Stop it, Mara; you’re getting paranoid now.
My temples were throbbing from the headache I was inflicting myself. This had been a long day. And now, upon reflection, I might use a drink or two.
"What would you do, Josie, if you were in my situation?" I mused, my eyes looking up of their own accord. “On second thought, never mind. I know.”
A drink with a hunk like him? Who needs to think it over?
“The thing, Josie, is that I am no longer a school girl that gets excited about every invitation, no matter how handsome the guy is. And I'm stuck with him. Right next door, on top of everything!”
The decor of the elegant bar-lounge car was straight out of a glamour thirties Art Deco magazine or book. Its sleek dark wooden panel and plush velvet zebra printed seats complemented the geometrical lines of an assortment of matching square foot stools spread along the central aisle. They could easily double as extra seats, perfect for mingling. The picture was completed by a baby grand piano near the elegant curved bar. A pianist played typical lounge favorites such as "As Time Goes By". Yep, I was standing in a technicolor extract from classical movies such as Casablanca. I scanned the room and concluded that I was miscast. I'd known people dressed up on these special occasions, even more so on the Orient-Express, but seriously?
I was half expecting to be overdressed with my black silk dress with a touch of rhinestone around the neckline. In fact, I was almost the only one appearing to hail from this millennium. There were about thirty people milling about or sitting in clusters, most of them couples. A few sat at the bar near the piano. All the women were wearing either vintage looking clothes or what looked like high end Roaring Twenties or Thirties type of dress. Large feathered headbands, sequins galore, swinging fringed hems and furs were creating a tapestry of sparkling texture. Mrs. Nosy Fox Stole even opted to smoke using one of those outrageous long cigarette holders. Men wore either tuxedos or dark suits with ties.
However, I must admit this journey was about reliving the luxurious style of a bygone era. At least, that’s what the publicity said. The hype surrounding this unique voyage had sold Josie on booking the full itinerary. She wasn’t alone to swoon for the Grande Dame of railways because as I made my way down the length of the fancy cocktail lounge, I caught a few bits of conversations suggesting that this train attracted not only train aficionados but also literary fans of the famous crime author.
Josie had been so looking forward to the upcoming gala in Istanbul, celebrating the departure station of Murder on the Orient-Express. A dozen personalities from the world of cinema and theater would be present to attend the glamorous event. Despite feeling like an outsider, I let the infectious atmosphere tame my misfit impression and focused on creating a mental image of Josie wearing the most outrageous golden flapper outfit and mingling about the room as if she was the queen of the party.
A chuckle escaped me. We were all a bunch of delusional romantics dressing up to make believe. Maybe they were trying to re-enact scenes I’d read earlier in the novel. I decided that I should make the best of this festive atmosphere which was resonating with the jolly sound of popping champagne corks. I grinned when my eyes fell on a particular passenger who had also bypassed the unspoken vintage dress code. He was getting up when he saw me arrive in the lounge car, a martini in his hand, and staring at me with unveiled appreciation.
His easy catty smile reminded me more of Sylvester, the cartoon cat, eyeing Tweety Bird rather than the Cheshire Cat. Maybe he was also planning to swallow the canary with an impromptu interrogation. The sparkle in his eye informed me he was set in a predator mode.
"I saved you a seat." He patted the overstuffed double seater sofa where he sat. "What would you like to drink?" he asked.
For no logical reason, an unwelcomed vision of a jailer offering a last drink to the prisoner before the execution crossed my mind. Get a grip, I scolded myself with a sigh. The man is only trying to do his job. The steward was leaning forward, with one eyebrow lifted waiting to take my cocktail order.
"A Kir Royal, please." Those popping corks had been the best form of advertisement for a champagne cocktail.
"But of course, my lady,” answered the eager white gloved young steward before striding off to the bar section.
"So Miss Ellington, I gather you are on this train for leisure? Did anyone approach you since you left New York to carry anything for them, no matter how insignificant?
“How do you know I live in New York?” My heart sped up, and tension straightened my spine as his question ignited my full attention.
Leaning over, he whispered with a conspiratorial tone and a fake smile, “It’s part of my job to gather as much information as possible while working on missions, especially if there’s a risk of a security breach or possible terrorist attack. Just a little while ago I received basic information concerning every passenger on this train.”
“Okay, but what does this all have to do with me? I received no illicit package to take along my journey.”
"I’m afraid I have bad news and proof to the contrary, Miss Ellington," he stated matter-of-factly, as if it should be obvious. “You are under scrutiny for involvement as an accessory with terrorists, whether or not you are a willing participant. In simple words, you were at the right time and the right place in all appearances.”
His words acted as a blow and I pushed back in my seat, instantly putting additional distance between us. The tension at the back of my neck and the goosebumps on my arms alerted me that as much as I would have liked to, I couldn’t dismiss what he told me, no matter how unreal it sounded. But past the initial sting of surprise, his insinuation outraged me and I was about to protest, but he lifted his hand as a peace offering.
