The train departed with a smooth but slow start. As we began to roll out of the station, I spotted Mr. Jungle eyes through the window—his eyes indeed had a fascinating leafy green iridescence about them. He was in deep discussion with two police officers. He was touching his ear piece again to hear better since the station was noisy at this time of day. He pointed toward this train. The security staff turned to face my carriage. No, that's not it. They were looking ... at me. Why? I wish I had asked him his name. In hindsight, his attitude had seemed official, even if laid-back.
So what if this trip was off to a bad start? As we rolled out of the station, I was almost positive that my inauspicious start wouldn’t be the preview for the rest of trip. It might even turn out to be something funny to write about. I returned to my cabin and pulled my spring bound travel journal out of my carry-on and laid it on the seat beside me but left it there as I lacked inspiration to record my rocky start. My heart and eyes filled with a surge of sadness. It was a gift from Josie along with the Chanel purse she had given me on my last birthday in view of this trip. The metallic sound of the rolling wheels on the tracks gradually increased their rhythm. On Platform No. 1, now a fair distance away from my window, things appeared to have settled. The paramedics still helped a few people. I gathered that it was not some kind of major terrorist attack. Otherwise, I they would have surely evacuated the station. Still, had I not been afraid to miss my train, I would have liked to have gone there and offer help to the dozens of people who had been indisposed by the gas.
I reverted my eyes to the journal on the seat with its antique world map on the cover. Oh, Josie. My mind returned to that intensive care room three weeks ago.
***
"Mara, don’t you cancel the trip; it doesn’t make sense." Josie inhaled another ragged breath through her nasal tube. “I know the trip was my idea, but I really think you need to go on with our plan, now more than ever. Just imagine that I'll be there with you. Do it for me, Mara. Please.”
She had every type of tube coming in and out of her; oxygen tube, a drainage tube, a catheter, several intravenous lines, along with a cardiac monitor. She had sustained major internal injuries, and the prognosis was poor.
"Josie, come on. That’s ridiculous. I won't enjoy the trip if I'm mourn— if you're not there. You know me. I'm into planes and modernity, not slow trains crowded with fans of Agatha Christie novels."
"Listen, Mara, there is nothing much I can do at this point except think”—she paused for a moment to catch her breath—“and I think you need to take this trip. Can’t explain it, but you know what they say? It's not the destination that counts; it’s the journey.”
Josie was always good at manipulating me, and she managed to do it again despite being shattered by the accident.
"Ok. Ok. I'll do it,” I relented, defeated.
"You'd better. Now get out of here and start packing. I’ll phone you tonight,” she promised. She never called, but her mother did, with the heart-breaking news.
***
The outskirts of London were blurry when I realized I had been crying. Josie had been like a sister to me. Better than a sister, in fact. As a result of being eight years older, my sister Sylvia was hardly ever home when I was a kid. As soon as she graduated from college, she left to travel around the world, chasing scoops as a foreign correspondent for a well known TV news channel.
Josie, bless her soul, had helped me through thick and thin. She’d been my rock through the trials of adolescence and later with the challenges and perks of facing adulthood. Being a loner, I did not easily make friends so now that she was gone, who would I turn to?
My recent bad luck with my last relationship was a fiasco I had not foreseen. But then again, whenever I ended up being attracted to a man, either I had misread their intention or I was told I was too independent, which left me wondering what I did wrong. Repeatedly.
I took out my pocket edition of Murder on the Orient-Express by Agatha Christie. I had started to read it earlier on the plane. This was another promise I'd made to Josie after much pestering on her part. She was such a fan of the classic ‘Who done it’ book. I seldom had the patience to be at the mercy of authors who tease their captive readers into a guessing game until the last page.
But unlike me, Josie devoured those fiction pieces with an insatiable appetite. Actually, the whole trip idea had revolved around her love for this murder mystery novel. Ok, I'll admit it, I was also now curious to know what all the fuss was about.
***
During this time at Victoria station, Drake Steinfield, an FBI Counter-terrorist special agent working in association with Interpol, was in a heated phone discussion with his colleague and friend, Agent Jeff Thornhill. The latter worked at the Headquarters of Operations, an FBI International Office Division in New York.
"No, I’m still waiting for London’s forensics to analyze the tear gas grenade for fingerprints, but there is something else. Someone on Platform No. 2 may have deliberately thrown a woman on the ground to make it look like a robbery. She confirmed that none of her personal items were missing. The man was already too far away for me to attempt a pursuit, but something’s not adding up here.”
“You could have delegated,” said Jeff.
“No. I didn’t have time with the incident taking place on the next platform. Maybe it’s just a hunch, but could you get me a profile ASAP. Mara Ellington, about 27 years old, Caucasian. Likely unmarried. Educated, American accent. Booked Sleeping Car No. 3504; I got confirmation from the train master. I need maximum info on this passenger.”
“Where is she heading?” asked Jeff.
“Paris, Gare du Nord and Gare de l'Est. Notify the authorities along that route too. Increase security levels in both train stations. Ok, talk to you later," Drake said before hanging up.
