wide enough to admit a train. The papal arms, carved in stone, hung above its center. Huge iron doors were retracted into the recesses of the bastion. The brown caterpillar of a train was parked on the other side of the station, most of it jutting out of the right side. The locomotive was running, steam billowing, its front end just short of the open gate. A worker busily unloaded large-wheeled plastic bins from the last railcar.
He studied the open gate.
Two guards dressed like him were on duty to make sure no one entered. Surely once the train left the big doors would be retracted, sealing off the portal.
But at the moment they offered a means of escape.
* * *
Cotton had pursued a lot of people. Some pros, some not. Pollux Gallo seemed somewhere in between. Cunning, he’d give him that, and ballsy. He almost got away with the identity exchange. But like most psychopaths, he never thought that anyone might best him.
He came to the far end of the basilica and stopped, peering around and catching sight of Gallo headed for a white marble building with a train on the other side pointed toward an open gate in the wall.
Should he call it in?
No.
Somebody could get hurt.
Gallo was close to escape, desperate and armed.
He’d handle this himself.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Pollux avoided the interior of the railway station, heading around its right side and approaching the tracks. Five railcars were attached to the locomotive, their doors slid open, the spaces inside each of them empty. Several freight wagons were loaded with crates and boxes. A man stood off to the side, waving toward the locomotive.
He heard the powerful engine rev louder.
Finally, a break.
He pointed toward the worker and said in Italian, “I need to go out with this train for security.”
The man did not argue.
He rushed forward and hopped into the second car behind the locomotive. The train began to move, heading toward the gate in the bastion wall.
He just might make it out.
Once beyond the Vatican he’d hop from the train and disappear into Rome. Where to go after that? He’d find somewhere.
He had no intention of spending the rest of his life in jail.
* * *
Cotton chose to go left, as Gallo had gone right. The left side of the station also offered more cover with a patch of grass with trees and bushes. A paved walk separated the grass from the building and led back to the tracks. The path also offered a way to get to the rear of the station without Gallo knowing.
He heard the diesel rev and the hiss of brakes releasing. The locomotive was no more than twenty feet from the open gate and would be outside the wall in less than thirty seconds. He counted five open railcars and saw a guy near a white van toward the end of the train. One of the tall bushes offered excellent shielding and, as the train passed, he caught sight of Gallo inside the second car.
The train gathered pace.
The third car passed.
The fourth.
He had no choice.
He sprang from the path and ran toward the final car. Most of the train was now beyond the wall, the front third rounding a bend in the tracks.
He leaped up into the empty car.
Someone yelled.
Had to be one of the guards at the gate, who suddenly vaulted into the car, too. He never gave the man a chance, stepping forward and planting a fist in the guy’s right side. The man doubled over and he used the moment to shove the guard out the open door. The train was creeping along, yet to gain a full head of steam. The guard hit the ground and rolled away. He watched out the door as the train kept going and saw that the guard was okay, having landed on grass. The other guard who’d been watching the gate with him ran to the man’s aid and helped him up. Surely they’d call in all the excitement, and Stamm would learn where he’d headed.
He decided to maintain his own radio silence.
He swung himself out of the doorway and grabbed hold of a steel ladder, which he used to climb to the top. Two cars were between him and Gallo, so he jumped to the next. The tops were flat but loaded with bumps and indentations made more treacherous by the constant vibrations from the tracks. He spread his feet against the roll and felt like a sailor on a rolling deck.