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LAST TRAIN TO GASPÉ
By: Jim 'Old Guy' Hume Date: 2005-08-03 LAST TRAIN TO GASPÉ The Unwilling Montreal, Canada A low-class dive on Rue St. Jean Biff Zwieback, better known as Secret Agent Stag, lit a fresh Gauloise and studied the thin drift of customers in the Stinking Pig, better known as the Porc Puant to the local language police. Stag gagged and crushed out the vile cigarette. “Jeez,” he wheezed to his sidekick, Rene Dorf, better known as Sidekick Taz in intelligence circles. “When are we going to get in some decent Ami cigarettes?” “Tonight, boss.” Taz held out a slim black cigar. “Try one of these. They’re Cuban. Rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens and soaked in rum to boot.” Stag sniffed the cigar. He grimaced and handed it back. “I’ll wait for the Ami smokes. Those smell like horse manure.” Taz frowned. “That’s funny.” He held up the package. A horse head graced the front. Large brown letters proclaimed the cigar name: Crottin Cheval. “What does cheval mean? And ain’t crottin something close to manure?” Stag turned away to hide a smile. “Close. The dusky maidens must live in a paddock.” “A what?” Before Stag could answer, his cellphone blatted. He grinned and tapped the bar in time with the ring tone – ‘Row, row, row your boat’. Shaking his head with nostalgia, he answered the call. “Stinking Pig, Biff speaking.” “The language police will nail your hide to the wall if you don’t start answering in the proper manner, Stag.” The secret agent began to sweat. Colonel Sulla never called just to discuss the latest hockey scores. “You there, Stag?” “H-here, sir. What can I do for you, sir?” “Stop shaking like a leaf and calling me ‘sir’, for starters. Look around, Stag. Act is if you’re talking to some slob’s wife. Put on that expression bartender’s use when they ain’t gonna see anyone resembling Joe or Aguilar or Felix or even your old pal Air Badger.” “Badger?” Stag chuckled and relaxed. “I really don’t see Badger, sir.” “You will. Consider this a friendly warning. The good major will be on his way shortly. The Ami have caught wind of a fantastic plot and, being short of real intelligence agents, they’re going to send him. I suspect that means they don’t take the threat very seriously.” “But I’m supposed to work with him? What does that say about me and Canadian intelligence?” “Nothing good, Stag, nothing good. But at the moment, our other two agents are busy. You’ll have to try and act like an intelligence operative.” If I had a backbone, thought Stag, I’d quit right now. I wouldn’t let him get away with insulting me ever again. Aloud, he said nothing beyond a murmured, “Of course, sir.” Locked away in the Colonel’s files were a set of photos featuring a much younger Biff Zwieback, a naked woman and a trained seal. Release of the pictures would be fatal to Stag The unclad lady was the youngest daughter of a local cigarette smuggler and staunch Quebec Liberation Front radical. By slipping a copy of the photo to the gentleman in question, the Colonel could assure Stag a grisly death. “Badger will brief you. I’ll be in touch.” The line went dead. Taz was excited. “We got a job, boss?” “Yeah. Your old pal Badger is involved.” “All right!” crowed Taz. “I like the major.” “Yeah, I know.” Stag lit one of the Cuban cigars. With any luck, it might poison him. The Unready Pentagon, Washington, DC Sub-sub-basement X-ray The General walked in while Badger was practicing his supply clerk juggle. He had a stapler and a coffee cup (empty) in the air and was still able to initial two forms on each pass. His desk calendar lay at hand. He was trying to work up the nerve to add it to the circuit when he caught sight of The General Himself. In a trice, the major was standing at attention. He had the juggled objects arranged on the right side of his desk, with the forms in two neat stacks (initialed and un-initialed) to his left. “Practicing for the Logistics Olympics, I see,” murmured The General. He sat down and motioned for Badger to do the same. “You can forget winning any gold ‘Rejected for Lack of Proper Authorization’ stamps. We have an assignment for you.” Badger’s heart leaped in his chest. “A mission, sir?” He hadn’t expected anything like that – not this soon – not after what happened last time. The General sighed. Badger had never heard anyone refer to the old man as anything but The General or Himself or both. Nor had he ever seen The General in uniform. He had, however, observed four-star generals and admirals leap to obey the ancient gentleman. Badger folded his hands and tried to look attentive. That had always been one of his weak points. No matter how he tried – how he concentrated – he could sit still for only a few seconds before his body began the dreaded Fidget. “An assignment, Major. A simple one. Did you learn anything from that last fiasco?” Sweat popped out on Badger’s