The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Eighteen - Midnight Train to Georgia
Rated: PG
*******
It was my favorite sort of cruise - short. Very short.
We wave goodbye to our new 'friends' as the yachtsman tilts the sails into the wind and the boat slowly pulls into deep water. Napoleon is still laughing at the over-trimmed Captains hat I chose for him - but I note that he also is wearing it. So much gold braid would hardly seem to match with our deck shoes and jeans, but on him somehow it looks right. Everything does. That is one of his less irritating talents.
I chose a comfortable spot and watch while Napoleon entertains himself with the rudder and ropes. He learned to sail as a child, and tells me he enjoys it. Before we were...together... he would go down weekends and sail on the Potomac, crewing for various friends. He has not done that lately. Perhaps I should encourage him to do so? We have so little time, but one weekend alone would be nothing if it would make Napasha happy.
The water is very calm - or perhaps the drugs are very effective. Either way, I almost enjoy our departure from Tallin. The sky is blue. The wind is warm. There is a very nice view of the harbor...and an even better view of Napoleon. Now if we were only here alone - and on dry land.
He steers the boat out into the mouth of the Baltic Sea -just past where the submarines are *not* - then back again. Turning tight into the wind, Napoleon slips us into the shadow of a large motor yacht. The yacht's Captain grumbles a bit, but Napoleon just waves. After all, as a wind powered vessel we have the right-of-way.
Twenty minutes later we are back at Tallin. Pulling up along a larger pier in what I gather must be the section reserved for the fishing fleet. Not quite as freshly painted as the Harbor Club, but better for us because of its constant traffic.
As we pull up beside the pier our 'professional yachtsman' takes over the sails. He seems a decent young man, and I trust the boat will arrive in Riga on time and in fine condition. With any luck, the harbormaster there will never learn it should have had two more passengers. Napoleon slips the sailor a few large bills and a map before grabbing his luggage and jumping for the dock. I follow.
No chance of finding a cab this far from the restaurant section, but a quick word with a man in the parking lot and a handful of rubles is all that is required to secure a ride to the train station. Good. Taxis may smell better, but they also keep records - and Napoleon and I prefer to be on a boat headed for Riga. Not a train headed for Vilnius.
The station is dirtier than I remember it. The ticket line is shorter, and the tickets cost more. Other than that? Tallin is Tallin. Securing a double cabin in first class, we catch the express for Lithuania with fifteen minutes to spare. Just enough time to buy vodka and cigarettes at the kiosk. Napoleon looks amused, but I am a veteran of the Northern train system. Cigarettes are for tips. Vodka is a necessity. But I am a loyal partner. They have scotch, and I pick up a bottle for him.
The train is very familiar. Same bad track. Same surly conductors. Same graying sheets that likely have not been replaced since my last travels through Latvia. When was that? I think a moment. 1955. Just before I left for U.N.C.L.E. What is that they say? How time flies? But then - how is indeed the question for us.
Napoleon looks around the cabin and shakes his head. A four by ten tin box with one window too dirty to let in light and two folded bunks too narrow to let a man sleep. One twisted shelf I would not trust to support a glass - much less any luggage. No chairs, and no room to sit if there were any. I shrug. Napoleon is right. This is no place to stay . At least, with luck, we will not actually have to *sleep* here for more then one night.
There is a club car - of sorts. The sort that reminds me not to join any club that would have me. The menu makes me grateful for a large breakfast. One look at the fly-specked sandwiches and I am convinced. This *is* Estonia - whatever the date.
I grab a pair of reasonably clean glasses and look for a table. Left to myself, I might prefer the bottle. At least I know that is sterile. But that is one of my habits that irritates Napoleon, and as - for the moment - he is in my good graces... the glasses are acceptable.
No empty tables. Naturally.
Seeing my survey, the one occupant of one window table waves us over. "First time on the Warsaw Express?" A sturdy-framed graying man in his well-managed fifties stands and offers his hand to Napoleon. "I recognized the horrified look."
Napoleon accepts the handshake. "Not your first, I take it?"
"Every other month. Worse luck." He waves at the extra chairs. "Col. Steve Austin USAF, retired."
"Napoleon Solo, Compsys. My partner, Mr. Illya Kuryakin."
"Good company. I compete mostly with Avian Solutions, but I've heard of you guys." He looks at me, then back to Solo. "Joint venture?"
"Of a sort. You?"
"Launch advisor for Global-Sat Telecommunications. Checking the lift prospects south of Finland."
"Polar launch?" I ask.
"If we can't get Florida." He retakes his chair. " The Finn's aren't about to budge. And the Russians are damn slow - no offense."
I set down my bottle. "None taken."
"Even so, better Russian then French. Now if I can only convince the Estonians."
Of what? "Where are you headed?" I inquire casually, easing into the chair by the window.
Col. Austin answers. "Vohma."
