Chapter Thirteen

February 2004

Timișoara, Romania

Timișoara Nord Station

Jack tipped his hat and said, "Mulțumesc," to the bored woman manning the ticket window. She ignored him. Undeterred, he clutched his ticket and shuffled through the station, his cane tapping on the worn but still gleaming marble floor. The station clung desperately to its glory days of mid-century communist art deco, but at this point was looking a little tired. A workman teetered on a tall ladder while manually updating the train schedule in the foyer. There was not a single bench or seat to clutter the entrance hall, so travelers sat on their luggage. Each opening of the doors at either end sent a blast of chill air through the building.

He continued through to the platform, and once outside, his shoes crunched on the light dusting of snow that covered the city. It was still early, but there was little hope for the temperature to rise. They expected heavy snow throughout the day. The grey skies and gusts of wind confirmed the weather report. 

His leg was still nowhere near healed, which limited his disguise options. He therefore stuck with what worked: an elderly man in somewhat worn clothes wearing an anachronistic tweed hat. Generally non-threatening, and usually overlooked. He added a weak, wheezing cough for effect. He settled on a bench under the concrete canopy that offered meager protection from the elements. The bench was ice cold. He pulled out a local newspaper and pretended to read.

In actuality, he was observing. 

The inclement weather discouraged travel and the train looked to be thinly populated, which was a net positive for the op. Most of the passengers were still inside, remaining in the warmth as long as possible. He scanned the people milling on the platform: this was the younger crowd, bundled up in knit caps and heavy jackets. A group of students chatted enthusiastically, and a pretty middle-aged woman lugged a battered wheeled bag that was dangerously overstuffed.

Irina. 

She positioned herself just inside the station, gazed out at him on the platform. Her scarf was tucked into her jacket, a signal that she hadn't seen anything yet.

He and Irina had debated and considered this op for several days. Even with the time and effort they had put into planning, the approach they had decided upon was less of a plan and more of a series of potential improvisations. There were too many variables they couldn't control. They were stealing an object they couldn't precisely identify, from a group of people they had no information on. All they knew for certain was a group of Guild couriers would be moving an item. 

And that Simon Walker and his team were waiting in Bucharest to do the exact same thing. 

The train would take perhaps sixteen hours to its destination, and they needed to secure the item and get off the train within the first four. If it took longer than that, the train would become more crowded, and they would be more vulnerable to both Walker and the authorities responding to whatever incident he and Irina would have to provoke. 

Phase one: identify the targets. 

Fortunately, there were always tells. Jack flipped the page of the newspaper and continued to scan the crowd. A small child who was bundled up so thoroughly he walked stiffly clung to his mother's hand. Two elderly women, supporting each other arm in arm. 

There.

Two men, perhaps early thirties. Wearing jackets, same design, new off the rack. Matching except for different colors. One with a knit cap, one with a hood. They were clearly traveling together, but did not interact socially. Watchful. And one was carrying a black leather satchel. 

Jack flipped his newspaper around, displaying the front page. That was his signal to Irina. She pulled her red scarf outside of her coat. They had both seen it.  

Phase two: confirm. In the absence of concrete intel, observed behavior could be utilized to support target acquisition. 

Irina struggled with her one-wheeled battered suitcase and dragged it onto the platform. It clattered and bounced until she was a few feet from the potential couriers. 

Suddenly, the side pocket burst open and a gust of wind picked up small clothing items and blew them all over the platform. The elderly ladies jumped into action, helping Irina close the suitcase. The students enthusiastically ran after some lingerie and returned it. The little boy pulled from his mother's grasp to chase a sock. A brassiere tumbled in the wind towards Jack, and he bent stiffly to grab it, saving it from blowing away onto the rail.  

Irina was red faced, clearly embarrassed, and profusely thanking everyone who helped her.

The only ones who did not assist, or even comment, were the couriers. If anything, they were more watchful than before. 

Her suitcase newly secured, Irina walked past him. 

"Madam? I believe this is yours." He handed her the brassiere.  

"Thank you." She took the item from Jack's hand and winked at him.

He tipped his hat and whispered, "Target acquired?" 

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

While the behavior of the men wasn't definitive, it was likely the best confirmation they were going to get. As evidenced by the three-year-old chasing the sock, humans were generally hard-wired to offer assistance in low-risk situations. Failing to assist, or even react, was indicative of ulterior motives. Or sociopathy. Whichever it was, singled out these two men from the other passengers. 