forehead. He tried to think. What had he learned from that last operation? Not to trust a woman just because she had an honest face and big boobs? Never let an unknown person hold down a strand of barb wire while he, Badger, stepped across? He was unlikely to forget those lessons. Weeks in the hospital, reconstructive surgery and all those gonorrhea treatments would see to that. “Yes, sir,” he blurted. “I’m a new man, sir.” A faint smile touched The General’s face. He slid a folder across the desk. “Study that, then destroy it. Your travel documents are in there. Don’t destroy those. Report when you’ve made contact with Secret Agent Stag.” “Stag?” Badger groaned inwardly. He detested the know-it-all Canadian. His sidekick was an okay guy, though. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” He snapped to attention as The General rose and walked out. “I need a drink,” murmured Badger, after flipping through the folder. “In fact, I think several tall cold ones are in order.” Taking the Classified, Do Not Remove from the Premises on Pain of Ritual Disfigurement, files with him, he headed for a quiet bar on the outskirts of Washington. ***** Badger awoke spluttering. He screamed and struggled against the frigid water. The cabby stopped pouring water and grinned down at the major. “Just wanted to make sure you was awake.” He tossed a manila folder on Badger’s chest. “You better get some sleep, man. If this information is correct, you got your work cut out.” Badger sat up. An invisible demon drove a spike into his forehead. He groaned and attempted to speak. “You read the file?” His mouth didn’t work right. What he actually said came out more like, “Ureshdafil?” “Wake up, man! We shared a bottle of vodka and a twelve-pack while looking over the case file. Just like we always do.” The cabby shook his head and tossed Badger’s wallet to the floor. “I got out the $234 for my fare. And twenty bucks for a tip. See ya.” With that the man was gone. The major mumbled something even he didn’t understand. He rolled over and grabbed a table leg. If he held on tight, the room spun a little slower. His stomach didn’t feel so good and more spikes pierced his skull. He gripped the leg with both hands. A miniature statue of Stonewall Jackson rocked to and fro on the table. Badger whimpered and closed his eyes. Big mistake. Somewhat later he awoke again. The table lay on its side. Broken statuary littered the floor. Sunlight streamed through his apartment windows, searing his eyeballs. His face, wallet and Top Secret file lay in a partly congealed pool of vomit. It was all so familiar, so pleasant. Even the spears of light were comforting, in an agonized way. For a moment nostalgia threatened to overcome him, but he passed out instead. Spy Central 322 Rue Morgue Across from Secret Base & Big Jacque’s Pizza Spymaster Baltar struggled to maintain an attentive look as Minister Joker, Chief of Canadian Defense Forces (Naval), Lord of the Ocean Sea, read through the American report. Just when Baltar felt he could remain awake no longer, the Sea Lord sighed and tossed the files aside. “I can’t believe the Americans bought into any of this!” The Spymaster retrieved the files and put them back in order. “They don’t seem serious about it, Minister. The man they’re sending to investigate has had severe quality control problems in the past. In fact, I’m surprised he’s still alive.” “I won’t worry about it, then, Spymaster. Send me a memo when the thing blows over.” With that, the Minister of Naval Affairs heaved himself erect and took his leave. Baltar flipped a hidden switch under the edge of his desk. A thin, gray man entered from the Comm room. “The Sea Lord seemed unconcerned, sir.” “He’s attempting to project an image of quiet self-confidence toward us underlings, Sulla.” “Ah, yes. I believe all upper-middle and upper-senior staff are involved in that effort. There were a series of lectures on the subject last month.” Sulla sat down across from Baltar. The Spymaster passed the file to his chief assistant. “Have you read this?” “I have had the privilege, sir. There may be more to it than the Minister believed.” To all appearances, Colonel Sulla was a dyspeptic drunk, a mere functionary awaiting retirement. Baltar knew better. The dried up man seated across his desk had served in shadowy conflicts around the globe, often in strange uniforms or no uniform at all. His appraisal of the situation caused icicles to form along the Spymaster’s spine. “How do you mean? The report reads like a description of a carnival sideshow.” “It may all be an innocent comedy of errors, sir, but we ought to err on the side of caution.” “I agree.” Baltar riffled through the file. “Five tons of itching powder? In cases marked Instant Holy Water? What’s dangerous about itching powder?” Sulla shrugged. “Is it really itching powder? The markings have a certain élan about them, sir. Either they’re