"My sympathy."
"You've been there? Miserable flyspeck, but well supplied with nothing ...which for launch sites is all to the good. Not a decent road there - thus the train."
"You don't fly?" Napoleon sounds surprised.
"I'd love to fly. I just don't like to ride." He taps his leg, which rings hollow."Bad landing."
"Understood." And I do understand.
He looks over at me."You a pilot?"
"Navy. Retired, but I still fly."
"Turtle?"
"Wager your donkey." I gesture at his glass. "Vodka or scotch?"
"Was gin." He drains the last half inch. "What have you got?"
Napoleon grins. "A new deck of cards."
"Good enough. Drink up and shuffle."
I pour a shallow drink and check my cards. Napoleon does likewise. Poker is a counting game, and today it would be wise neither to win or to lose. We are quarter-way through the bottles and about even as to cash when two men in uniform come through the club door.
Col. Austin turns, following my eyes. "Oh, shit! Latvian Feds."
"Problem?"I ask.
Napoleon slides his chair back, giving me room to move.
"No." Austin turns back to his cards. " Just a nuisance. I have a connection I'd rather not have ...delayed."
I watch the two men pass through the room, moving passenger to passenger and checking each ones papers. Ours were apparently quite good enough, but still...
By the time they reach our table, both Napoleon and the colonel are studiously concentrating on their poker hands. "Papers?" one officer asks.
I hand mine over. The younger of the two checks the photo and hands it back.Then he does the same with Napoleon. Then Austin.
I turn to the older officer. "Trouble?" It is a safe enough question, and total disinterest might be more suspicious.
"Sorry gentlemen. I must warn you to be alert, especially to keep an eye on your luggage and any high-value items. Interpol has notified us that known criminal may have a ticket for this train. If so..." He tries to make the pause ominous.
Austin tucks his papers back in his jacket. "Tell ya what. If I see any international jewel thieves, I'll call you." He reviews his hand and flips down a card. "Now, Solo. I believe I was about to raise?"
We play another few hands. My cards are average, which allows me to consider this development - but I reach no conclusions. After perhaps half an hour the colonel empties his glass and closes the deck.
He stands carefully. "'Scuse me, gents. Got to recycle." As he makes his careful way through the door, a red-headed man looks up, then follows. Napoleon catches the movement even as I do.
"Strike you as a bit....coincidental?" he asks, nodding at the retreating backs.
I lay down my cards. "I believe I have.... a similar need. You keep an eye on the table. Just in case."
If it was the bathroom Austin was headed for? I check the outer door. Locked. A most excessive modesty. I listen against the thin door, and nearly loose an eardrum to a *thump* that rattles the frame. So. Someone is in there.
One well placed kick takes out the lock.
Col. Austin has bruises. The other man has a knife. Not that it appears to have given him much advantage, but it least it indicates which side I should be on. One round kick to the kidneys sends the red-head into the far wall - and into oblivion.
"Thanks." The American looks down at his recent assailant. "I've heard that the Russian Navy is tough. Must be true."
"What did he want?" I try to sound merely curious.
"Just a thief. Sorry."Austin picks up his dropped briefcase, muttering "Hate when these creeps involve innocents." He reaches over and straightens the twisted inner latch. "Cheap Bulgarian construction."
I am still looking at the fallen man when the conductor walks in... and runs out. Thirty seconds later he returns with the two policemen we had met earlier.
Colonel Austin steps forward. "This man tried to rob us."
"Is this...." The younger police man searches the fallen man, and produces some very interesting electronics. Not your usual burglar's kit. He looks at us, then at his superior. "These two were together in the club car. "
The older policeman nods. "You both will have to come with us."
I finger my I.D., uncertain. Would either my gold card or my more recent papers be any help? Or more of a stumbling block? I do not want to attract attention. I know I do *not* want to spend any time in the local jail.
As the older officer reaches down to take the electronics from his associate, I notice the edge of a tattoo on his wrist. The hilt of a dagger. Interesting. Perhaps providential.
I motion Austin back. "I'll take this"
"Can you?" he whispers.
"I hate having to involve innocents."
"What are you saying? What do you have to do with this man?"The senior officer questions, stepping between the Col. and myself. "That one on the floor is the criminal we were looking for. "
I direct a hard look at the older mans wrist. "What a coincidence, comrade." I say slowly. "I believed he was a traveler on the road to Samarkand."
"A wha.."The younger policeman starts. That exclamation earns him an elbow in the ribs from his superior..
"He...? yes..... exactly sir..." The senior officers's eyes move carefully from the American traveler, to the man on the floor, and back to me. A short pause, then. "Take this thief up front," he snaps at his confused subordinate. "Tell the engineer that we will get off at the next station."
I slide my I.D. deeper into my pocket. "You never saw me."
He looks past my shoulder. "You were never here."
END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN