As they walked toward the platform beside the cardinal’s train, Cronley did not see Janice but knew she was in the station watching.
What he did see was the locomotive of the cardinal’s train. Papal flags flapped on either side of the front of the engine’s boiler. There was something wrong with the picture, and it took him a moment to figure it out.
The locomotive usually was detached from the railroad cars that it had brought into the station and the cars were backed in next to the platform, usually by a special locomotive.
There was some reason Cardinal von Hassburger did not want the locomotive detached from his train. And then Cronley saw the first car behind the locomotive was customized, its paint glossy and bearing the papal crest on its sides.
That’s probably the cardinal’s personal car. Or maybe the Pope’s?
There’s obviously things inside—maybe a radio or a teletype—that required power from the locomotive.
Or maybe water from the engine’s supply to flush a toilet or even provide hot water for the cardinal’s shower.
Do cardinals take showers or do they take baths?
Does a cardinal remove that little red hat before stepping into his shower or bath?
Cronley was brought out of his reverie when a very large, very good-looking man in a business suit and clerical collar stepped into their path.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in what sounded like American English. “I’m Father Kent. Would you be good enough to follow me?”
* * *
—
The gate to Platform 12 was guarded by two large American MPs and two smaller German policemen.
“These gentlemen are with me,” Father Kent announced, first in English to the MPs and then in German to the others.
“Relax, Ivan,” Cronley said. “Despite what Morty said, I think you look splendid in your borrowed civvies.”
Serov looked pained and shook his head in resignation.
They were passed onto the platform. The MPs eyed them, but without much curiosity.
You should pay better attention, Sergeant, Cronley thought.
You’re looking at a Russian general and an American colonel in hand-me-down clothes. Plus, a natty captain in a snazzy Argentine tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers.
Father Kent waved them onto the forward observation platform of the papal car, where a second muscular young priest opened the door to the car, and said, also in American English, this one with a distinctive Bostonian accent, “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. His Grace will be with you momentarily.”
When he stepped into the wood-paneled compartment, Cronley sensed there was something fishy about it.
It was obviously a private reception room, a place the cardinal could receive visitors he didn’t want to meet in public. It was furnished with a low table, a three-seater leather couch, and a half dozen matching armchairs. The only decoration in the compartment was a large crucifix on the wood-paneled wall separating the compartment from the rest of what Cronley guessed was the other two-thirds of the car.
There were three panels, on each of which were three vents six inches long
and two inches wide, equally spaced from top to bottom. He didn’t pay much attention to them until he thought he saw a light on the other side of the center vent of the center panel.
Cronley studied it more closely. Then the light was gone—and another came on inside the lower vent on the right panel.
Cronley touched Cohen’s arm and discreetly pointed out the panels and the vents. Cohen looked, then nodded but didn’t say anything.
As Cronley looked at the paneled wall, the door to the left of the wall opened, and the archbishop he had last seen in the Hotel Majestic stepped into the compartment.
He was wearing a black, ankle-length garment that Cronley remembered was called a cassock.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Please be seated.”