some moronic joke or a masterstroke of misdirection.” The Spymaster flipped to another page. “Then there’s this report of a fat man transporting a pipe organ made entirely out of RPG-7 firing tubes. It’s just outré enough to be true. Or a maskirovka of the first water. Can we afford to waste time hunting a pipe organ?” “I’m afraid the Americans went astray there, sir. I believe the instrument in question is actually a calliope. A steam calliope. But, more to the point – if this calliope has an assembly of RPG-7 firing tubes – where are the rockets?” “Calliope. There’s a word you don’t often hear in the intelligence business.” “One of the benefits of a liberal arts education, sir. The calliope in question is apparently mounted on a truck – a gaily painted truck, by all accounts.” Baltar grew pale. “Careful what you say! I think ‘gaily’ is one of the Prohibited Words.” Sulla opened his mouth to utter a vile attack on the Department of Prohibited Speech, but thought better of it. He was getting too old to deal with burly DPS agents and their cursed lists, not to mention their rubber hoses and truncheons. Anxious to change the subject, Baltar tapped the file. “We’ll call it a truck painted in bright colors.” His voice rang in the nooks and crannies of his office, where microphones were likely to be positioned. “So we have a steam calliope, several tons of itching powder and an unknown number of bad sorts converging on Gaspé, according to the Ami. What possible interest could terrorists – ah, alleged terrorists – have in Gaspé?” “Not fishing The mosquitoes are fierce at this time of year.” Sulla smiled. “I suppose we can persuade them to tell us their plans – once we catch them. I’ve assigned that job to Stag.” “Is that wise? The Ami are sending Badger. I shudder to think of those two working together.” “I’ll keep an eye on them, sir. Perhaps they’ll stir things up – make the terrorists, if there are any, move too soon or do something else foolish.” The Spymaster relaxed. Sulla’s methods were stark and brutish, but effective. Stag and Badger might accidentally manage to be effective stalking horses. And if they got knocked off or savaged in the process, well, omelets require breaking eggs. He’d heard that somewhere. “Let me know if you want for anything. You have my direct number. Use it at need.” Sulla nodded. “We may be looking at nothing but a series of coincidences, sir. An accidental congruence of events.” He laughed, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. Baltar shuddered as the bent old man headed back to the Comm room. Sulla gave him the willies. Even his good morning greetings sounded sinister. Marching Orders The Stinking Pig (Porc Puant) In Stag’s upstairs office Taz entered and stood to one side. “The Major is here,” he said, unnecessarily, for the man in question ambled in at his heels. Stag stood up and offered his hand. Badger responded in kind. “Isn’t that nice,” said a voice dripping with sarcasm. Badger whirled. “Sulla!” He sagged into a chair. “I might have known you were behind this.” “Wrong, as usual, Badger.” The colonel stepped out of the corner and into the light. “Your own intelligence agencies are responsible.” He extended a clawed hand toward Taz. The sidekick fumbled for a moment then produced a thin, black cigar. Sulla sniffed it and smiled. “Cuban. Still made in the same glue factory.” He lit the foul thing and returned to his seat. Stag forced a laugh and tried to relax. The old gent made him nervous. “We – ah, we’ve been reading through this collection of fairy tales your CIA and NSA sent up, Badger. Itching powder?” The American shrugged. “Yeah. Itching powder in crates marked ‘Instant Holy Water’. I can’t fathom that one. What about the pipe organ on the truck and the movements of the suspects? Are those just a series of unrelated events?” His question was directed at Sulla. “Maybe. Maybe not. The machine in question is a steam calliope, by the way.” Stag and Badger exchanged glances. Taz struggled with and failed to contain a thunderous fart. “Sorry,” he said. “Beer and ka-bobs for dinner, eh?” “What do we do now?” asked Badger. Stag frowned. “Nothing. I should have kept him from ka-bobs last night.” Sulla snickered. Even that sounded deadly. Badger managed a nervous laugh. “No – I mean what do we do about the reports?” “You take tomorrow’s train to Gaspé,” snarled Sulla. “The crates of Instant Holy Water are at the station, ready for loading. Your job, Major, will be to shadow those crates.” “I thought that was my job,” whined Stag. “It’s been ages since I went on a train ride.” “You and Taz will be tracking down a fat man and a pipe organ.” Sulla’s tone brooked no argument. Even Taz kept quiet – not that he had anything to say. “What about the missiles?” asked Badger. “If the pipe organ is really made of RPG-7 tubes, there have to be projectiles somewhere.” “You amaze me, Major,” snarled Sulla. “Now