The hissing of air brakes and the squeal of ancient machinery heralded the arrival of the train engine. If the station had been communist art deco, then the train itself must have dated to the Khrushchev era. It was a blocky, wheezing, diesel-electric contraption that looked almost like a toy on the narrow gauge rail. Assuming it didn't break down or get stuck in the snow, it would pull the train through the Carpathians to Bucharest, although it would take over sixteen hours to manage it. The Shinkasen, this was definitely not. 

Workmen in overalls and greasy overcoats set to linking up the engine to the rest of the train. It would be five cars long.

With the arrival of the engine, the passengers inside the station began migrating onto the platform. After a few minutes of mechanical work, the conductor stepped off the train and motioned to the crowd that boarding could begin. 

He and Irina milled on the platform until just before departure. They may have identified the initial targets, but it was unlikely they were alone. Nothing else materialized until the train's whistle blew, giving the last warning for boarding. Jack shuffled to the front of the train, and feigned difficulty navigating the stairs. The conductor and a college student grabbed his elbows and helped him up. He thanked them in a wheezy, timid voice, and hobbled through the train. 

Irina had boarded the last car, and moved up the train while he moved from front to back. By the time he reached the fourth car -- where the couriers were seated -- Irina had already taken a seat at the back of the carriage. 

Jack settled in, and peered out of the window. He ran through multiple scenarios, planned and unplanned, as they waited, and dared to think their scheme might work.

Movement on the platform caught his eye. Two men hurrying to the train. Roughly thirty years old, same brand of overcoat as the others, same black satchel. Damn.

When going over their options, he and Irina had discussed the possibility of decoy couriers. It made sense, from the Guild's perspective. Now they had to identify which pair carried the item. 

The options ran through his mind as the new pair boarded and moved to the fourth car, and took seats two rows behind Jack. As they walked by, he caught the gleam of a handcuff on one of the men's wrists, linking to the satchel. 

He felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. He made a show of putting on thick glasses and fumbling with the device. 

Irina had texted: "?"

"DECOY," he responded.

"Dying swan?"

"Y," he agreed.

He and Irina had planned a second behavioral test, and this one was on his initiative. He coughed weakly into a handkerchief, and managed a tremor in his right hand. 

The first stop was the village of Oprișori, along a stretch of track notorious for disrepair. The carriage bounced jarringly as they slowly crawled towards the second stop in Lujoj. The train switched to a newer stretch of rail, and the speed picked up. He waited for the train to achieve its clanking, stuttering full speed, then coughed violently enough to gain the attention of passengers nearby. He waved away their concern and said hoarsely, "Water, I'll get some water." He stepped into the aisle, but only made it two paces before collapsing just beside the second pair of couriers.

From her vantage point at the back of the fourth car, Irina saw Jack collapse into the aisle, right next to the two couriers. Chaos erupted as passengers cried out in alarm, some getting to their feet to help. She watched as the pair of couriers across from Jack rose, stepped over him, and pushed their way past the crowd and toward the back of the car.

A portly man, his business suit covered by a heavy parka, stepped into the aisle between them. She'd noted the man earlier, and dismissed him. Now she reconsidered. 

He sported a bushy black moustache and neatly coiffed, dark hair. He wore a well-made business suit and tie -- though it wasn't tailored -- and a pair of leather loafers. Expensive, she thought. Why was a middle-class businessman wearing his suit on an old, badly serviced train? In fact, why was he taking the train at all? Surely he could fly to Bucharest, and miss the grueling train trip altogether?

Her suspicions were confirmed when the three men moved past her and into the last car.

She saw Jack sit up, and could hear him insisting that he was fine.  A passenger flagged down the conductor, who came to assist. He questioned Jack and the bystanders, then hurried to the front of the train. Presumably to make arrangements for medical assistance at the next stop. 

Just as the turmoil surrounding Jack died down, the rear door opened, disgorging several confused, protesting passengers.  A few paused to look behind them before they were pushed ahead by the others. A conductor stood behind them, waving them through.

Irina zeroed in on him. She and Jack had pored over all the information they could get on the railway system, and its trains. There was always only one conductor per train. She'd just seen him assisting Jack, and he looked nothing like the man ejecting passengers from the last car. 

That couldn't be a conductor. It had to be a plant. 

Once the passengers had filtered into the other cars, the Fake Conductor came up and took a seat in the last row, in front of the lavatory.  As she watched, the several Guild operatives she had tagged moved purposefully, either into the last car, or at the door. Like sentries. 

