“Miss, you going to take the Orient-Express train, right?"
"Yes, how did you know?" I asked, perplexed. He had a sphinx-like smile, and instead of answering my question, he turned away chanting, "There will be murders by the Orient-Express."
What an odd thing to say. I was about to call him back to demand an explanation when the reason dawned on me. I had been carrying the book in my hand when I had gotten off the coach.
Anyway, the backpacker, not possessing an adequate knowledge of English, had probably made a simple grammatical error saying Murder by the Orient-Express. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Nevertheless, it created another small dent on my level of excitement. I had to admit, traveling on that train with this book was a sure way to stimulate conversation, if nothing else. My best friend knew all too well how ill at ease I was at starting conversations, even more so with people I met for the first time. Of course, if you give me a specific topic, I’m capable of sharing my two cents if I can contribute valid points to the conversation. But small talk? No, not for me. Well, today was my second encounter with very peculiar men. Was it me or were people weird today?
Chapter 3
August 25th, France, Calais: Continental VSOE, LX Sleeping Car No.3504, Two Hours Later
The regal Venice-Simplon-Orient-Express waited on its departure platform in all its gleaming glory. The vintage blue-and-gold Wagons-Lits sleeping cars looked every bit as dreamy as depicted in the movies. A classic beauty from the 1920s, she contrasted against the aggressive bright colors and streamline figures of the more contemporary trains. Unbaffled by her own anachronism, the old lady glowed with confident pride among the more modern trains. If I was to travel 19th century style for the next two weeks, I'd better get used to it right away. The short ride on the British Pullman Phoenix car had been more than pleasant, but would I ever get used to this slow mode of transportation?
Josie and I had decided to splurge on what we called, our “Ultimate Orient-Express Adventure”. She even chose this compartment because it was used for the 1974 movie. At great expense, I might add, even if I could afford it with my well-paid job and the fact that we’d been saving for it for two years.
To be honest, I'd never visited Europe, so traveling this way was bound to be interesting at least. I’ll admit that it’s rather pathetic that I stayed cooped up over forty hours a week in an airport and seldom went anywhere except the odd all inclusive beach resort. It will also be a nice change from dealing with aircrafts. I guess that in my case, I'm so used to imagining distance in terms of dots on screens and radars that it has somehow lost its humanity. I assumed there are train controllers on duty to avoid mishaps. I wondered how many collisions or derailments are caused by terrorist attacks compared to highjacked flights.
The early evening sky offered wonderful hues of pinks and oranges as if one had unfolded a silk scarf over a sea of blues. As in London, the passengers of the Venice-Simplon-Orient-Express were greeted by stewards ushering them to their respective private cabin for the continuation of their trip. Uber chic polished wood also decorated my assigned cabin. Josie would have liked the iron cast rack adorned with a lilies pattern which the designers had also repeated in the marquetry woodwork. Even though I had never been on one, it reminded me of the luxurious cabins of the grand ocean liner era. However, contrary to the ocean, the rhythmic sound of the wheel on the rails promised to lull me to sleep like a baby. After over sixteen hours of traveling, I hoped I didn’t look like a half dead corpse in front of my fellow travelers.
I had better freshen up and change since the skirt of my tailored suit had ripped and was now ruined. I would have liked to have changed it earlier but never got the chance. What a relief to relax and forget about a tight schedule for a while. The cabin, although appointed with rich amenities, was nevertheless small, measuring about five by seven feet including the sofa bed. A set of ornamented curved panels attracted my attention with their intricate marquetry depicting a bouquet of sunflowers. Upon further inspection, I opened them to discover a hidden washbasin with lavender soap, fluffy towels and a three-panel mirror. The little lit alcove could pass for a mini 1930s starlet dressing room.
Greta Garbo never had it so good. I wondered if they had similar facilities on the Titanic. The website mentioned that the train offered public lavatories within each car but no showers.
