was Zinov? Some bodyguard. He splashed more water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, careful again not to swallow. A strange irony, he thought. Goddamn superpower with the ability to blow up the world a thousand times over, but can't manage clean water on a train.
He tried to regain his composure. Through an oval window the night raced past. Another train whizzed by in the opposite direction, the rush of cars lasting what seemed minutes.
He took a deep breath, grabbed his briefcase, and slid open the door.
The way was blocked by a tall, stocky man with a pockmarked face, his shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord stared into the eyes and instantly noticed the wide space between the right pupil and brow.
Droopy.
A fist slammed into Lord's stomach.
He doubled over, air strangling in his throat, a wave of nausea gripping him. The force of the blow drove him into the outer wall, his head popping hard against the window, winking the scene before him in and out.
He settled onto the toilet.
Droopy stepped into the lavatory and shut the door. "Now, Mr. Lord, we finish."
He'd managed to retain a grip on his briefcase and momentarily thought of swinging it upward, but in the tight confines the blow would be meaningless. Air started to grab in his lungs. The initial shock was replaced by fear. A cold, shivering terror.
A knife snapped open in Droopy's hand.
There'd only be a moment.
His gaze cut to the disinfectant. He lunged forward, grabbed the can, pointed, and sprayed his assailant's face. The caustic mist soaked into the eyes and the man shrieked. Lord brought his right knee up into the groin. Droopy doubled over, the knife clattering to the tile floor. With both hands Lord crashed the briefcase down and Droopy crumpled forward.
Lord pounded again. Then again.
He leapt over the body and slid the metal door open, bolting into the corridor. Waiting for him was Cro-Magnon, the same sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose from two days ago.
"In a hurry, Mr. Lord?"
He kicked the Russian's left knee with the toe of his loafer, knocking the man down. To his right, a silver samovar steamed with hot water, a glass decanter ready for patrons looking for coffee. He slung the scalding liquid at Cro-Magnon.
The man cried out in pain.
Lord spun in the opposite direction and shot for the exit adjacent to the lavatory. He could hear Droopy getting to his feet, calling out to Cro-Magnon.
He raced out of the sleeper into the next car and hustled down the narrow hall as fast as the confined space would allow. He was hoping a steward would appear. Anyone. He maintained a grasp on his briefcase and found the exit into the next car. Behind, he heard the door at the far end open and caught a glimpse of his two assailants starting after him.
He kept moving, then decided this was pointless. Eventually he was going to run out of train.
He shot a glance back.
The angle of the car gave him a moment of privacy. The hall before him was lined with more sleeping compartments. He figured he was still in the first-class section. He needed to duck into one, if only for a moment, enough time to let the pursuers pass. Maybe then he could backtrack and find Zinov.
He tried the next paneled door.
Locked.
The one after was locked, too.
There'd only be another second.
He grasped a latch handle and looked back. Shadows of approaching figures dimmed the hall in the forward car. As the shoulder of one man came into view, he yanked on the panel.
It opened.
He slipped in and slammed the door shut.
"Who are you?" a female voice asked in Russian.
He spun around.
Perched on the bed, not three feet away, was a woman. She was thin as a figure skater, with shoulder-length blond hair. He took in her oval face, her milky white skin, the blunt tip of her upturned nose. She was a curious mixture of tomboyishness and femininity. And her blue eyes carried not a hint of concern.
"Don't be afraid," he said in Russian. "My name is Miles Lord. I have a big problem."
"That still does not explain why you barged into my compartment."
"Two men are after me."
She stood and stepped close. She was short, rising only to his shoulders, and wore a pair of dark jeans that seemed made only for her. A curvy jacket with padded shoulders covered a blue turtleneck sweater. A faint smell of sweet perfume blossomed