“You need not worry; nobody is accusing you of anything yet.”
I expected a more subtle approach before he threw that kind of allegation at me. On the other hand, I’ll admit that I was intrigued to see where he was going with this approach. Readjusting my position on my seat, I donned my invisible armor and prepared for whatever was coming next.
“I have received the footage from the Victoria Station security cameras this morning, and willing or not, there is a chance someone planted a piece of equipment used for bombing on you or your luggage.”
He took out his cell phone and turned it on. This is not how I expected this cocktail hour to play out. Of course, the man was sexy as hell, but to be put on the spot like this was more than disconcerting. He leaned a couple of inches closer and held his muted iPhone to show me the security footage. Frozen in my seat, I remained speechless since he had piqued my curiosity to Defcon 1.
Chapter 5
August 25th, En route to Insbruck, VEOE, Lounge Car
It was a short black and white video, the kind you get from CCTV security cameras such as those found in shopping malls. This one showed the departure station from Platform No. 2 at Victoria Station. The footage was dated earlier today, and I saw myself running toward the registration desk near the Orient-Express.
"Keep your eyes on the man leaning on the column wearing the oversized coat and sunglasses," Steinfeld instructed.
The suspect, wearing a cap and a bandana loosely covering his nose, threw darting looks left and right. He was taking something out of his pocket, but it was impossible to identify the object. The size of his trench coat was too big for him, and the sunglasses were awkward, askew on his face and out of place in the bright station. After a brief screening of the crowd, he turned in my direction from his vantage position between Platforms 1 and 2. He walked at a swift pace before stopping about three feet from me. Then, after another quick survey of the area, he grabbed my left shoulder from behind and forcefully pulled me down. Next I was on the floor motionless. In the background, on Platform No.1, several people were running about covering their with their faces with their hands and arms.
Seeing the video only made the accident more odd. I still found it hard to believe.
/>
“But why would this man do this to me?” I asked half incredulous. “He didn’t even steal anything from my purse, because I double checked it.”
I lifted my head to find him scrutinizing me with keen eyes, analyzing me. His squinting suggested he was puzzled over my reaction. From the looks of it, the jury was still deliberating.
“Continue to watch,” he said.
The strange man was now bending over the spilled content of my purse. I couldn’t see with precision what he was doing due to the elevated point of view of the CCTV camera and also because of his open overcoat creating an opaque screen over his bent silhouette. His back was facing the camera. However, his hand moved with the speed of a prestidigitator. The next second, he got up and walked away at a brisk pace as if caught on fire. In a moment, he had vanished out of the range of the camera. The video ended with Steinfield approaching me.
The last image on the video became blurry. No, it wasn't the image. Rather, it was because of my trembling hand holding the device. Steinfield removed the iPhone I clenched in a white knuckles tight grip. My thoughts were running at a frantic pace like a hamster racing in his wheel.
I took another sip of my cocktail now that my mouth had turned dry. “So you think he might have planted me with some piece of equipment?”
“There is a strong possibility. Did you check your cell phone? Is it in working order?”
I took it out of my purse and turned it on. Worked fine. Maybe I should immediately go back to my cabin and run a thorough search through my luggage so we could both settle this situation.
“According to our intelligence sources, there is a good chance that Omar Ahmed Rachid established contact with you this morning at 10:30 AM. He most likely organized to use you as a mule.”
Wait, did he just refer to me as an ass?
“Mule?”
“Yes. Rachid uses contact as courier or what we call ‘mules’ to carry illicit equipment across the borders. This way, his involvement remains difficult to trace back since he is never present during any attacks except for Victoria Station. I received a reliable tip that he would be on location for once.”
He shook his head and let out a quick exhale. “Why he diverted from his usual modus operandi is hard to tell until I know more about the smuggled equipment in question.”
I had a hard time coming to terms with this revelation, although it had not yet been confirmed. As crazy as this whole story sounded, it might at least make more sense than my initial botched robbery theory. I guess that Steinfield must not have found me to be a willing accomplice to this terrorist. Otherwise, why would he put his cards on the table like this? However, he didn’t let me pound the fact further as he was already requesting my attention again.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
What? Although his tone had sounded light and casual, it still resonated like an accusation to me. He punctuated his statement with an index finger pointing at the iPhone he had left on the polished small table. His handsome face was expressing “Duh,” leaning forward on his seat as if satisfied that he’d cornered me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Omar Rachid. Better check your sources,” I said in a guarded tone. Ok, I’d had enough of this. I was getting up to leave, but before I could understand what was happening, he was standing in front of me, blocking my retreat.
“You are welcome to check all my luggage if you want, but if you ran a background check on me, you might have discovered that I’m not a criminal,” I said between clenched teeth, fighting to keep my voice down.
“I know,” he snickered. “You don’t even have a parking ticket to your name,” he admitted with an incredulous tone.