With a touch of sadness, I thought how I missed sharing the glee and excitement of this first leg of our journey with Josie. The trip would be much different without her. The travel consultant at Alssa Far Agency had warned her against waving off the cancellation insurance for this trip. Josie had assured me that she would not miss this trip for anything in the world. I had to argue that it was better to be safe than sorry. Anyway, one should always strive to find a positive side to even the worst scenarios. Therefore, I may as well enjoy more space since the adjoining cabin was paid for. These sleeping cars should have come with an instruction manual because I was pulling and pushing against the latch of the inter-connecting door that separated my compartment from Josie’s. After rattling it for another second, I located a small latch.
After a moment, the door opened to expose a similar space containing the back of a man shaving! He was naked except for the towel fastened loosely on his narrow hips. In a blink, his sculptured muscular torso spun around to face me. I gasped, seeing what he held in his hands.
"Freeze!" he ordered.
As if I’d received a shock, a rush of adrenaline surged through my veins at lightning speed. My perspective shrunk into the proverbial tunnel vision as I zeroed in on another type of tunnel; the barrel of his gun. Blood swooshed with a pounding pressure in my temples as the staccato of my heart rate threatened me with arrhythmia. My lungs, frozen in mid-breath, burned from the strain. Strangled sounds escaped my throat, producing a long deformed scream.
In surreal slow motion, time itself granted me the leisure to meditate on a single question. Was this my last second to live?
Two seconds later, the hands holding the gun engaged the safety latch on it before putting it away. No longer at the door of an imminent death, I looked up into the pair of eyes narrowing at me. With a jolt, my vision widened, crashing me into the full consciousnesses of my predicament.
"You!” My voice sounded foreign.
There he was in the flesh, Mr. Jungle eyes.
"What are you doing in Josie's cabin?" My hands lowered after they’d gone up in a gesture of universal surrender.
He returned the weapon into the holster resting on his washbasin with quick, precise movements.
“Just an automatic reaction. Don't take it personally,” he apologized as if I shouldn't make a big deal of having a gun pointed at my face.
“It was the only unoccupied cabin, so you'll need to put up with me as your neighbour." He smirked with a cocky glint in his eyes.
I reached out to push the call button to summon the steward. I had not yet touched it when his large hand encircled my wrist, stopping my movement.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he threatened, standing too close.
I noticed he wore a light woodsy musk cologne. My goal, which was to get help, was being impeded by his closeness for reasons I couldn't fathom. He wasn’t even applying a painful pressure on my wrist, so what was wrong with me? Push the button, Mara, and do what you’ve set out to do, I chastised myself for my uncharacteristic hesitant behavior.
"Listen—” I turned to face him and regretted it. There was only a few inches between our faces.
“Steinfield. Drake Steinfield," he said with an icy tone.
“Sir, you have no right to be here because this cabin has been paid for, and consider yourself lucky I don’t press charges for you swinging your gun in my face. Now let go of me or else I’ll have you arrested for assault, and..." I couldn’t believe it. If this man thought he was going to park his landing gear on my tarmac, he was in for a surprise. I’m no doormat. And how did he get onboard so
fast? Did he fly from London?
He was now flashing me a grin. Distracted for only a second by handsome face, I resized myself. His tactic wouldn’t work with me.
"Mr. Steinfield, let go of my wrist or I will call the train master to inform him that you are molesting a passenger.” But then, as I recalled my first meeting with him in London, something struck me as peculiar.
“You never mentioned you were taking this train in London," I stated, taken by a sudden bout of suspicion.
He let go of my wrist with deliberate sluggishness. I guess he expected me to take him seriously. Let's not antagonize him. After all, he is armed.
"Miss Ellington.” He lifted a finger up and turned around to retrieve something in the leather jacket he’d left on his seat. Next, he popped open an ID badge holder for my benefit. I examined the card on the right side. So, he worked as an FBI Counter-terrorist agent, special international force and on the left side was a similar Interpol identification with his name.