Irina took a moment to assess the situation: Two men on the door, the original four couriers split between the last car and this one. And their new friend, the fat man with the moustache. Six, possibly more. Damn. They were closing ranks and guarding the door. On one hand, this meant the Guild's men (and the Rambaldi artifact) were conveniently sequestered in one car. On the other, her chances of getting through that door were almost nil, given their current configuration. 

Irritating, she thought. She took a half-frozen water bottle out of her bag and took a sip. Taking out the two guards was doable, but it would blow her cover, and probably Jack's as well. Only as a last resort, she concluded. Or was it? Irina mentally reviewed the train's blueprints. No...she couldn't go through the front door, but what about the back?

She rose to her feet, water bottle in hand, and walked up several rows to where Jack was sitting. The aisle had been cleared, leaving Irina an opening. She knelt down next to him. "Sir, would you like some water?"

"Thank you, Madam," he said weakly. 

"Can you run cover for me?" She whispered.

Jack eyed her sharply. "They're already suspicious," he hissed.

"We'll have to take the risk. They're in a defensive position. Only way in is through the back door," she hissed back.

Jack's lips pursed, and she could see that he wanted to argue, but both of them knew there wasn't time.

Irina set the bottle of water next to him, and patted Jack's arm. "I'll just leave this here with you. Don't worry about returning it."

With that, she rose and headed toward the gangway between the second and third cars. From there, she'd be able to access the maintenance ladder to the top of the train.

Jack's mind raced. Irina wasn't wrong. It was, in fact, an elegant solution. With six -- at last count -- opponents in a confined space with civilians in the crossfire, it was also audacious and risky. If she could flank them, gain control of the last car, they could pull this off. 

Nothing difficult or fancy was required, he merely needed to break the line of sight down the aisle, to hide Irina's intentions.

He watched as she stepped through the gangway to the third car. He stood shakily. Concerned passengers asked if he was all right, if he needed help. He waved their concern away. "I am fine," he said. "Just need the washroom." 

Now that he was facing the rear of the train, he saw the Fake Conductor and a courier with a blue jacket seated in the last row. The conductor was older, calmly watchful, the other man visibly nervous. He would need to neutralize these two for Irina's plan to work. He ran through several scenarios in his mind.  

Jack slowly shuffled down the aisle, clutching his cane. He made eye contact with the Fake Conductor, and gave him a smile and a nod, which was returned. 

He pushed the thin metal door in, took one step into the cramped room.

A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye, and he pivoted to meet the threat. If he hadn't been injured, he may have been able to respond in time. 

As it was, Blue Jacket leapt forward and bodily pushed him into the lavatory. The steel sink dug into his back, and he felt a hand fist into his hair and slam his head against the wall. Once, twice, and a third time. 

Dazed, ears ringing, he was pushed face-first against the wall. He felt a hand searching him, going straight to his shoulder holster. In the dirty, cracked mirror, he could see the Fake Conductor standing in the lavatory threshold. 

He stepped back briefly to reassure the nearby passengers. "No, he is fine. A small slip only. We've got him. The ambulance is waiting in Caransebeș." 

Blue Jacket handed the Fake Conductor Jack's Beretta. He looked down the sight, pulled back the slide experimentally. "Fancy gun," he said. "Is nice. When I use it, I will think of how I killed the old man who was not an old man, who wanted to steal from me."

As he spoke, Blue Jacket searched Jack's pockets. He pulled out items and deposited them in the basin: two extended magazines, handheld GPS, fake police badge, cell phone. Jack saw the man's hand, and the Eye of Rambaldi tattooed between his thumb and forefinger.

Jack's mind raced, assessing options. There were precious few. He could overpower Blue Jacket, but with the Conductor backing him up, he couldn't get far. It all boiled down to the standard protocol for situations such as these: buy time, exploit every opportunity. 

The only opportunity he could rely on would be Irina circling around the train, and that would require the purchase of a great deal of time. 

"I - I'll tell you. Don't kill me," Jack said.

"Where did your lady go?" Fake Conductor demanded.

"Who are you talking about?" Jack whined.

At a nod from the Fake Conductor, Blue Jacket pulled out a Glock and pressed it against Jack's temple. 

"Tell me more, without lying. Or you die," Fake Conductor said. 

"I'm here to observe, only!" Jack insisted. Taking the opportunity, he began to spill the beans. "There's a team, in Bucharest, waiting for you. At the station. I know the set up, I can tell you how to get around it!"