carry the logic to the end.” “Well – uh, the end of what?” Sulla laughed. This time the sound was more hopeless than sinister. “The fat man can run all over Canada with his steam calliope for all I care. Unless he meets with someone carting a load of missiles, the thing is harmless.” Both Stag and Badger nodded as if the old man had stated something they already knew. “Okay.” Badger stood up. “Where’s the train station?” “Downtown.” Stag jerked a thumb in the wrong direction. “Any cabby will know where it is.” “Where downtown?” asked Badger. “I didn’t see any tracks.” He was suspicious of Stag’s motives. Nothing would make the Canadian happier than to have his American counterpart miss the train. “The tracks are underground,” said Taz. A huge grin split his narrow, predatory face. In his heart of hearts he would rather be underground, drilling and blasting, instead of running around as Stag’s sidekick. His job wasn’t all that bad. It just didn’t measure up to tunneling. “I – um, I don’t like tunnels,” muttered Badger. “They’re so dark and damp and – underground.” “Yeah,” sighed Taz. His voice was detached, dreamlike. “Tunnels are cool and sometimes you can catch nice fat, juicy rats down . . .” He shook himself, as if waking up. “I mean, ah, tunnels are cool and, uh, refreshing.” Sulla made a hopeless noise, not unlike the groaning of Hell’s un-oiled gates. He stood up, ground out his cigar on Stag’s new vinyl flooring and stalked out without uttering another word. Badger glanced at Stag. “The train really runs through a tunnel?” “It does. Don’t worry. The tunnel is brightly lit and not too long.” Stag showed the American a cell phone. “Coverage isn’t great, but it’s better than nothing.” He flipped it open. “The mauve button activates a short-range radio transmitter/receiver. Could come in handy, eh?” “So that’s mauve,” murmured Badger, taking the radio. “What is this dark reddish button?” “That would be burgundy,” said Taz. “Indeed,” agreed Stag. “The burgundy button is for an emergency locator. We might be able to track it, provided we can convince the air force to lend us a suitably equipped plane.” Taz grinned at Badger. “If you’re about to get shot or run over or stabbed – and if you have time – turn on the locator. That way we can find your body.” He seemed excited at the thought. “Right.” The major felt a little out of sorts. He couldn’t decide it was the prospect of riding a train through a tunnel or just the lingering effects of his hangover. “I think I’ll get some rest.” He nodded to the Canadians and started for the door. “Wait, Major.” Stag held up a hand. “You’ll need this.” He laid a 9mm pistol on his desk. “No thanks, Stag.” Badger opened his coat and displayed a heavy, long-barreled pistol. “I might have known an American would show up with armament suitable for sinking battleships,” said Stag. “What in God’s name is that thing?” “It’s an experimental job. 12.7mm, caseless ammo.” He pulled the weapon and held it muzzle up. “Silencer built in. The magazine holds eighteen rounds.” Stag touched the pistol reverently. “12.7mm? That’s .50 caliber! We won’t be shooting any elephants at Gaspé, Badger.” The Major tucked the gun away. “You never can tell. The magazine is loaded in series of three – wadcutter, armor-piercing and explosive.” “Sounds good,” said Stag. “Does it have any drawbacks?” “The explosive round is a tad much if you want to question the target later.” Badger shrugged. “And there’s a lot of muzzle flash. That’s being worked on.” He opened the door. “I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.” Stag nodded. “Take care, Major. Perhaps we’ll all go home in a week or so with nothing to tell our grandchildren.” Taz laughed and lit another cigar. “No problem. You can make up stuff, just like we do on our expense reports.” Unexpected Company Somewhere in Montreal Cheap hotel By the time Agent Badger made it to his hotel he was thoroughly disgusted. He tossed the cabby a hundred dollar bill. The fare was $99. “Think you can find your way back? You seemed lost most of the time.” The cab driver snarled a couple of short words and signaled to the Major with an upraised digit. Badger watched the cab disappear into the night. He shook his head and started up the stairs at the hotel entrance. “Why is everyone speaking French?” Following a confusing session at the front desk a down-in-the-mouth bellboy led Badger to his room. He was beginning to wish he’d stayed at the Crown Royale or the Sheraton. Their prices were outrageous, even when converted into US currency. But, they also weren’t a hundred dollar cab ride from the train station. The Major handed the bellboy an American fiver, which seemed to raise the fellow’s spirits somewhat. He even smiled as he went out. “Poor slob,” muttered Badger. “Probably gave him enough to pay his mortgage.” He rang up Room Service and managed to convey his desire for a bottle of Canadian