“What’s going on?” I asked, getting alarmed.
He flipped the badge’s holder closed and tossed it on his seat with a hint of a smile.
“How about we share a drink? It would give me more time to explain my presence onboard,” he edged with an inquisitive expression.
Was he for real? Who did he think he was? James Bond?
"Do I have a choice?"
"I'm afraid not," he pointed out, all trace of humor gone from his voice. "Be ready in thirty minutes," he added before slamming the interconnecting door between us.
August 25th, Outskirts of Paris, VSOE, Adjoining cabin to 3504
Shit! He hissed between his teeth once the partition door was closed and locked. You blew it. Pulling your gun to her face? What am I? A rookie?
Drake had to admit he’d been more uptight than usual these last forty-eight hours. After six years of trying to dismantle Omar Ahmed Rachid’s organization, he was now in the best position to catch the notorious terrorist. He could almost taste it. The aging leader’s faction was one of the many branches who acted in sync with other factions such as AlQueda, a household name since the 9/11 event in New York. Nevertheless, the senior leader remained invisible since they never caught him being directly implicated in any of his coups. Using over 15,000 recruits all over the globe, he was a tough man to nail. The FBI didn’t even have a decent picture of him on file.
Drake’s determination to bring Rachid to justice had not weakened although he would admit being less optimistic than when he’d first decided to catch him, six years ago. The latter was known for his use of mules, as FBI likes to call them. The mules comprised high paid trained smugglers, who carried illegal objects which would later be assembled at another destination. These items were used to fabricate bombs, explosive devices or even detonators.
Two days ago, a reliable source had informed him that Rachid's group was plotting another attack. Apparently, the leader was more than confident in the success of this specific mission. He’d planned his scheme to strike at 10:30 AM at London’s Victoria Station on Platform No. 2. So far, the attack had turned out to be a meager can of tear gas. Nothing for Rachid to brag about, so either something else was about to happen soon at Victoria Station or his plans had failed. In the meantime, he would follow his lead, that unsuspecting tourist next door.
He had received his requested profile on her earlier today. The thing was that she didn’t fit the type of people Rachid’s organization were in the habit of recruiting.
But that’s beside the point, he reminded himself. He must keep his emotions in check. Right now, they threatened to get in the way of his rational thought process. He had no choice but to acknowledge this new and foreign state of mind. However, there was no room for second guessing in his business. The problem was that Mara Ellington was bothering him. The last thing he wanted was to create a general panic on board. He would prove to the Bureau that this was not a wild goose chase and he will catch this criminal on the Most Wanted Terrorist list. In the meantime, he must thread with precaution and run his investigation under the DuPont Company’s strict orders. They operated the VSOE and would not risk the reputation of the famous train or illicit a buzz aboard with the passengers unless there was undeniable proof requiring their collaboration. He was already lucky to have gained access on board because of his affiliated status with Interpol and the absence of the mysterious Josiane Helen Goodrich.
Tapping his jacket pockets and not finding what he wanted, he reached for his pants on the seat and stuck a hand in its front pocket to retrieve his favorite stress reliever. Next, he gave the match box size container two shakes to hear the happy sound of its content jiggling around.
Even if it was a reflex embedded by many years of working in the force, he shouldn’t have behaved like a cowboy by pointing his Glock 22 in her face. Conversely, he'd been through too many surprise attacks and knew one could never be too prepared. As a result, his gun was always within arm's reach, no matter what he was doing.
However, her brief deer in the headlights expression haunted him as if it had touched something deep inside him. The woman had kept a modicum of control while facing danger. Despite her best intentions, she’d failed to hide her inner terror, judging by the brief strangled scream that escaped her pretty shaped lips. For a fraction of a second, her magnetic blue eyes had grown like golf balls with fear before her face regained its composure. But then, drained of its blood, her perfectly sculpted features had turned from a healthy pink complexion into a corpse’s alabaster.
