Echo of War Read Free

years when it could have easily been lost, but still it remained safe and hidden from the world. Through wars and upheaval, Tirol had been good to them.
    He looked up at the luggage rack and the case strapped there. It vibrated with the train’s motion, the catches ticking like an old-fashioned telegraph machine. Istvan smiled ruefully: Sending me a message, are you, old friend ?
    What have I done ? he thought. I’ve been stupid, that’s what. And suddenly he found himself decided. That’s it, then. It wasn’t too late.
    He would get off at Graz, catch the next train back to Innsbruck, and by morning the case would be back where it belonged. Yes, good. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He took a deep breath, then rolled over and drifted off to sleep.
    He was jolted awake by the grinding of steel on steel. The train’s whistle shrieked once, then twice more. The car lurched. Istvan tumbled from his bunk, rolled across the floor, and slammed into the wall. Pain flashed behind his eyes. He shook his head clear, crawled to the window, pulled himself up to the pane.
    â€œOh my God …,” he gasped.
    Outside the window, the ballast slope gave way to a partially frozen lake, the ice shimmering dully in the moonlight. As he watched, the water seemed to rise toward the window.
    We’re rocking ! he thought. The walls shuddered as the car slammed back onto the tracks, then tipped in the opposite direction. The entire train was rocking from side to side as though it were being swattted by giant, unseen hands. The case ! He glanced up. He saw the glimmer of the case’s steel side, still strapped in place.
    From the passageway he heard an explosive crash, followed by more grinding, followed by a whoosh of air. His door began rattling wildly. Voices screamed in the distance, “Mein gott … mein gott !” Istvan dropped to his belly, scrambled toward the door, grabbed the latch, and jerked it open.
    The wall across the passageway was gone, a jagged floor-to-ceiling hole in its place. Through it he could see rocks and trees flashing past. Snow streamed through the opening, creating a small blizzard in the passage. The emergency lights on the walls flickered yellow.
    â€œ Mutter … Mutter, wo sind Sie !” a child screamed. Mother, where are you!
    â€œGott, helfen us … !”
    God can’t help us, Istvan thought, staring transfixed at the cliff face.
    The car lurched again. He felt himself stumbling backward. He crashed into the window. The glass shattered. Cold air rushed in. He felt himself falling. He grabbed the pane first with one hand, then the other, then heaved himself back into the compartment. He dropped to his knees and glanced over his shoulder.
    Oh, no, oh please no …
    The lake’s surface loomed before the window. Instinctively, he knew the angle was too great. The train wouldn’t right itself this time. He threw himself toward the bunk, grabbed the frame. Jaw set against the pull of gravity, he dragged himself to his feet. He stretched his fingers toward the case.
    As his fingertips touched the handle, he heard a roar. He turned around. A wall of icy water rushed toward him.

1
    Rappahannock River, Virginia, 2003
    Briggs Tanner awoke to scent of rain blowing through the open window. His first thought was coffee, which was quickly followed by first swim, then coffee. The exercise habit wasn’t entirely welcome this early in the morning—especially on this, his first day of a week’s vacation—but it was ingrained and he knew better than to fight it. There were worse habits, he knew.
    He sat up, placed his feet on the floor, and peeked out the window. On the horizon lay a dark line of squall clouds, their bottom edges feathered with falling rain. Below his window, a wooded embankment swept down to the cliff-enclosed cove over which his home—a vintage lighthouse he’d adopted from the Virginia