how many times on the previous trip had he stood outside Fremont's compartment door, hesitating, longing, deliciously waiting ... for an invitation that had never come, and now might never come again. "No!" Michael said.
8
THE CLUB CAR was sumptuously furnished, its armchairs upholstered in the same rust-colored velvet that paneled the walls. The tables were of dark walnut, matching the woodwork around the velvet wall panels. A handsome walnut bar occupied the wall at the far end. The bartender, at the moment, was not in evidence.
The air was pungent, but not unpleasantly so, with pipe and cigar smoke. The slap of cards, punctuated by mutterings, came from a gentlemanly game of poker being played at a table in the back, near the bar. Michael sank into an empty chair with a sense of relief. If one could not sleep, surely this was the best place to be —in quiet company, with smoking and drinking the prime order of business.
When the bartender approached his chair, having quietly appeared it seemed out of nowhere, Michael asked for a brandy with a large glass of soda water on the side. While the drinks were being poured, he took from the pocket of his jacket a small book with tissue- thin pages, a novel that had been popular a few years earlier, The Wings of the Dove by Henry James, younger brother of the Harvard philosopher William James. As the book was small in size, its print was proportionally tiny, and Michael's eyes were not as young as they used to be. He frowned, moved the book back and forth in an attempt to achieve the optimum distance for good focus, sighed, and wished for stronger light. But that would alter the ambiance, and was not available in any case. So with some regret he returned the book to his pocket. The bartender served his brandy and soda. Michael smiled, and somewhat awkwardly, due to the one-handedness enforced by his injury, dug a bill out of an inner pocket for payment.
The first sip of brandy seared its way satisfactorily down his esophagus. He took another, which ascended nicely into his head. He crossed his legs, and with a small sigh was wishing he could afford to get blind, stinking drunk—when from the corner of his eye he saw movement. In his whole body he sensed danger. He did not move a muscle, but rather reached again for the book, opened it, and pretended to read.
Soon a man came within visual range, so that Michael could observe him with the mere flicker of an eye. No wonder he'd sensed danger! The man who strolled past had once been Michael's nemesis. His name was Hilliard Ramsey.
My God, Michael thought, he's supposed to be dead!
What to do? Hiding behind The Wings of the Dove was not an option—the small book could not protect him for long. Leaving the club car immediately was of course one option. Yet that would be pointless, would it not, seeing as how a train is not that large a place and everyone on it is more or less consigned to remain aboard, at least between stops. They were almost bound to cross paths again.
So Michael continued to read The Wings of the Dove, at least ostensibly. He wondered how long it would take Ramsey to recognize him. And what the man would do when he did.
Michael took another sip of brandy.
How long had it been since their last encounter?
Once the memories started pouring back, the time seemed short indeed. Yet it had been six years, almost seven: 1902. The signing of the treaty that formed the Anglo-Japanese Alliance—they had both been covertly involved, on opposite sides of course, Hilliard Ramsey working for the Japanese and Michael Archer (as he'd called himself then) for the Tsar. Michael's job had been to subvert the agreement, which was not in Russia's best interest, and he'd found Ramsey—whose allegiance was only to whoever was paying him at the time, in this case Japan—working against him at every turn.
The role of Russian spy was a family obligation that had fallen on Michael at an early age. He'd been only nineteen,
8
THE CLUB CAR was sumptuously furnished, its armchairs upholstered in the same rust-colored velvet that paneled the walls. The tables were of dark walnut, matching the woodwork around the velvet wall panels. A handsome walnut bar occupied the wall at the far end. The bartender, at the moment, was not in evidence.
The air was pungent, but not unpleasantly so, with pipe and cigar smoke. The slap of cards, punctuated by mutterings, came from a gentlemanly game of poker being played at a table in the back, near the bar. Michael sank into an empty chair with a sense of relief. If one could not sleep, surely this was the best place to be —in quiet company, with smoking and drinking the prime order of business.
When the bartender approached his chair, having quietly appeared it seemed out of nowhere, Michael asked for a brandy with a large glass of soda water on the side. While the drinks were being poured, he took from the pocket of his jacket a small book with tissue- thin pages, a novel that had been popular a few years earlier, The Wings of the Dove by Henry James, younger brother of the Harvard philosopher William James. As the book was small in size, its print was proportionally tiny, and Michael's eyes were not as young as they used to be. He frowned, moved the book back and forth in an attempt to achieve the optimum distance for good focus, sighed, and wished for stronger light. But that would alter the ambiance, and was not available in any case. So with some regret he returned the book to his pocket. The bartender served his brandy and soda. Michael smiled, and somewhat awkwardly, due to the one-handedness enforced by his injury, dug a bill out of an inner pocket for payment.
The first sip of brandy seared its way satisfactorily down his esophagus. He took another, which ascended nicely into his head. He crossed his legs, and with a small sigh was wishing he could afford to get blind, stinking drunk—when from the corner of his eye he saw movement. In his whole body he sensed danger. He did not move a muscle, but rather reached again for the book, opened it, and pretended to read.
Soon a man came within visual range, so that Michael could observe him with the mere flicker of an eye. No wonder he'd sensed danger! The man who strolled past had once been Michael's nemesis. His name was Hilliard Ramsey.
My God, Michael thought, he's supposed to be dead!
What to do? Hiding behind The Wings of the Dove was not an option—the small book could not protect him for long. Leaving the club car immediately was of course one option. Yet that would be pointless, would it not, seeing as how a train is not that large a place and everyone on it is more or less consigned to remain aboard, at least between stops. They were almost bound to cross paths again.
So Michael continued to read The Wings of the Dove, at least ostensibly. He wondered how long it would take Ramsey to recognize him. And what the man would do when he did.
Michael took another sip of brandy.
How long had it been since their last encounter?
Once the memories started pouring back, the time seemed short indeed. Yet it had been six years, almost seven: 1902. The signing of the treaty that formed the Anglo-Japanese Alliance—they had both been covertly involved, on opposite sides of course, Hilliard Ramsey working for the Japanese and Michael Archer (as he'd called himself then) for the Tsar. Michael's job had been to subvert the agreement, which was not in Russia's best interest, and he'd found Ramsey—whose allegiance was only to whoever was paying him at the time, in this case Japan—working against him at every turn.
The role of Russian spy was a family obligation that had fallen on Michael at an early age. He'd been only nineteen,
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