In the mirror, he could see Fake Conductor's sudden interest. But then something else, in the passenger compartment, caught his attention. 

An authoritative voice shouted, "Hey, what's going on here? You're not the conductor!" Presumably, the real conductor had been alerted and was investigating the disturbance.

In a flash, the Fake Conductor stepped out of the lavatory, took three shots with Jack's Beretta. The voice was silenced, but the passengers began screaming. 

Jack could see in the mirror that the Fake Conductor now had to divide his attention between the passenger car and the lavatory. He spoke rapidly to Blue Jacket in a language Jack didn't understand, then flipped out a phone and shouted into it. 

Irina moved swiftly through the train, mentally going through her plan: Ladder to the top, continue to last car. Don't slip. Climb down. Back door locked? Uncertain. She reached the gangway between the second and third cars, and considered how to access the ladder. She pulled out a multi-tool from her pocket and began work on unfastening the shroud.

Three shots rang out and she froze. That was Jack's gun.

She pivoted on her heel, adrenaline rushing through her body. He's in trouble, she thought, running back the way she'd come. Passengers flooded the third car, creating a wall that was nearly unpassable. People swarmed around her, blocking her view. They pushed their way forward, screaming, crying, panicked. Whatever had occurred in the fourth car had created a full-on stampede. She fought against the tide. One of the students she'd seen earlier stopped abruptly, and she elbowed him in the side. I have to make space, she thought. 

Reaching into her coat pocket, she withdrew a police badge and shouted, ​​​​​​​"Poliție! Sunt ofițer de poliție!"

It did the trick. A hole opened in the crowd as the passengers knelt and covered their heads. She pushed through the door as she drew from her holster. 

Her gaze swept the scene, taking it all in in an instant. The conductor lay in the aisle, blood pooling beneath him. The Fake Conductor was shouting into a cell phone, Jack's Beretta in his other hand. 

Where was Jack?

Fake Conductor met her eyes, raised the gun.   

Irina was faster. In one easy motion she brought up her Glock and fired two shots, center-mass. He fell back against the door of the carriage and slid to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the glass.

Two more shots rang out, and the fake conductor disappeared from Jack's view in the mirror. 

Irina. 

Blue Jacket hesitated, and that was all Jack needed. He pivoted, twisted the man's arm into a lock. He screamed as his tendons ripped. Then Jack grabbed his head and hurled it full-force into the steel basin. There was a crunch, and the screaming stopped.

"Irina! I'm coming out!" Jack shouted. "Cover me!" Quickly, he shoved the dropped Glock into his waistband and scooped up his own magazines from the basin. 

With at least four adversaries in the last car, there were going to be a lot of bullets going downrange very soon.

He crouched, and left the lavatory, circling around to the row just behind it. The fifty-year-old steel fixtures would offer some measure of cover; the only cover he could think of in the narrow carriage.

All this time, he heard Irina shouting at the crowd in Romanian to get to the first car. When he came around, he saw her, crouching low, gun trained on the door to the last car. He nodded at her, it was all the gratitude he had time to show. 

He spied his own weapon on the floor of the aisle, and after a moment's consideration, he crawled forward to recover it. At that moment, the men in the last car opened fire. The glass doors between the carriages shattered, and Jack had just enough time to grab his own gun and pull back behind cover. 

Irina returned fire from her position, and Jack joined her. He ran through his first magazine quickly, and racked an extended magazine into the gun.  

There was no way they could rush the carriage from this position. The only way, as Irina had already perceived, was to go up and around. "Flank them!" he called to her. "I'll hold here!"

She nodded sharply and, still firing into the last car, retreated to the gangway. 

The carriage devolved into a hail of gunfire. Jack's line of sight was terrible, and he had to use his off hand to maintain cover. Regardless, he fired steadily into the last car, hoping for at least suppression. He emptied another magazine, drew the recovered Glock and emptied it as well.

He glanced back. Irina was out of sight, and the shroud on the gangway was partially removed. She must have reached the ladder, he thought. Or was hit by a stray bullet. Or fell off. Or both. 

Jack discarded those thoughts and concentrated on the tactical situation. He needed to do what he could from his position to even the odds. 

He paused in returning fire, hoping to draw the targets forward. It worked. Through the shattered window, he caught view of one of the couriers slinking forward to investigate. 

Jack took aim and dropped him, and a fusillade of fire from the remaining men forced him back behind the wall. 