He ran a nervous hand through his dark walnut colored hair, exasperated. He'd been planning this mission for eight months, and there was no excuse for any glitch to happen. But regardless of all the precautions Drake had taken since he’d been following the notorious Al-Qaeda Islamic extremist and his web of followers, the criminal escaped his vigilance. When will we nail this man and bring him to justice? In addition to being on top of the list of the most wanted terrorists in Europe and the United States, he kept evading his traps, despite the most elaborated plans to dismantle his organization. This failure to bring down Omar Ahmed Rachid had, in Drake’s eyes, discredited his other accomplishments as far as his other terrorist captures. The notorious man was his target, and he had managed, yet again, to slip right through his fingers.
Drake counted on this mission to advance his career and stop the activities of this criminal. How many lives were still in danger because he had failed to catch him? He didn't know if he was more angry at the elusive terrorist or at himself for losing his best chance to neutralize one of the most vicious leaders of an extremist Al Queda branch.
There was something amiss with this botched mission at Victoria Station, but a tear gas grenade and no bomb? That didn’t make sense unless his usual source had been wrong about Rachid intending to make his attack in this Station. He would not dwell on the twisted mind of Rachid, who was likely finding the irony of the situation more than amusing.
Rachid, as usual, ran a well-oiled organization. Drake’s instinct was telling him the tear gas grenade was just a diversion, but to what? The authorities still combed Victoria station in case he had left any bombing devices that had not yet been found. But then again, the eel was an astute plotter who liked to innovate with the way he conducted his attacks. But why the sloppy job this time? It made little sense.
His thoughts reverted to the petite strawberry blonde damsel in distress he had helped at the station. Her whole story about a clumsy tourist or a mugger who stole nothing from her remained in the back of his mind, making him uneasy. Ok, he had felt a strange connection when he helped her up. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she had an air of confidence, a
nd he had not been immune to her large blue-gray eyes and cute freckles. But still, that whole incident with her fall was drilling in the back of his head like a dentist’s tool.
Come on, Steinfield, don’t let a nice pair of legs and a hazy duo of striking liquid sapphires distract you, he scolded himself. When she stared at him with trusting eyes, his usual solid emotional guards had quivered for a fleeting moment. Maybe his problem was that he hadn't been around women for a while.
His last casual affair had ended over a year ago when he’d been on an extended mission in Syria. It finished on a sour note. He had no right to complain. Jamila had been kindhearted and accommodating, although he’d never made her promises regarding a serious relationship. Commitment never mixed well with the erratic lifestyle he led. What kind of woman would be interested in someone who seldom spent more than a few weeks in the same place? Most of his relationships never survived his constant traveling and unpredictable schedule. On the rare occasion that the lady was willing to stick around, he’d taken matters into his hands. Better to cut her loose to avoid useless suffering on her part. Her part, he repeated to make sure he didn’t confuse as to whose benefit the break-ups were intended for. This was the life he chose, with all its perks and drawbacks. But with ten years behind him as a special agent, he wasn't positive this lifestyle excited him anymore. He used to get off on the next chance to catch and destroy criminal organizations before they could do any damage. He’d vied for the occasion to nail his enemy, the man involved in the destruction of his family, once and for all.
With hindsight, he concluded that out of these ten years on the Counter-terrorist Force, he’d spent six living for the perfect opportunity to ferret out Rachid. But once he’d caught him, what would he do afterward? He was not ready to admit that past that point, he had given little thought about what he wanted to do. However, lately, he’d surprised himself envying his colleague Jeff’s life. The latter, on more than one occasion, bragged about the joy his family brought him. In response, most of the time, Drake made a smart remark about his friend’s too tamed lifestyle. But these past few months, for some inexplicable reason, his mind kept reverting to his partner’s often blissful facial expression whenever he talked about his wife and kids.
There was no point pounding on that question as long as his nemesis was alive and running free.
Chapter 2
August 25th, Outskirts of London, on the way to Folkestone, British Pullman, Car Phoenix, Midday
My earlier sprint across the train station had carved my appetite, and I rejoiced at the sight of the steward bringing in an enticing lunch. I’d left my New York loft over sixteen hours ago, and my stomach was grumbling with impatience. The smell and attractive arrangement of food and drinks on the tray brought out a feast for the senses. The savory meal included sparkling Bellini, smoked salmon, caviar, scrambled eggs and a fresh fruit salad. Things always appear brighter on a full belly.
After crossing the Thames with a deep rumble, the train gained speed and passed the Battersea Power Station. However, the scenery was not enough to distract me.
Too bad I didn’t meet Mr. Jungle Eyes under better circumstances. When I left him, I had caught a brief look of concern cross his face before he’d turned around to talk to the security officers at the station.
After lunch, the steward removed my tray and informed me that we would soon arrive at Folkestone West Station. From there, our group of passengers would transfer to an executive road coach to continue the trip to the Channel Tunnel. I was relieved that travelers on the Orient-Express no longer used the hovercraft to cross the channel. Its rough sea would have done a number on my full stomach. However, I couldn’t deny an odd feeling of uneasiness growing in the back of my mind. I had no reason to worry, did I?
