping into an old photograph. Next thing you knew a Russian princess would appear, draped in jewels and smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder.
Caruso opened the sliding door and stepped aside. There was a drawing room with a long couchette, a folding screen drawn back to reveal two bunk beds in the next room, more wood veneer, more brass trim, more paisley carpet and matching upholstery.
There were four small black nylon suitcases stored under the couch and on a brass-trimmed overhead rack. Holliday could see a black dress and several suits on hangers stored in a narrow little cupboard next to the door. Neat, compact and elegant.
"It's a double stateroom, a suite they call it," the young lieutenant said nervously, his eyes on Peggy. "Ten single compartments in each car. These are number six and seven. There are three dining cars, a bar car and three sleepers behind us, four sleeping cars and the baggage car forward. Everything's completely private. Bathrooms at either end of the car. Except for that you don't have to leave the compartment until you get to Paris. The cabin steward will bring you your meals if you want. His name is Mario." Caruso shrugged. "I guess that's it then, sir." He held out his hand. "Do I get an A, Colonel?"
"A plus, Cadet Caruso," Holliday said with a laugh, taking the young lieutenant's hand. They shook.
"Good luck, sir."
The soldier stepped back, gave Holliday a smart, crisp salute and backed out of the compartment.
Holliday closed the door and threw the latch. He turned back into the little room. Peggy was already sprawled on the couch, her legs across Rafi's lap. Tidyman was seated closest to the window, looking out onto the platform. For the first time since the morning he realized that everyone in the room smelled like a hickory barbecue.
Holliday felt a hesitant lurching movement beneath his feet. There was the deep bass note of a generator gearing up, and then, almost imperceptibly, the train began to move, sliding silently forward so smoothly there was the brief illusion that it was the platform moving, not the train.
"We made it," said Rafi.
"I could sleep for a week," sighed Peggy, her eyes already closed.
"Being taken captive and held hostage by Tuareg terrorists will have that effect on you," said Rafi, smiling fondly at her. Holliday felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, remembering his time with Amy, so long ago now, before the awful tide of all-consuming cancer swept her away. He and his wife must have looked like Peggy and Rafi looked now.
There was a quiet knock on the door behind him. Holliday turned around and unbolted the door. He opened it a crack. A handsome thirty-something man in a blue uniform with brass buttons stood in the passage. He was actually wearing white gloves.
"I am Mario, signore, your cabin steward for the duration of your journey. For your pleasure cocktails are being served in the bar car at the moment. There is also a late buffet in the forward dining car."
"Thank you, Mario," said Holliday.
"Prego, signore." Mario gave a little bow. Holliday nodded, smiled briefly and shut the door. He threw the bolt again and turned back into the room.
"What do you think?" Holliday said. "Anyone up for it?" He shrugged. "I've got to stay up to meet this Czinner character at midnight."
"Pass," mumbled Peggy, already half asleep.
"Me too," said Rafi.
"I'll join you," said Tidyman.
"From the look on Mario's face when he saw how I was dressed, I think we'd better change first," said Holliday.
The suits were Zegna and Armani, the shirts were Enrico Monti, the ties were Cadini, the shoes were Mirage and everything fit like a glove.
They'd taken the clothes out of the narrow closet and closed the connecting panel of the screen. Peggy was fast asleep on the couch and Rafi was snoring sitting up. Holliday hadn't the heart to wake them for Mario to make up the bunks.
"I feel like an impostor," said Tidyman, grimacing at his reflection in the little mirror over the sink on their side of the compartment. He raked his fingers through his shoulder-length gray hair.
"You look like something out of GQ magazine," Holliday said with a grin, knotting his red- and-blue-striped tie.
"GQ for old men," grunted Tidyman. "After today's adventures I feel a million years old. I'm too old to be James Bond."
"Roger that," agreed Holliday. "Let's go get a drink."
The bar car was a comfortable arrangement of small tables and tapestry-upholstered wing chairs, with a bartender at the ready and a piano player noodling show tunes and Scott Joplin numbers on a baby grand. The bartender looked bored and the smile on the piano player's face looked completely and utterly insincere. There were only a few people in the car. Apparently if you had enough money to travel on the Orient Express, you were too old to party.
They sat down at the table farthest from the piano. A waiter in a short white jacket took their order and both men leaned back in their chairs. The wheels rattled and roared over the sleepers and the landscape was nothing more than flickering lights and shapes in the darkness, smeared through the heavy glass by the slanting rain that had begun to fall as they left Rome. The waiter reappeared with Holliday's Martini amp; Rossi on the rocks and Tidyman's brandy.