Free The Istanbul Decision by Nick Carter Page B

and the night before, when Kobelev had flagged the train at a crossing outside Dijon, it was thought the engineer was in league with them. He had since disappeared, and one of Kobelev's men was running the train. Carter made a mental note to have the man picked up and questioned.
    He learned, too, that Cynthia was still in the wheelchair, and when she boarded the night before, she'd seemed dazed or drunk. Carter assumed drugs. The chef had heard this from the woman in the office who had been in radio contact with the train before the Russians had commandeered all communications aboard. Carter added another note to talk with her before he left.
    The chef went on to say that Cynthia was being guarded by Kobelev and two of his men in the salon car, which was in the middle of the train, and that four others, two with machine guns, were circulating among the other passengers. This meant eight Russians in all, including the man at the controls.
    When he felt he'd found out all he could from the chef. Carter excused himself, went outside, and ducked into a small bistro down the street. He purchased a bottle of cognac and two glasses. When he returned he and the chef toasted one another's health and the health of President Mitterand and most of the French parliament before the chef had to leave for the train station to make his connection for Paris. Before he left, the chef thanked him effusively, and Carter made him a present of the rest of the bottle.
    Carter watched the taxi round the comer out of sight, men he went in to talk with the woman behind the desk. It was she who had talked with the train staff by radio, and although her distaste for the Russians and what they'd done was admirable, she wasn't able to add anything to what the chef had already told him. Finally she said that if he were going to be a chef, he'd need a uniform, and she gave him the address of a store in Schillerstrasse.
    The store's tailor turned out to be tight-lipped and efficient, like most German professional people; a slash of chalk along the sleeve and another across the from sufficed for altering the jacket, but the trousers were another matter. Carter took the man aside and explained his rather special problem.
    He held out the Luger in its leather holster, which was shiny from constant handling. "Normally, you see, I wear her under here." He held the holster up under his arm. "But I can rig the straps around my waist, like this." He put the holster on like a belt and turned the gun until it rested in the small of his back. "This makes it more difficult for them to find in a search. What I need, then, is a little extra give in the pants to cover it. Maybe an insert or two."
    The tailor nodded and quickly took some measurements of the gun and of Carter's waist with the gun in place. Then he left, and Carter took a chair in the front of the shop and began reading the Viennese daily he found lying across it.
    There was nothing in the newspaper about the train or the kidnapping, and this pleased him. Apparently the authorities were cooperating as Hawk had said.
    In less than an hour the uniform was ready. Carter tried it on, and the jacket and pants fit perfectly. Even Wilhelmina was snug and virtually undetectable in a V-shaped pouch at his back. A white chef's hat and he could easily have passed for a Cordon Bleu graduate.
    He thanked the tailor and told him to wrap the uniform. Then he dressed again in his street clothes, gathered up the packages, and left. On the way back to the tour office he bought a secondhand leather suitcase covered with stickers from European resort cities.
    He put the uniform on in a small washroom in the rear of the tour office, then pulled all the American labels out of his clothes and packed them in the old suitcase. Then he put on the chef's hat and looked at himself in the mirror.
    He felt vaguely ridiculous, but that was to be expected. The big question was: would he be recognized? Kobelev would know him immediately, of