whiskey, a king-size bag of cheese puffs and a package of Fig Newtons. The goods would be up toot sweet, whatever that meant. He hoped for nothing more than prompt delivery. His jacket went on the back of a wooden chair and his tie onto the floor. It seemed safe to store the big handgun in the top dresser drawer. The Major didn’t plan on going out. He was stretched on the bed when someone knocked on the door. Accompanied by bad tempered mumbling, he padded across the room and opened the door. “God!” he cried. “You!” The well-endowed brunette flung her arms around his neck. “I knew it was you,” she purred. “Who else would order whiskey and Fig Newtons? But when did you start eating cheese puffs?” Behind her, the bellboy hustled in with the ordered items and placed them on a side table. Badger tossed the lad a twenty and shooed him out. “Buy a new house or something.” He stepped back into a clinch with the brunette. “Where were we?” “On a ship leaving Cuba, as I recall,” said the lady. “You walked out in the middle of the night and vanished.” She turned away. The atmosphere chilled. “Ah – babe, I had to leave on a submarine,” lied Badger. “It was all hush-hush and done without notice.” In truth, he remembered neither her, the ship, nor the night in question. He massaged his temples. Forgetting the dame and their activities was understandable – but why couldn’t he remember the ship? He loved ships. She wiggled over to the table and poured a drink. “I forgive you. Don’t I always?” Alarm bells began a muted ringing in the depths of Badger’s skull. He ignored them. She handed him a glass of whiskey. He tore his eyes from her cleavage and tossed off the booze. “Come here . . .” Her name refused to pop out of memory. “. . . my dear.” He snuggled close. “Care for a fig Newton? I don’t share those with just anyone.” She twisted out of his embrace. “I know. Want a refill on that?” He frowned. Refill on what? His brain seemed to be made of concrete. The glass slipped from his fingers. Someone struck a gong. His vision began to fade. “Aargh – mick – mick --.” “Mickey Finn,” said the lady. He thudded to the floor. “Sleep tight.” She opened the door for the bellboy and cab driver. They lifted Badger and carried him out. The woman followed, carrying the massive pistol. His other belongings were left for the cleanup squad. ***** It only took Badger five minutes to deduce that he was on a train. It was hard to concentrate on Special Forces Silent Observation Techniques with all the swaying and clacking. He kept his eyes shut. With any luck he could surprise his abductors. “Come on, Major, get up. I ain’t got all day.” It was the woman from the hotel room. He moved his legs and arms a trifle. “You’re not tied or cuffed. Get up!” He blinked. Daylight flooded the room. No – it was a compartment. Keeping a wary eye on the woman, Badger crawled into a seat. A hard-faced man in a black beret sat next to her. The Ami agent decided to play it cool for the time being. These two probably had allies in the vicinity. He grinned at the woman. “Where are we going, sweets?” “To Gaspé – eventually. And I’m not your sweetie.” Her lips twitched into an impish smile. “Call me Calliope.” Badger began to think he was way, way behind reality. “Calliope? But – how could . . .” He reined in his runaway mouth. “I was headed for Gaspé anyway. Why the knockout drink?” Black Beret reached into a leather case and drew out a sheaf of photographs. He handed one to Badger. In the middle of the picture was a park bench. On that bench sat two bearded men in cheap suits. Each man had a small hole in his forehead, just above the bridge of the nose. “Know either of them?” asked Calliope. “No. At least – no.” Badger wiped his suddenly moist hands on his trousers. “Who are they?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Geg here shot them in the hall outside your room.” Geg flashed a gap-toothed grin. The Major shuddered. He couldn’t understand why people ran around with teeth missing when there were so many good dentists in the world. It was one of his favorite annoyances – right up there with people who wore replicas of the American flag on their butts. He dragged himself back to the here-and-now. “Why did he shoot them?” “They were going to kill you, Major. Someone – some terrorist – doesn’t want you in Gaspé.” “Me? But I’m just a logistics officer in the US Army. Why would an alleged terrorist want to harm me?” “Logistics officer?” Calliope and Geg brayed with laughter. The man recovered first. “Major,” he said, “we have people in many places. Your juggling has been observed. All I can say is, you need a better cover.” “I’ve only been practicing for a couple of years,” said Badger. His pride was taking a beating. He looked away. “It’s those damn coffee mugs that get me. Staplers, tape dispensers, cell phones, laptop computers, you name it and I can juggle it. But give me a full cup of coffee