Read Chapter 2: The Man at Platform Nine

The platform reeked of coal smoke and damp wool. Marchand pressed through the crowd, scanning faces the way he'd once scanned ridgelines—for movement that didn't belong, for eyes that lingered too long.

The train to Paris stood hissing at Platform Nine, its iron belly already swallowing passengers. Third class, second carriage from the rear. That's where Orlov's compartment would be. That's where Marchand needed to be before the authorities finished whatever they were doing near the stationmaster's office.

He spotted the Austrian uniforms first—three of them, moving against the flow of travelers, their caps low and their hands close to their holsters. They weren't looking at the crowd. They were looking at a man standing alone near the baggage cart, clutching a small leather satchel to his chest like a shield.

Pavel Orlov was thinner than Marchand had expected. The photograph the stranger had shown him in the café had been five years old, a younger man with sharper cheekbones and brighter eyes. This version wore a wool overcoat that hung loose on his frame, its collar turned up against a cold that seemed to come from inside him. His fingers—long, pale, aristocratic—drummed against the satchel's clasp in a nervous rhythm.

The Austrians were thirty feet away and closing.

Marchand moved. He didn't run—running drew attention—but he walked with purpose, threading through a cluster of nuns and a porter hauling trunks, until he reached Orlov's side.

"Prince Orlov," he said, keeping his voice low. "Don't turn around. There are men coming for you."

Orlov's eyes went wide. His hand tightened on the satchel, knuckles whitening beneath the glove leather. "You're Marchand?"

"Your man in Vienna sent me. We need to board now."

"I was told to wait here until—"

"You were told that before they started watching the platform. Come."

Marchand grabbed the prince's elbow—firm, guiding—and steered him toward the second carriage. The satchel pressed between them, Orlov's other arm wrapped around it like a woman holding a newborn through a fire.

"Who are they?" Orlov whispered, his accent cutting sharp through the noise. "The men behind me—who?"

"I don't know yet. Doesn't matter. We move now."

They were ten feet from the carriage door when one of the Austrians called out.

"Orlov. Pavel Orlov. Stop."

The voice carried across the platform, flat and official. Marchand didn't stop. He shoved Orlov toward the door, where a conductor stood checking tickets, his face bored.

"Boarding now," Marchand said, pulling his own ticket from his pocket. "Two berths. Third class."

The conductor glanced at the tickets, then at the uniforms bearing down on them. Something flickered in his expression—fear, perhaps, or calculation. "These seats are taken. You'll need to—"

"The seats are mine," Marchand said. "Stamp them or step aside."

Behind them, boots on concrete. Heavy. Fast.

Orlov was trembling now, his breath coming in short gasps. Marchand could smell him—sweat and stale tobacco and something else. Fear. The prince had been running a long time.

"Please," Orlov whispered. "Don't let them take me."

The conductor's eyes went past Marchand, to the uniforms, and his mouth opened to speak.

Marchand didn't give him the chance.

He spun on his heel, colliding with the lead Austrian mid-stride. The impact sent the man stumbling backward into his companions, a tangle of wool and leather and shouted curses. Marchand followed it with his shoulder, driving into the second man's chest, feeling the crack of ribs beneath the uniform.

"Run!" he shouted at Orlov. "Second carriage, now!"

But the prince didn't run. He stood frozen, watching Marchand with wide eyes, clutching the satchel.

The third Austrian—a sergeant, judging by the stripes—was already drawing his weapon. Marchand saw the motion in his peripheral vision and reacted on instinct, years of muscle memory overriding thought. He caught the sergeant's wrist, twisted, and heard the pistol clatter to the platform. He drove his knee into the man's groin, dropped him, and turned.

The first Austrian was up again, blood streaming from his nose, his face a mask of fury. He lunged.

Marchand sidestepped and used the man's own momentum against him, slamming him into the carriage's iron step. The Austrian crumpled.

The platform had gone quiet. Passengers stared, frozen. The conductor had vanished.

And somewhere in the crowd—Marchand saw it now—a man in a bowler hat turned and walked away, unhurried, as if he'd seen everything he needed to see.

"Now," Marchand snarled, grabbing Orlov's arm. "Move."

They boarded the second carriage, Marchand shoving the prince ahead of him down the narrow corridor, past startled passengers peering out from their compartments. The train lurched—a warning bell sounded, then a whistle, long and shrill.

"Compartment seven," Marchand said, pushing Orlov through the door. He slammed it shut and shot the bolt.

Orlov collapsed onto the bench seat, the satchel clutched to his chest, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was shaking.

"They were going to kill me," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"They wanted to take you," Marchand corrected. "If they'd wanted you dead, you'd have been shot before I reached you."

The train shuddered, then began to move. Through the window, Marchand saw the three Austrians on the platform—one on his knees, one bent double, one staggering to his feet, pointing at the departing train and shouting at the stationmaster.

"They'll telegraph ahead," Marchand said, sliding onto the seat across from Orlov. "Every station between Vienna and Paris will be watching for us now."

The prince said nothing. He stared at his hands, at the satchel in his lap, at the leather cracked from years of use.

"You want to tell me what's in that bag?" Marchand asked.

Orlov looked up. His eyes were dark, haunted, the eyes of a man who hadn't slept properly in weeks. "Not yet. There are ears everywhere."

Marchand gestured at the thin walls of the third-class carriage. "These compartments are steel, and we're the only ones here. The corridor is empty. Whatever you're carrying, you're carrying it through six borders and a revolution that just ended. I need to know what the Austrians wanted with you."

"Money," Orlov said. Then, quieter: "Or the names of the men who took it."

The train picked up speed. Vienna fell away behind them, the city's smoke and spires shrinking into the grey winter morning.

Marchand watched the prince. Pavel Orlov looked like a man who had been chased too long and too far—who had stopped believing that any destination would be safe enough to stop running.

The satchel stayed on his lap.

And somewhere behind them, on a platform growing smaller and smaller, a man in a bowler hat was already reaching for the telephone.