Ghost Ship

“May I interest you in anything, sir?”

Sam thought. What did he like? What did he not like? He had no idea.

He smiled. “What’s good today?”

The server half-stood. “We just got a shipment of vodka from the Burn.”

Sam nodded. “That sounds good.”

“How do you take it, sir?”

Sam shrugged. “As it is.” He smiled. Judging from the state of his mind, Sam thought the stronger the better. The server’s brows rose.

“I’ll send out a side of ice, sir.”

Sam nodded and the man left.

Sam moved his newspaper and revealed what he’d quickly hidden at the man’s arrival.

In his lap rested a Makarov pistol.

It was a gun unlike anything he’d ever seen. It wasn’t large, but its compact size and forceful design made it powerful. He tilted it in his hand, remembering how he’d figured out its construction earlier when he’d discovered it in his suitcase. He shook his head.

He didn’t know how he took his vodka. But he intrinsically knew that in the gun in his lap the only force holding the slide closed was that of the recoil spring, and that upon firing it the barrel and slide did not have to unlock as they did in locked breech design pistols. He knew that the gun was simple and more accurate than designs using a recoiling, tilting, or articulated barrel. The gun was powerful for its moderate weight and size, and particularly well balanced.

It had been mass produced and was a masterpiece of engineering and interchangeability, a miracle of Soviet tooling, technology, and machinery. Makarov pistol parts seldom break with normal usage, and are easily serviced using few tools.

The only downside was that the design had a threat of firing if dropped by accident, though other than that it was an incredibly safe weapon. When handled properly, the Makarov pistol has excellent security against accidental discharge caused by inadvertent pressure on the trigger. Despite this, the heavy trigger weight in double-action mode decreases first-shot accuracy.

Sam knew that this was not a deterrent, because the men shooting this type of gun were particularly good shots. They often belonged to the Russian mob and as such had been shooting guns for as long as they had been brushing their teeth.

Sam heard footsteps down the hall and replaced the newspaper as the server returned with his vodka. Sam thanked him and took the drink. He waited to sip until the man was out of earshot and made a face. It was strong enough to clean the gun in his lap, but there was an undeniable flavor to it.

He shook his head and as he sipped, he ran over the things he knew for sure.

One: His name was Sam Reilly.

Two: He was supposed to be in The Hague in twelve hours.

Three: This vodka was growing on him.

There was only one problem with any of these three realizations. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing in The Hague.

Sam pushed his drink to the side and pulled out his phone. The train had wireless connection and he intended to make the most of it.

He pulled up The Hague’s website and searched for events that were going on there. They ranged from conferences detailing the situation in Syria, to a talk about the potential effect of solar power on the impoverished in India’s slums, to a hearing on War Crimes. He kept searching from different sites, but kept getting the same results. Sam couldn’t think of anything he had to do with Syria, India, or War Crimes that had no relation to the United States. He clicked on the link to the War Crimes. An article came up about a recent massacre of Pashtuns taking place by rebels along the Durand Line in Afghanistan, an international 1,400 mile, 17th century border between Pakistan and Afghanistan that remains heavily disputed to this day. The rebels were equipped with modern Russian weaponry, leading to theories the Russians had backed the rebels. This in turn led the American peace keeping forces to mobilize their base another thirty miles west, into the middle of the Durand Line.

Sam grimaced. What the hell did he have to do with Russia and the US? Did he know something about the Durand Line? Did he know something about the Russian Mafia? The problem remained: he didn’t know what he WAS involved in.

The name Tom Bower floated in his head.

When he’d called Tom, he had said they’d once been quite close. Sam had no memory of the man, but he was pretty certain he was the man who had betrayed him.

Sam reached for his vodka glass and found it empty. He’d been searching longer than he thought and the vodka had done its work. He glanced around, back to front, and discovered the bathroom toward the front of the compartment, advertised by the universal signage for toilets.

Sam closed out of the internet windows and pocketed his phone. Then he put aside his newspaper and stood up, fighting off the feel of the vodka in his head. He leaned down to put the pistol under the newspaper. Then, on second thought, he lifted his shirt and tucked the pistol in his pants.

Sam slid his way out of the compartment, and avoided death by inches.