Later, our group transferred onto the modern Eurostar high-speed train which would take us across the thirty-one miles rail tunnel linking Folkestone to Calais in France. It offered a clean, comfortable and smooth ride compared to the New York subway despite being full of tourists and businessmen and women. They wore a blasé expression as if they took a mere commuter train. In contrast, I was still in awe of this technological achievement. One might wonder how the battles between England and France would have played out if this tunnel had existed during their time of wars. Yep, I paid attention to my history classes back in college unlike Josie who was more interested in fictive stories. Since we were entering the thirty miles EuroChanel tunnel and would be surrounded by darkness for the next twenty minutes, I distracted myself with the news channel playing on the overhead TV monitors. They showed the latest headlines with muted subtexts. As usual, they were alarming.
“… alerting citizens to the risk of potential terrorist attacks throughout Europe. Authorities are reminding passengers not to leave their personal belongings unattended. Earlier this week, reports of increased agitation on the borders of Turkey…”
I didn’t care to read more.
My sister told me she was covering the conflict on the Turkish borders these days. I hoped she would stay safe and away from the most violent hostilities. I sent her a quick text, asking her to reply as soon as possible, just to let me know where she was and if she was all right. While I was at it, I figured I might as well send a quick message to my parents to let them know that I had not been injured in the gas bomb incident at Victoria Station. I was sure it would make the news and I didn’t want them to worry.
That’s why I don’t like watching the news. Most of the time it’s depressing, although with hindsight, the event at Victoria station might have been much worse. On the plus side, I met that hunk who seemed to work with the police or security force. By the way he spoke, after helping me up, I could tell this was not his first time around this kind of situation.
I focused instead on my journey. My travel plans could qualify as a masterpiece of efficiency to allow a maximum of discovery for each segment of the trip. After six months of planning every detail, I could pride myself on having come up with the perfect dream vacation, devoid of any mishaps or bad surprises.
I gathered my belongings as we approached our destination near Calais in France and took out my lip-gloss, my fingers brushing against a barely visible tear inside the lining of my bag. I applied the cherry flavor gloss on my dried lips, reflecting that Josie must have spent a fortune on this fashionable accessory. On second thought, even if it got dirty or more damaged, I wouldn’t part with it for anything in this world. She had insisted I bring it along for this trip instead of my usual practical black leather one. I caressed the crimson reptile skin of the Chanel purse with fondness. The silly girl could never resist indulging in a swanky handbag or designer pair of shoes. At least it wasn’t out of place among the stylish women who were parading brand name accessories around to show off their status or fashion sense. I couldn't care less for either. Josie had also loaned me some clothes for the occasion since we were about the same size. I wasn’t in the habit of dressing up like this as unlike Josie’s slavery to the latest fashion trends. For this trip, my wardrobe was meant to meet my objective, blend in as much as possible. I hoped I didn’t draw attention to myself anymore than I already had when I was pushed down in Victoria Station.
At two PM, we arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris by coach. I was glad to step off the bus to stretch my legs for a ten-minute walk to reach the nearby Gare de L’Est. The sky was now overcast, but the temperature was comfortable. Despite my fatigue, the stroll was lovely.
August’s humid fresh air filled my nose with the essences of Paris. I passed shops and cafes offering the best of publicity: the comforting aroma of warm buttered croissants, the tangy and sharp punch of Expresso mixed with suave whiffs of expensive perfumes worn by the women sitting at bistro terraces.
As I turned around to take a picture of the quaint scene, I caught sight of two young men elbowing each other while looking in my direction. Their insolent head to toe stare irritated me.
As I resume
d my walk to Gare de L’Est, someone tapped my shoulder. A young man approached me. His dark olive skin tone and springy blackish hair hinted he might be a foreigner visiting the city. He removed his backpack and pulled out some travel documents.
"Excuse me, Miss. Could you please help me?" He smiled, and before I could answer, he had opened a large local map under my nose. The twenty something back-packer looked no different from the hundreds of students tourists traveling across Europe who use their summer break to explore. I couldn’t place his guttural accent, but his engaging demeanor made him sympathetic at once, despite his somewhat rudeness.
"I go to Paris to this address." He chopped up each word carefully. “See?” he added after fishing a wallet out of his jeans pocket from which he pulled a card advertising Cafe Aouba, Paris. I had studied my itinerary from Gare du Nord to Gare de l’Est. However, I wasn’t familiar with the hundreds of coffee houses that must abound in this city. But even if I had been a local, this man had a problem.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your map is too old. See, the street names are too faded to read. I can't use this.”
Poor guy, he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere with such a worn-out map. I had spotted a small souvenir shop around the corner where I was positive he could fix this issue.
"You might—"
"Ok, no problem," he interrupted, folding his map back up with abrupt movements and preparing to take off, as if he didn't care to go to his cafe anymore. Extending his arm in the direction I was walking, he jutted his head forward.
Express Pursuit Page 2