and my throwing technique goes to hell. I – I have no confidence in myself.” The admission surprised him. After all, these were total strangers. Calliope dried her eyes with a tissue. “Never mind that, Major. We killed those two and got you aboard the train safely. I drugged you to avoid endless wrangling over procedure. There wasn’t time to explain every little thing.” “But – who are you people?” She smiled. “Some think we’re part of the QLF. Others maintain that our group is the action wing of PETA. Once, I heard that US State Department Intelligence had us pegged as retro communists. But we are none of those – and all of them.” “I – I don’t follow.” “I know.” She patted his cheek. “Suffice it to say that we have several agendas, but this operation is not related to them. We do not want a sizeable portion of the Gaspé peninsula and points south to be turned into a radioactive desert.” A cold lump grew in Badger’s throat. He must have misunderstood. No one would be fool enough to – it couldn’t be. His thoughts must have been obvious. “It can be, Major. It is. We don’t know if the terrorists are planning to explode a device or use a conventional explosive to spread plutonium dust. We want to know and we want to stop it. You can help.” “Me? But I’m just a lowly major. I need to report to Higher Authority. If someone’s going to pop a nuke . . .” “You’re out on the sharp end here, Badger. Are you a time-serving hack or an officer?” “Well . . .” He hesitated. The thought of tracking down God knows how many thugs armed with all sorts of lethal weapons – and maybe a NUKE – petrified him. And the time-serving hack bit had served him well for many years. On the one hand, Calliope had nice knockers. On the other hand, Calliope had nice knockers. His glands and imagination voted for car chases, explosions, martinis (shaken, not stirred) and maybe, just maybe, a chance at those boobs. The two tree hugging anarchists waited in silence. Finally, he stood up and came to attention – all five foot, three inches of him. “I’ll do my best.” He wanted to salute the flag, sing and anthem, maybe even indulge in a chocolate sundae with whipped cream and cherries. Here, at last, on a government subsidized train in Canada, heading toward a yucky death by atomic flame or radiation poisoning, he felt like a By God True American. He almost wet himself. Geg tossed the Major a black beret. “Wear it as sort of a badge, my friend. It will make it easier for our compatriots to aid you.” Calliope kissed Badger lightly. “I’ll be around. Pretend you don’t know me. Geg will get off at the next stop and coordinate with other groups.” She laughed. “That hand cannon of yours is in the overhead compartment.” Then they were gone. He sat down and stared out the window. Cold tentacles of fear crept back into his soul. Who did he think he was, rolling off into the morning light to save the world – or a small part of it – from annihilation? On impulse, he stood up and retrieved his pistol. It was the work of a moment to strap it on. Badger drew the heavy handgun and checked the action. Blue steel warmed to his touch, driving back the fear. He laughed and shook the weapon at imaginary foes. He was a heavily armed American with a picture of Mom in his wallet, right next to his library card. Respect for Old Glory was in his heart. Everything was perfect. If he died, well, so what. He’d go out in a blaze of glory. A blaze of nuc-u-ler, by God, glory. He sat down, cradling the pistol. His arm ached from holding the big piece of iron aloft. Pain aside, he’d never felt happier. Only one thing was missing. His joy would be complete if he had a piece of apple pie. He tucked the pistol away. The dining car ought to be open. They’d have pie – apple pie. It would be un-North American not to have pie. Even these damn Canadians must know that. It took all his new-found courage to step into the corridor. Which way to the dining car? Badger hesitated, then shrugged and started toward the front of the train. He needed to scout out the passengers anyway. And it would be a good idea to determine where the itching powder/Instant Holy Water might be. A sudden bolt of fear paralyzed him. “Calliope! She doesn’t know about the powder!” Shaking off a feeling of dread, he set off again. What might those crates of itching powder/Instant Holy Water actually contain? Plutonium? RPG projectiles? Or were they a blind, designed to draw attention while the real attack went forward undetected? As luck would have it, he found the dining car and the probable location of the mystery powder at almost the same time. It was full dark, but when the train rounded curves and if he leaned against the window next to his table, he could make out a single box car coupled between the dining car and the engine. It was time to find Calliope and tell her about the powder. But first Secret Agent Badger intended to finish his pie. (next page) |