They were down to three gunmen in the last carriage. He racked another extended magazine and got back to work. 

Irina hissed as the cold wormed its way past her insulated gloves. Quickly but carefully, she climbed the short ladder to the top of the train. As she lifted herself up and over onto the roof, a blast of freezing wind hit her, carrying sharp pellets of hail into her face. Instantly, her knit cap was snatched off her head, leaving her hair to tangle and fly into her face. She cursed. Tucking her chin against her chest, she carefully made her way toward the last car. 

The metal beneath her feet had once been a brilliant gold accent to the rest of the train (which was blue) but time and wind had scoured it to a sickly pale yellow. Irina made her way carefully along the top of the train, avoiding patches of slippery ice and rusted metal. She looked over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure she wouldn’t be pelted by tree limbs, or worse.

The wind and hail were getting heavier and she mourned the loss of her knit cap. Her hands were frozen in her gloves and strands of wet hair stuck to her cheeks. Her walk on top of the train seemed interminable, even though she knew, logically, that she'd only been up there a few minutes.

Irina glanced behind her once again, and immediately dropped to her knees as an old bridge swept by overhead. She crouched low, sucking in freezing air, melting ice water seeping through her jeans. She ignored it. Romania might be cold, she thought, but it pales in comparison to Siberia. She crawled forward and rose again once the bridge had passed.

She'd made it halfway to her destination when she heard a burst of gunfire below, and she felt the train accelerate. Irina wobbled, but kept her feet. She picked up her pace. They've killed the engineer and put their own man in place, she surmised. It made sense, and she and Jack had prepared for the possibility. What they hadn't prepared for was an impromptu stroll along the top of a moving passenger train. She stepped across the gap between the last two cars just as another hail of gunfire was unleashed below her.

Suppression fire, not targeted. Her pulse quickened. If she had to guess, Jack was inelegantly spraying the car with bullets. It’s what she would do. Unfortunately, it also meant that if Irina went in now, she’d be caught in the crossfire. 

She needed a signal, something loud enough to be heard over the cacophony in the last car. Dying by Jack’s hand would be poetic justice, she supposed, but dying because she’d been stupid was just embarrassing. By the time Irina had reached the last maintenance ladder, she had her plan in place. She climbed halfway down, and, holding tight to a rung, swung out.

Her brief look through a shattered window showed her the couriers’ configuration. Three men rode in the car. One crouched behind a pile of luggage, guarding the doorway. The second -- the big man she'd seen earlier -- was sequestered in the lavatory, and a third was beside him, returning fire. It has to be the big man, she thought. He has the artifact. There was no reason for the Guild to be secretive -- their plan was falling to pieces around them. The only thing left to do was protect Rambaldi's work. For a moment, Irina felt a brief kinship with the men.

She returned to the meager concealment of the maintenance ladder and pulled flashbangs from a hidden pocket in her coat. She swung back to the shattered window. Pulling the pins with her teeth, Irina tossed two grenades into the last car.

Inside the train, Jack's ears rang from the earlier head injury and the gunfire. The carriage was riddled with holes as the rounds passed between the cars. Window panes were shattered, and upholstery in the seats blew out, spreading foam tufts everywhere. Blasts of cold air entered the car, and the wind howled through the holes. It must be hell on top of the carriage, Jack thought. Then again, his position wasn't any better. 

Then, Jack felt the distinct sensation of the train accelerating. There must have been another man in the front of the train, he reasoned. They were back to four opponents, minimum.

Where was Irina?  

At some point, he'd have to stop shooting. But when? He didn't want to blindly send rounds downrange when he knew that Irina would be there. He glanced behind him to see what was happening. He didn't want to be flanked by the men in the front of the train, either. But his carriage was empty, and it looked like the civilians were huddled in the first and second cars. That much was good. 

Suddenly, two concussive bangs and a flash of light engulfed the fifth car. 

There she was.

Jack rushed the door, and now he was the one making the flanking action. The Guild men were facing the rear of the car, and Jack dropped the one closest to him. Simultaneously, the last one fell, and he heard two more shots. 

As the smoke cleared, he saw Irina. Smoking Glock clutched in her hand, hair wildly windblown, face red from the cold. An expression of exhilaration on her face.  

He reholstered his weapon, and took just one moment to catch his breath.

Then, it was back to business. "We need to uncouple the last car." He returned to the fourth car and tried to recover the items taken from him. He found the utility knife and cell phone, but the GPS had caught a bullet and was useless.

