The train pulled into the station at Uvalde, Texas just ten minutes late – at three ten in the morning – and Sara looked out the window at the flat, almost treeless moonscape, and at the flat, treeless station – and thought she must have found the bleakest corner of the universe. The station looked, in the moonlight, like something out of a John Ford western – and if the sun had been out she'd have not been at all surprised to see a bunch of Comanches sitting around a cracker barrel drinking whiskey...
And she was worried, too.
It had been almost four hours since she'd seen or heard from 'Ben' – and she'd only heard the porter walking down the corridor once, when a woman rang him a little after two to ask for some water. She'd dared not check on him either, not after his warning, so she rang the porter after the train started moving again, and he came by a few minutes later.
"Ma'am?"
"Is the lounge car still open?"
"Yes, doctor. Could I fetch you something?"
"No, no, I just can't sleep. I think I'll go sit up for a while."
"You want me to freshen up your bed while you're gone?"
"If you don't mind, yes, that'd be nice."
"Alrighty. You go on up; I'll get to your room while you're gone."
"Thanks," she said, then she slipped on her loafers and walked forward. No light on in his room, she saw, and no sign of activity within, either, so she walked forward to the lounge. There were other night-owls sitting up: a couple playing cards, a fat, bespectacled man writing on a notepad and, of course, the attendant behind the bar, so she walked up to the bar.
"I can't sleep," she began. "Know anything that might help?"
He nodded – and grinned: "I can fix that."
"Better make it two," Ben said, slipping quietly next to Sara's side.
She looked at him and grinned, then they watched as the bartender put four scoops of vanilla ice cream in a blender, then added a troublesome amount of Gran Marnier, a dash a white rum, then a liberal splash of Tia Maria before setting the blender on it's base and turning it on for ten seconds. He then poured two tall glasses and set them down.
"Try that..." the bartender said, "but be careful. This one kind of sneaks up from behind – fast!"
Sara did, and her eyes went wide. "That's fantastic!"
Carter tried it, then nodded. "That'll do the job, alright. Better make two more."
The bar-keep grinned knowingly and set about making two more while Carter led her to their table. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"Not a wink. How'd things go?"
"Fine. This is a fine little drink, ya know?"
"It's like a milkshake, only better..."
"I've never had a milkshake like this before."
"Learned this recipe at Brennan's," the bartender said, setting down the two new drinks. "It's a favorite at brunch on Sunday mornings."
"I can see why," Sara added, already feeling a little tipsy..
Carter handed over some money, told the bartender to keep the change before he turned to look at the other people in the car. "You horny yet?" he asked in a whisper.
"YES! You?" she whispered loudly.
He nodded. "I can't seem to think about anything else. Very unprofessional of me."
"Think this will 'reload' your gun?"
"If it doesn't – nothing will."
"Are you okay? You look a little, well, upset."
"I am."
"Want to talk?"
"Later. Not here."
She nodded, shook her head. "This thing's hit me like a ton of bricks," she said as she polished off the first 12 ounce glass. She picked up the second and tossed off about half that one in one long pull, too.
"Better take it easy – or you won't be doing anything for the next 12 hours..."
"Wanna bet?" she said – licking her lips.
"Not really, but I don't want to carry you through a moving train, either."
She snorted then squealed – and everyone turned and looked at her, then grinned and turned back to their tables – except the fat old man, who was sitting a few feet away.
"Best be careful with those hammers, young lady," he said. "Ian's are legendary in these parts for being both smooth – and lethally strong. Don't go too fast, or the velvet will turn into a nasty hammer!"
They watched as she swooned in her chair, still snort-giggling as she picked up her glass and finished the second drink. Carter – wide-eyed – stood quickly and caught her as she slid sideways out of her chair.
"Oops," the old man said. "Need a hand with that?"
"No, sir. I've got her."
The fat man shrugged, turned back to his writing and Carter picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and started back to their car, doing his best to shield her head as the train rolled along. The porter was just coming out of her room when Carter huffed into the corridor, and the old man turned, saw her and grinned.
"Don't tell me. Velvet Hammers?"
"Two of 'em. She just sucked 'em down, too!"
"Uh-oh. I take it the doc ain't a big drinker?"
"I don't think so."
