The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Four: Train of Events

Saturday, 19 Feb 1870
Dining Car, Belgrade bound train
Thirty miles southeast of Budapest
4:30 pm, local time

Quentin set down his copy of Le Figaro. He took a sip of coffee and pondered reading the copy of L'Indépendance Roumanie on the table but the writing was slipshod at best and it gave him a headache.

Instead he looked out the window only to be disappointed by the view. The mile after mile of Danube valley and associated farmland rolled past the train. He stretched his back and looked across the table at Josephine poring through the newspapers neatly stacked between them.

He'd hoped for a little more adventure, but since finding the train and the explosives caution had been the watchword: Purchasing of train tickets to allow them to stay with the guncotton at least as far as Bucharest; A quick trip to the Vienna offices of Trumpshaws for clothing and supplies, including some sleeping pills for the train; then boarding the train under the guise of James Lee and his wife. They hadn't even tried to break into Panculescu's compartment yet, though Quentin had watched him in the club car several times.

He flagged the steward for more coffee and saw the woman out of the corner of his eye. She was drinking some variety of clear alcohol. Things were about to get more interesting.

Quentin scribbled a quick note and slipped it on top of the picture Josephine was looking at. We're being watched by the Russian.

Without missing a beat, she read Quentin's note, scribbled her reply, and slid it back. I see her. The steward filled their cups and withdrew. Once the man was out of earshot, Josephine quietly asked with a loving smile, "Should we engage? Or let her watch?"

The thought of action increased Quentin's pulse and he fixed Josephine with an amused leer. "Engage, Madame? I do believe I'm already married."

"Watch, then." Josephine took up the gauntlet with a raised eyebrow. "Although I should warn you, my dear, I am no exhibitionist."

"And I am no voyeur."

For her part, the Russian remained apparently oblivious to their discussion. Instead she continued to peruse a copy of Санкт-Петербурге ве́домости with the professional attached disinterest that might have indicated to a close observer that she was actually observing something else. She finished her glass of Vodka and refilled it.

"Perhaps you should ask her to dance." Josephine watched the agent's reflection in the polished silver sugar bowl before meeting Quentin's eyes again. There was no rancor in her tone. "It is your turn."

Quentin sipped his coffee and chortled before saying quietly, "Perhaps I should. She might even let me lead this time."

Josephine was about to reply when the steward reentered the far end of the car, holding his tray aloft. Something about the way he held it caught her eye. She swept him with a more discerning look and noticed that while the resemblance was strong, it was not the same man. Not even a steward, she realized as she watched him ignore the empty cup the bored French banker held out for a refill. She went on alert but kept her posture relaxed as if she'd noticed nothing. "Perhaps she might," she said, leaning forward with an indulgent smile and patting Quentin's hand, using the action to hide unsheathing one of her knives under the table.

Quentin saw Josephine' hand move under the table. Maybe this won't be so unexciting after all, Quentin thought. "I think I should . . ." He cut off his reply when as he saw the Russian move into action, if only briefly. With a swift motion she had picked up a butter knife by the blade and flick it as if striking an imaginary gong. The gesture was subtle but definite and only someone watching her directly for some time would likely have thought it odd.

A split-second later, the faux-steward pitched forward as his right knee buckled, his tray of coffee and pastries crashing to the floor. The steward looked up briefly, anger and confusion clear on his face. He scanned the room before quickly withdrawing the way he came. For his part, Quentin looked first at the retreating steward, then at the Russian agent. If she perhaps nodded, no one would be able to prove it. She folded her paper and withdrew from the car.

Josephine went taut at the crash, her knife gripped at the ready under the table. A man muttered a soft exclamation. A woman quickly stifled a cry. The steward retreated on a rising tide of whispers and Josephine shot a look at the Russian agent. On seeing the blonde leave, Josephine covertly sheathed her knife.

"I'll follow her," Josephine murmured with a wife's loving smile at Quentin. "You follow him." She eased from the table and exited the car a decent interval behind the blonde. The noise of the rails was loud in the vestibule but not as deafening as it would be without the enclosure between cars. She caught a glimpse of the blonde Russian halfway down the length of the car ahead and Josephine pushed through in her wake. It was the lounge car and both women negotiated their way around the chairs with practiced ease. Josephine gained the vestibule at the opposite end of the car and did not see the blonde in the car ahead. Odd. A thump from above was the clue she needed and Josephine tried the access door to the rails on the right and the left. The left was unlocked and the roar of their passage filled the tight compartment. Josephine didn't waste a second but gripped the ladder rail and began to climb.