Irina was already in the gangway, removing the protective shroud, exposing the mechanisms of the rail car. Icy wind whipped at them, and the hail of earlier had turned into a heavy snow. The metal fittings and levers were icy cold, and Jack was grateful for his gloves. He found the decoupling lever, and Irina removed the safety latches. With a tug, he pulled it back, and the coupler opened. 

With a shudder, their car uncoupled from the train. The front of the train barreled into the distance as their car continued forward, slowing, until the inertia was spent. 

Back inside the carriage, Irina turned to Jack and said, "That went as well as could be expected."

"Fun," Jack said dryly.

They searched the car for the two black satchels, found them beside one another on a row of seats, perforated with bulletholes. When unzipped, the contents were revealed to be clothing and a ten pound gym weight each.

"Decoys," Jack said. "Both of them."

"That can't be all there is!" Irina exclaimed. "Did you check the briefcases for hidden compartments? Of course you did," she said, answering her own question. "We missed it. It has to be on the train. Damn it!"

"It has to be here," Jack said. He began pulling down luggage from the overhead racks. He played back the last hour in his mind, looking for the logical progression. "They defended this car. Something in this car." The first suitcase down, he pulled out his utility knife and cut through the fabric. 

He had gone through three suitcases when he heard Irina mutter, "That's clever." 

She was kneeling on the floor, going through the big man's pockets. She pulled a knife from her boot and slashed downward, parting the skin. He waited for the expected viscera to spill out, but what came out instead were pieces of foam batting. Irina plunged her hands into the mess. After a few moments of searching, she triumphantly held up a wide, flat wooden box, about the size of a dinner plate. Carefully, Irina rose and placed the box onto a seat bench. 

The box itself was plain, as Rambaldi items went; the wood was fine-grained and solid, with weathered but gleaming varnish. However, it had few of the typical engravings Jack had seen on other Rambaldi items, less flourish.

Irina lifted the top, a kind of eager reverence on her face. Inside lay a variety of circular pieces, some solid and elaborately engraved, others made in a delicate filigree. All were of an alloy that Jack didn't recognize, though it shone like gold. 

"Look at the workmanship," Irina breathed.

"Another puzzle," Jack stated flatly. He was not encouraged by her obvious rapture. "As long as it gets us closer to Sydney. This entire episode was messier than we planned. We'll have to contend with a manhunt. We need to get away from this car."

"Hmm? Yes. I agree. First we need to figure out where we are. What does the GPS say?"

"It took a bullet," Jack said. "Useless. Do you still have a compass?" He pulled a trifold map from his pocket and spread it on a table. Together they quickly worked out a rough computation. 

"We're south of Caransebeș," Jack said. "That must have been the stop the train missed. Exactly where, I can't say."

"I didn't have an opportunity to look at the signs," Irina agreed dryly. "The rail line and the Timiș River are easy landmarks." She glanced dubiously out the broken windows to the snowy landscape around them. 

Jack shook his head. "Depending on what the hijacked engineer does, the authorities will have to be notified then. Sooner," he reconsidered, "given cell phone calls from alarmed passengers. We need to get away from the railroad."

"We could continue to Băile Herculane," she said, scanning the map, "or we could -- wait." Irina tapped a finger against the map. "See here? Brebu Nou. It's a little village, west of us. I have a contact there. We could rest, and consider our next move."

Jack craned his neck to peer at the map. "That's still... at least twenty miles if we can find the road. Unless we cut cross country." Jack looked at the terrain doubtfully. They were in the Carpathians, in a snowstorm. "You have a contact in the middle of the Romanian countryside?"

Irina raised an eyebrow. "I seem to recall a doctor, in a tiny rustic town in Peru. Anyway, we should get moving. We have a long hike ahead of us." She looked at Jack and furrowed her brow in confusion. "Where's your walking stick?"

"It's on the train," Jack said.

She gave him a pointed look. 

"Sorry," he said peevishly. "I had other concerns at the moment." 

Irina rolled her eyes at him and bent to rifle through the suitcases he had dumped. She produced a knit cap with a puffy ball at the top. He took it. 

"At least the snow will cover our tracks," he said as he buttoned up his coat and pulled the hat down low on his head. "Ready?"

"Ready," she affirmed, and jumped down off of the car into the snow. Turning, Irina held out a hand to Jack.

He accepted her assistance, and joined her in the snow. She took a reading on her compass, and they started the long march through the mountains.