"I better gets a bunch more towels, maybe a bucket, too."
"Swell."
"You ready to fuck yet?" she crooned – and the porter rolled his eyes.
"She gonna go fast tonight, like one of 'dem volcano movies. I better scoot!"
He sighed, looked at her head hanging limply: "No, I'm not quite ready, Sara. Why don't you start without me."
"Okay," she crooned again – her lilting voice carrying happy notes of carefree inebriation down the corridor.
He set her down on the freshly made bed and stood, waiting for the porter – and the eruption that had to be coming.
"Was that him?"
He spun around, saw her sitting up – and saw she was now, suddenly, stone cold sober. "What?" he said, his voice registering confusion.
"The fat man? Was he the one who killed your friends?"
He shook his head. "I don't know, but I assume it's either him or the other couple there."
"The couple...they've been walking around out in the hallway a lot."
He shrugged. "Who are you?"
"What do you mean? You know who I am..."
They heard the porter coming and Carter slid the door open, held a hand out to take the towels – then he heard Sara moaning on the bed. "Looks like you got here just in time," he added.
"Lawdy, lawdy, I keep sayin' Ian makes 'dem things too strong."
"Yeah? Well, thanks, I got it from here..."
"You need a hand you just holler."
"Will do." He slid the door shut and locked it – again – then turned to her as she sat up and grinned. "So, who the Hell do you work for?"
"County-USC hospital writes the checks..."
"Come on, no bullshit..."
"Open my purse. My last paycheck is in my checkbook."
"That doesn't mean shit."
"It does to me! If I don't deposit it soon I'm going to start bouncing checks..."
He saw the truth in her eyes, but still, he couldn't reconcile her actions. "So, why..."
"Because I want to help! You! Got it, numbskull!?"
"Help?"
"Yeah. There are people on this train – right? – trying to kill you. I want to help."
He grinned, chuckled a little when her words registered. "So, Sara Berman, MD. Super Spy. Is that about right?"
"You betcha. But first, don't you think I need to know what's going on?"
He sat down, let slip a long sigh – then shook his head gently. "About two weeks ago a military cryptographer stationed in France, a kid named Dinkin, apparently flipped out and went AWOL, but he ran to Switzerland. He contacted someone he knew in the UN there, and he told them a story...
"He read intercepted dispatches between military units – in Texas – the upshot of which is that there are five teams on the ground in Dallas, and they're going to try and take out Kennedy later today."
Her face went pale, her eyes round with fear.
"We've been tailing several known actors in this plot..."
"Actors?"
He shook his head. "Just another word for suspects."
"Oh."
"And we picked up a new one a few days ago, a guy named Oswald. He's been in and out of New Orleans a lot, and as we picked up more chatter about him last week, well, the last few days, we decided to intervene. We think Oswald is under the control of a mob family out of Chicago, but acting through a cut-out in New Orleans. I was there yesterday to take out who we think is Oswald's controller, the thinking being maybe we can stop Oswald from getting a 'go ahead' – and he'll abort."
"Mob? You mean, like, the mafia?"
"Yes, that's right."
"But, what about the other teams?"
"We know where one is setting up, but no idea where the others are."
"Are they military?"
He shrugged. "No one knows. Military, mob, Cuban...no one I know knows who's doing what, but there's apparently a faction in government that does. And apparently Kennedy does too. And he won't back down. Anyway, we have almost all our agents from Europe on the ground in Texas now, and some from the FBI, but we don't have enough to cover all the leads."
"And you're afraid something's going to happen, aren't you?"
"There are too many people out there, too many loose cannons, and too few people around the president to keep this from going down."
"Is that why you asked me about Kennedy yesterday?"
He nodded. "I was trying to flush you out into the open, see who you're working for."
She shook her head. "So what happens next?"
"They either get him – or they don't."
"You mean...kill him? The President?"
He nodded his head. "Yup."
"So, why are there people trying to take you out. And your friends?"
"They don't know how much intel we have, and I suppose they look at us as loose ends. We know enough to bring down the conspiracy."
"So..."
"They'll have to eliminate us."
"And...since I know you?"
He nodded his head. "Sorry."
"Oy vey."
"You can say that again."
"What's your backup plan?"