The wind dragged at her skirt and she wished for her male attire but she pushed on. At least her ladies' boots were sensibly heeled and Josephine could stand when she gained the roof of the car. The Russian was just stepping off onto the roof of the next car beyond, doubling back the way she came. Josephine doggedly followed, hampered by her billowing skirt. The Russian kept her lead, striding easily as if she walked a city boulevard instead of a swaying ton of wood and steel. By the time Josephine reached the end of the kitchen car, she saw the Russian look back, wink, and dive gracefully off the last baggage car.

Frozen with her breath caught in her throat, Josephine watched as the Russian landed in a perfect roll and bounded to her feet on the grassy shoulder. A mounted rider waited for her there with another horse held by its reins. The train carried Josephine farther away with each passing second and as she watched, the Russian mounted the waiting horse and wheeled off toward Budapest.

Josephine returned to the dining car to find Quentin still gone. She made no show of worry but merely gathered up their papers and asked for tea to be sent to their compartment. Genuine newlyweds or not, it would be uncouth to be seen in public joined at the hip or to express overt concern over a momentary absence. He wasn't waiting in the compartment when she arrived. She closed the door, pulled her watch from her pocket and checked the time. Ten minutes since they'd parted company. They'd already discussed contingency plans if they were ever separated. Quentin knew to make his way to Bucharest. He had funds to buy another ticket or hire a horse and ride. He'd roamed the world over to rescue his sister. He's capable of rescuing himself. When the tea arrived without Quentin, she poured herself a cup, organized the notes and papers she'd gathered, and waited for his return or for the next station, whichever came first.

Quentin rose with Josephine and let her go first before exiting the car in the steward's wake. He stepped into the vestibule between cars and as the door behind him closed, something caught the toe of his boot. Looking down, he spied the door of the butler's pantry had been shut on a bit of dark cloth that spilled to the floor. Not cloth, but clothing. Knowing what he'd find, opening the pantry was just a formality. Sure enough, the genuine steward had been stuffed inside with the table linens. Unconscious but his pulse was strong. Glad he wasn't handling a corpse, Quentin tucked the man further inside and shut the door. It was a shame not to render further aid but Quentin had bigger fish to fry.

At least now he knew he was on the right track.

Afternoon tea service was barely halfway over yet dinner preparations were already underway. Quentin negotiated the controlled chaos without a word and though the kitchen car staff looked at him oddly none moved to stop him. The boxcar beyond was unheated and served as the kitchen pantry. Barrels and boxes of food sat stacked along the walls. A side of beef hung among them, kept cold in the frigid air. A chopping block stood ready beside it. Quentin took it all in with a look and strode for the next car beyond.

A squawk from the chickens was the only warning he had before someone tackled him from behind.

Quentin dropped to a crouch and then rolled using his larger mass to swing his attacker towards a large crate. The attacker's knife, unseen until this point, missed Quentin's body but did cause a long rent in his jacket as they slammed into the crate.

Quentin sprang away from his attacker and cast about for a weapon, but the only thing visible was a large, unbalanced cleaver imbedded in the side of beef. The steward stabbed at Quentin's hand when he reached for it.

"Nein, Sie werden nicht." The steward attacked with his knife again, forcing the Quentin back. Damned but the man looked as if he wanted to carve Quentin up like a Christmas ham.

With the cleaver out of reach, Quentin looked for another weapon. The only thing to hand was a large barrel with a loose lid. Quentin grabbed the lid and was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of brine and dill. He swung it at his opponent's knife hand. The knife went sailing. Quentin heard it clatter to the side but kept his eyes on the steward.

"Scheiße." The Prussian plowed his fist lighting fast into Quentin's chin, spinning the him against the barrel. A second later he had Quentin headfirst in the sauerkraut.