Was he laughing at me? The twinkle in his pupils told me so. My pulse jumped at the sight of his easy smile which could appear and disappear in a whim. His face had something of a boy-next-door quality on the surface, but it did not hide in the least the shrewd brain always on duty, assessing, calculating, judging. I had best not falter from this knowledge, or I could get hypnotized by the unusual leafy green deepness of his eyes and become enthralled by his sex appeal. I jolted when he continued.
“What were your precise plans when you took this train with your now missing companion traveller?” he ventured, slanting his eyes.
“There isn’t much to tell. I’m just taking a vacation. I was supposed to travel with a friend but she became… hmm, unavailable at the last minute.”
I wasn’t ready to face her ethereal unavailability and preferred to avoid further explanation at this point. Was I being immature and unrealistic? Maybe, but how could I let go of someone who had been my best friend since forever? I wanted to mourn her my way and at my own pace, and I didn’t want to discuss my state of mind with a total stranger.
“Actually, dealing with trains is a nice change from my daily job with airplanes,” I added to shift the subject.
“That’s right; you’re an air traffic controller.”
He took another gulp of his drink. “A good one, judging by the fact you received an award for preventing a major airline catastrophe involving several airplanes during the Delta 1087 crisis last year. Impressive.”
The glint in his eyes unsettled me. His report on me was more extensive that he had lead on. I couldn’t tell if he was proud for me or impressed by my skills. One thing was certain: he’d done his homework on me.
“I didn’t do it to impress,” I said, miffed that he knew so much about me. He was unaware I was almost fired for disrespect of procedures because it was the only way I could save the lives of so many people. Needless to say, my so-called heroine status had been under scrutiny ever since.
“What about you? Have you worked with the FBI and Interpol for long?” I lowered my voice while looking around to make sure no one was listening to our conversation in case he wished to keep his formal identity confidential.
Steinfield seemed to appreciate the attention as I saw the tip of his cheek coloring just a tad pink. He cleared his throat and adjusted his leather jacket, maybe ill at ease. He had not expected me to turn the tables on him.
“I’ve been working with the FBI for the last seven years and Interpol for six. After my basic military enlistment contract, I completed my degree in computer science and information and finally applied to work for the Bureau and became an FBI agent.”
“You didn’t like computer science?”
“Yes, but I wanted to do something involving crime fighting.”
“I understand. What about your family; do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“No,” he said with a curt tone. Did I hit a nerve? Was I being nosy? Were these normal topics of conversation with people you meet for the first time, or had this now become inappropriate nowadays?
He must have read my curious expression in response to the stiffness of his tone. For a moment, he assessed me as if deciding if he should elaborate. A brief frown crossed his handsome features as he rubbed the inside his jacket’s front lapel without seeming to realize it. Was he hiding a microphone? He finished his martini. Tension etched the corner of his eyes as if he was readying himself to pounce.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said, touching the earpiece he wore all the time. He got up and removed his leather jacket and put it on his armrest before leaving the car.
My eyes darted to the empty seat, attracted by a tiny shiny spot on the inside of his jacket. A small golden pin was fixed on the lining of the coat. Why would anybody wear a pin inside instead of the outside of the lapel? The worn-out gold tone of the pin looked etched with a faint black logo. This pin had a story, no doubt. Steinfield was standing out of the bar car by the connecting section car and had his back turned. On impulse, I snatched the jacket to examine its inside while pretending to fold it with excess care to get a good look at that pin he worked hard to kept out of sight.
The small round button seemed
to be a vintage collector’s item, judging by its rusty edge. Printed in the middle of the pin was the logo image of the famous superhero wing. The scratched inscription read “I’m a Batman Crime Fighter”.
My fingers, having touched the talisman, burned with the guilt of my indiscretion. I finished replacing the garment on its previous askew position back on the armrest. So Special CT FBI agent Drake Steinfield had a few quirks and secrets himself. Although it could have been easy to find his tiny good luck charm laughable, I was more curious than ever to know the story behind the pin. It must be very important to him, even though one had to agree that finding such an item on a grown man was peculiar if not embarrassing. My guess was that it must have had sentimental value. What else did he hide behind his professional facade? I couldn’t help but smile at the endearing little button.
He was back within two minutes and took a sip of the cool mineral water on the table after sitting down. His Bluetooth reminded me he was a man on a mission and that this was not a date. Maybe he didn’t want to let out personal information. But then again, maybe he had received bad news about his case and therefore it could affect me.
“Why were you smiling a moment ago?” he asked, cocking his head on the side.
Truth was not an option here. I crossed my legs and put an errant strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’m sure your mother must be very proud of what you are doing. Do you see her often? I mean, with all the traveling you must do for your assignments?” I asked before taking another sip of my champagne cocktail. The question seemed to hit a nerve because he grabbed a handful of shelled cashews, brought by our waiter earlier, and crushed them with his hand to extract the roasted nuts.
“I see her when I can. What about you, Miss Ellington? Do you still have your parents? Any brothers and sisters?”
Express Pursuit Page 4