For him, time stood still while he’d lost himself in the raw vulnerability of her blue gray eyes. Her mouth had quivered before she spoke while the slender curves of her body had frozen in place. For a second, she’d been overtaken by tremors, even after he’d put his gun away. This opinionated female didn't want to let a life-threatening situation dismount her countenance. He admired her for that.
Was there a chance her being at this exact spot at this precise moment had been only the result of a fluke? So far there was no reason to doubt the information he’d received from his source, but he doubted they involved her with her consent.
She certainly had spunk, thought Drake while finishing to shave. He’s been up the last thirty-six hours and didn’t expect this turn of events. As the head the tactic division, he had priceless expertise and unique talents. Because he was a seasoned specialist on serial bombing and mule detection, and had an unparalleled knowledge on how Rachid operated, the CT Office had deemed him the best man for the job. By the same token, he was glad to kill two birds with one stone and stop any new technology from spreading among the extremist groups associated with ISIS. As a bonus, he had a rare chance to catch his nemesis. His reports showed that he might use the latest technology in bombing, which was also sought by several other terrorist groups, most of them part of Al-Queda.
When he had arrived at Victoria Station, all his attention had been focused on the gas bomb issue on Platform No. 1.When he realized that it had been a means of distraction, it was too late to run after the suspect who had pushed Ellington down.
There was no denying that she knew how to handle herself in a sticky predicament. Her sharp mind and acting skill were irreproachable. Drake preferred not to let himself remember how her cloudy blue eyes sped up his pulse. Neither did he care to dwell on how her sensuous crystalline voice resonated with feminine yet commanding control. When he helped her off the floor at the train station, he experienced an unusual current of electricity flashing throughout his body. It was as if the contact of her delicate curves when he held her even for a moment in his arms had unsettled something in him. Something he could not understand. Wouldn’t want to either. Maybe it was just a reaction to the intense anticipation of being able to catch Omar or perhaps the mere distortions of his sleep deprived brain.
Was there any possibility, even if remote, that the stranger who had knocked her down was a pickpocket or had it been indeed a ploy to hide other motives, some o
ther actions. Could she have anything to do with the planned attack? Although her behavior appeared genuine and believable, he could not completely dismiss the odd event. Anyway, he intended to discuss the situation with discretion over a nice cocktail because right now she may be his only lead to another sick machination of Rachid. Well versed in interrogation procedures, he could play with them like a virtuoso to get information. It was clear that Miss Ellington had no idea who she was dealing with, that is, if she was hiding anything.
Chapter 4
August 25th, Outskirts of Paris, VSOE, Cabin 3504, Midday.
A few minutes later, I was brushing my straight reddish blond hair with fast and brutal strokes. I could never convince myself to use those fancy products which promised to cut time from your morning routine. How many times had Josie praised my extra fine hair, similar to a “Balinese cat’s fur”. All I knew was that it was a recipe for tangles and that I had no patience with it. Anyway, why would anyone care about my hairdo? Pulled up in a tight bundle, it could hide a few leftover tangles. No male colleagues of mine would ever have noticed, that’s for sure.
Oh, but why am I so fidgety? This is not a dinner date; this a convenient meeting. To make matters worse, the zipper of my dress was giving me attitude by refusing to go up. I’d already ripped one skirt so I needed to ease up and relax before I damaged another garment. Once dressed, I finished preparing myself and dabbled a touch of foundation makeup on my wretched and permanent juvenile freckles. The woman I saw in the mirror stared back at me with a deadpan mug shot expression.
I couldn’t help but worry about his presence on board for other reasons. First, because he was armed and second, because I supposed that he must be running an investigation on board. Although, shouldn’t he be searching for the gas bomber in London instead of on this train? Did this mean that the passengers of this train were in danger? His invitation for a cocktail, under the current circumstances, seemed weird unless he had ulterior motives than having my company. Perhaps he thought I had something to do with Victoria Station’s events of this morning.
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