Eyes and nose stinging from the brine and vinegar, Quentin grabbed the rim of the barrel and slammed backward in a headbutt. The Prussian's nose gave way with a wet crunch and he stumbled back, grabbing his face. Shaking the wet from his eyes like a dog, Quentin threw a blind punch. The agent pulled his hands from his ruined nose but couldn't block Quentin's blow to the gut. He folded over the American's fist and Quentin slammed him with a left hook.

With a roar, the Prussian tackled Quentin into the side of beef. Both saw the cleaver at the same time. A fast flurry of punches and jabs ensued as they fought for its possession. They were too close, too tangled together. Neither could get a purchase. I'll fix that, Quentin thought. He gouged the Prussian's eye with his thumb and the man howled and jerked back. Quentin freed the cleaver and swung the dull end in a vicious arc onto the Prussian's right wrist.

A sickening crack. A howl of pain.

"Why are you following me?" Quentin snarled.

"Amerikaner Schwein, ich sage dir nichts."

"What are you planning?"

"Fick dich!" The Prussian yelled, charging at Quentin.

Quentin sidestepped the charge at the last second and brought the cleaver down on the Prussian's unprotected back. Another crack. The Prussian hit the floor, the cleaver buried in his neck.

No coming back from that, Quentin thought as the man twitched his last. He planted the cleaver back in the beef and worked quickly. He emptied the man's pockets, wrinkling his nose at the wet stain spreading below the waist, and disposed of the body by pitching it out the boxcar door.

"Vielen Dank!" Quentin said as he hauled the door shut. He scooped up what he'd lifted from the Prussian into his own pockets and made his way back to the compartment he shared with Josephine. He briefly debated his next step before climbing to the roof of the train and walking towards the rear, descending only after he'd made it to the First Class car. Even if his recent foe was no longer aboard, his current dishevelment, the unconscious steward, as well as his earlier racing through the kitchen car would raise questions that he would prefer not to answer for as long as possible. He slipped into the First Class car's washroom and cleaned up as best he could, inspecting his reflection in the mirror as he did so. His jacket and shirt were a total loss and his chin was coloring up where the Prussian had hit him but at least he didn't stink as badly as before.

"Well, I've had quite the party."

Josephine swept Quentin with a look as he entered the compartment. She caught the state of his chin, hair and clothes. Even without such visible evidence, the faint odor of brine and dill clinging to him told her much.

"You've certainly come home pickled," she replied as if nothing were amiss, determined not to embarrass him with her relief over his return. Josephine poured him a cup unasked and handed it to him. "Did you learn anything?"

"Not yet. These might tell us something." Quentin drained his cup and emptied his pockets on the window table: a documents wallet, a watch, a small notebook, a few coins and bank notes, a cigarette case, a candle stub, a few wadded bits of paper. "And there's this," Quentin added, pulling out the last item and holding it up. It gleamed in the watery winter light, a gold insignia pin. He handed the pin to her, opened his bags and began pulling clean clothes out as he spoke. "Found it under his lapel, like he was hiding it. Whatever it is, it's not Masonic. I know their marks and that isn't one of them."

"I will take your word for it. The Freemasons is not an organization I have access to." Josephine examined the pin . It was roughly the size of her thumbnail, engraved and enameled with a symbol on its front. It wasn't one she recognized. She turned it over. There was no hallmark or content stamp.

"Now that would be a trick," Quentin said smiling, looking through his remaining clean shirts. "You infiltrating the Masons."

"I may yet," she said archly. "I've already done Hamlet."

Bare flesh beckoned in the corner of her eye. Acutely aware of Quentin disrobing, she steeled herself against looking directly at him. Mind on the job, Jo. She picked up the wallet and pulled out the top document, a folded letter of high quality paper. Holding it up to the window, she looked for a watermark, pinpricks, or subtly altered writing, and she summarized aloud as she scanned it. "A letter of introduction for Friedrich Piefke, a salesman and installer of telegraph equipment for Siemens in Berlin. 'Please afford all suitable courtesy and assistance as required.' On company letterhead. Hmm. That suggests several possibilities," she added as she examined the next document. "Here we have a private introduction to Ştefan Brezeanu of Bucharest, who we've connected to Panculescu. The plot thickens. Where is Piefke now?" she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

"Off the train and not coming back," Quentin said, grinning tightly. Freshly clothed from the waist up, he tugged his cuffs straight and worked on his tie. He nodded at the miscellany on the table. "Could be there might be more about him in the junk I took off him. Dammit—," he swore as the train lurched on the tracks and he fumbled his tie.

