The steam locomotive exhaled thick clouds of white vapor, its whistle slicing through the crisp Alpine morning.
Shane lowered the brim of his fedora, the shadow cutting across his youthful face as he boarded the Orient Express bound for Vienna. Around him, the platform thrummed with voices in French, German, and English — the nervous hum of diplomats, traders, and travelers alike.
His leather briefcase felt unusually heavy against his side — inside it lay not only confidential documents but the fragile blueprint for Europe's future in film distribution.
The air inside the carriage was a blend of leather, cigar smoke, and a faint trace of expensive perfume. Carlson Weber was already waiting in their compartment, tapping his fingers lightly against the window frame — their agreed signal that all was normal.
As Shane walked through the corridor, the reflection in the beveled glass made him pause. A man in a felt hat appeared to be casually reading a newspaper, but his eyes — sharp, deliberate — flicked toward Shane's compartment every few seconds.
A few seats away, a young woman fiddled repeatedly with the clasp of her suitcase. Her movements were rhythmic, purposeful — a signal of her own. She and Carlson exchanged the briefest of glances.
Within moments, Carlson had his finger tracing the edge of the wooden paneling. It stopped at a small grille beneath the heater. A faint scratch along the metal edge revealed what they feared — a hidden microphone.
In 1928, such devices were crude but deadly effective. Every careless word could become intelligence in another man's file.
Shane wordlessly took out a pen and a notepad, writing:
"Are the preparations complete?"
Carlson gave a brief nod and produced a brand-new Swiss passport from his coat. The photograph showed Shane with round spectacles; the name beneath read "Michael Adler – Watch Company Manager."
Just then, a uniformed attendant knocked.
"Gentlemen, would you care to dine?"
Carlson answered with polite volume, "Later, thank you," then lowered his voice. "Vienna's reporters already know you're coming."
Shane wrote swiftly:
"Caught a severe cold. Bedridden."
Carlson smirked, adding:
"I'll handle the press. You take the Zurich route."
The train cut into the night, wheels hammering a relentless rhythm against the steel rails. By dawn, the Neue Freie Presse in Vienna would print the news:
"American Distributor Cancels Visit Due to Illness."
But the real Shane Cassidy would already be gone — another man on another train, vanishing into the fog of the Alps.
That afternoon, in Room 310 of a lakeside hotel outside Zurich, Mikhail's Longines Weems watch read 4:45 PM.
Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, scattering soft gold flecks across the walnut furniture — but tension hung thick in the room.
Dr. Krause's bow brushed against the latch of a cello case, producing a faint metallic click. Inside, the case had been hollowed out to conceal several prototype Trio-Plasmat optical lenses — the core of Pioneer Optics' new cinematic process.
The old man's wrinkled fingers were steady as he lowered the final lens into place.
A faint clatter of porcelain sounded beyond the door. Mikhail stiffened, one hand sliding toward the Colt holstered beneath his coat. He raised his other hand to his lips. Silence.
Olki, their mechanic, crept to the peephole. "Room service," he mouthed, his brow creasing.
Mikhail parted the curtain slightly. In the garden below, a gardener trimmed roses — but each glint of his shears aligned suspiciously with their third-floor window.
"Afternoon tea, gentlemen," came a polite voice from the hallway, followed by the rattle of a tray.
"Merci," Mikhail replied smoothly in French. "Leave it by the door."
The voice hesitated — just long enough to confirm his suspicion — before footsteps retreated. Mikhail tilted his wristwatch so that its polished face caught the sunlight and sent a coded flash toward the garden: three short, two long.
Moments later, hurried footsteps and muffled French orders echoed through the corridor. Words like "inspection" and "police" carried faintly through the oak door, then faded away.
Dr. Krause smiled faintly. "Mr. Hoffmann's contacts remain reliable."
Mikhail didn't return the smile. "Reliable or not, they've found us three times in two days. The Soviets are here too — I could smell the cheap vodka this afternoon."
He stood abruptly, sweat darkening the silk at his back. "We move tonight. Have Hoffmann's men meet us in the alley behind the hotel."
Midnight draped the Swiss lake in silver.
Inside the room, Mikhail tapped the crystal of his watch three times — the signal to begin. Olki adjusted the strap of his toolbox, the metal inside giving a muted hum. Jay, the youngest of the group, brushed rosin along the cello's hinges, its faint friction masking any sound.
Dr. Krause clutched his hat, his old hands trembling slightly as they reached for the case handle.
"There's movement in the elevator shaft," Jay whispered. He pressed his ear to the steel door — faint, deliberate footsteps above.
Mikhail pressed his watch close to the gap, listening. The steady tick of its escapement blended with the sound of leather soles on metal.
He turned to the others and mouthed:
"Freight passage."
Olki drew two L-shaped wrenches from his kit; Jay pushed open the fire door. The rosin squealed softly against the hinges, producing a ghostly violin-like note that covered the metallic groan.
They slipped into darkness. The phosphorescent hands of Mikhail's Longines glowed faintly blue, painting fleeting arcs on the cold concrete walls.
Each step was measured, cautious, and silent.
Outside, the lake reflected the moon like a blade — calm on the surface, deadly beneath.
And as they disappeared into the night, the ticking of Mikhail's watch echoed faintly, like a metronome counting down the seconds to freedom.