"Allow me," Josephine said and rose to assist him. The train lurched again and her pulse quickened as he caught her. His arms were strong and warm. His eyes, she thought, were the most enthralling shade of blue. The need she'd refused to acknowledge deep inside her woke and her blood started to sing. "Ties are the very devil," she breathed.

"You are the very devil," Quentin whispered under his breath. Still roused by the fight and the sudden nearness of her, Quentin gave in to impulse and kissed her. Just as in Paris, the kiss deepened in a flash. She tasted of sugar and tea and her scent teased him with each breath he took. She wasn't the least bit shy. As his hands followed her curves, she clutched his back and pulled him closer. As he grew insistent, so did she, until he found himself guiding her toward the compartment couch.

She explored him hungrily under his shirt and devoured his mouth with hers. Quentin's hands drew paths of heat wherever they went and Josephine's breath caught again and again as their bodies swayed together all the way to the couch. She barely felt it when she tipped onto it. She was aware only of him.

He'd had exotic women all over the world but none were as bewitching as Josephine's blend of femininity and ferocity. Quentin struggled with the buttons at her throat, nuzzling her neck as he exposed her skin. She gasped and moved under him, deftly undoing his trousers and easing him free, caressing him to near madness. Quentin growled at the ungodly layers of clothing between them. Damned corset …. Knowing he'd never get it off her in time Quentin pushed up her skirts and made ready to dive right in.

"Mein Herr?" Someone knocked on the compartment door. "Verzeihen Sie die Intrusion, aber so können wir ein Wort haben?"

Quentin was off her in a flash. Josephine moaned in frustration even as her mind seized on the translation. Sir? Forgive the intrusion, but may we have a word? She sat up and put her clothing to rights as Quentin strode for the door, shirt tails flapping.

"What?!" With murder in his eye, Quentin yanked open the door. The Conductor stepped smartly back.

"Verzeihen Sie mir, Herr. Es ist schon eine Störung im Speisewagen. Waren Sie vor kurzem gab?" the Conductor asked. Forgive me, sir. There's been a disturbance in the dining car. Were you recently there? Or so Quentin managed to translate. To his educated ear, the man's German seemed accented with a regional dialect. Not that he gave a damn just that moment.

"Does it look like I've just been in the dining car?" Quentin ground out from behind his teeth, with a significant glance down at his tented shirt hem.

"Istenem." The Conductor swore softly but had the grace to look embarrassed. "Nein, Sir. Ich entschuldige mich für die Unterbrechung." No, sir. My apologies for interrupting.

Quentin shut the door on the counductor's bow and turned to Josephine.

"Now, where were we?"

Nein, Sie werden nicht. = Nine, zee vehr-den neekht = No. You will not. Sound clip.
Scheiße = Shy-zuh = Shit (interjection) Sound clip
Amerikaner Schwein, ich sage dir nichts = Ah-mer-ee-kah-ner shwine, ikh sah-guh der neesht = American pig, I'll tell you nothing Sound clip
Fick dich! = Fick deesh = Fuck you! Sound clip
Vielen Dank! = Vee-lehn Dahnk = Thank you very much! Many thanks! Sound clip
Mein Herr. Verzeihen Sie die Intrusion, aber so können wir ein Wort haben? = My sir? Forgive the intrusion, but may we have a word? Sound clip
Verzeihen Sie mir, Herr. Es ist schon eine Störung im Speisewagen. Waren Sie vor kurzem gab? = Forgive me, sir. There's been a disturbance in the dining car. Were you recently there? Sound clip
Nein, Sir. Ich entschuldige mich für die Unterbrechung. = No, sir. My apologies for interrupting. Sound clip

HOW TO SPEAK HUNGARIAN[edit]

Istenem = Eesh-ten-ehm = My God Sound clip

Return to The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Three: A Cautious Waltz | Jump to The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Five: Connections Past and Present
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The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Four: Train of Events

Contents

NEWS OF THE DAY[edit]

HOW TO SPEAK RUSSIAN[edit]

HOW TO SPEAK GERMAN[edit]

HOW TO SPEAK HUNGARIAN[edit]

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