Was he kidding? I’m sure he must already have all this information in his file, but I guess that maybe he thought my previous questions had been too personal. Maybe in my stupidity, it had brought up painful souvenirs for him.
“Yes, my father still works as a commercial airline pilot while my mother is thinking of retiring from her position as a flight attendant.”
His eyebrows lifted, and the gleam in his eyes informed me he also, like me, saw the stereotypical picture of the “stewardess-falling-for-the pilot” cheesy cliché. Yep, that was the truth. The bona fide all-inclusive package also featured a stewardess on the side in every airport. He was a frequent flyer with that option, I reflected with a sour note.
“I have only one sibling, my sister Sylvia, who is a foreign correspondent for CNN news channel.”
“You two are close?” He peered with genuine interest.
“Well, we don’t see each other often since she’s always on the move. I haven’t seen her for over two years, and I’m looking forward to connecting with her over the next few days.”
“I’ve observed you and noticed you’ve had limited social contacts with the other passengers. You’ve chatted little with any of them so far. Maybe you prefer to keep to yourself for a reason. I can tell when I am being lied to, and you did earlier when I asked you what you were smiling about.”
Just when I thought we were having a civil conversation he pulled this on me? I wouldn’t put up with his flimsy accusations. I got up to leave.
He was up in a flash, and parked himself in front of me, blocking my escape. His right hand reached out to me in a silent invitation.
What now? The people in the nearby seats were whispering while looking in our direction. The piano man shot his head up as if laughing at a personal joke or at us. With a joyful tone, he announced his next songs and special requests. Moments later, he sang “Sway” in his best Michael Bublé imitation.
My treacherous hand went to Steinfield’s extended one as if subjected to his animal magnetism.
“Come on, let’s dance,” he demanded without asking permission. His left hand snaked around my waist in a strange possessive manner. There was no dance floor and I would have reminded him when I caught sight of the honeymoon couple. They had just gotten up and were now swaying beside their seats.
My common sense should have told him to get lost, but despite my better judgment I let him lead me into a mixture of swaying and gliding.
“What are you thinking of, Miss Ellington?” he said in a new guttural sexy tone.
“I did not think you were the dancing type. Is this your attempt to emulate James Bond, or is this how the FBI trains their agents, to induce female suspects to confess?”
Throwing his head back, he surrendered to a spontaneous fit of laughter that sounded both heartfelt and musical to my ears. For a moment, a carefree Denis the Menace eclipsed Agent Steinfield. That laughing boy had been there all the time, waiting to come out underneath his tough professional surface. It is only now that I noticed that despite his devil-may-care aloofness, he was careful to keep this side of him off the pilot seat.
The honeymoon couple and two other revelers turned their heads, intrigued by what was so funny. Mrs. Nosy Fox Stole readjusted her loud designer glass on her inquisitive nose to spy us better.
I have never possessed a great sense of humor, but the way Steinfield relaxed with my comment made me proud and happy that I could elicit such glee. However, I wouldn’t let myself be distracted by a man who was a walking contradiction. Incredible, how he can threaten me by saying he has proof and invite me to dance at the same time? He must have noticed that I intended to leave and was shrewd enough to take the most civilized way to prevent it.
He was unpredictable and far too handsome for my own good, which made him dangerous. His gun was a tame threat compared to his predatory grace and deadly smile. I’d better be on my guard and teach him right away I had no intention to succumb to his manipulations.
As if he could read my inner admission to the way he was affecting me, his hand pulled me closer with a slow but determined pressure. I caught another whiff of his woodsy scent. This odor befitted his animal charm. His pheromones were messing with my gray cells, and I found myself drawn to him as to a warm fluffy blanket on a cold winter night. The earthly aroma reminded me of moss after the rain mixed with the exotic scent of cedar. As a kid, I loved to open the creaky door of my grandmother’s cedar closet and bury my nose into her fur coats.
When the next song started, I made a move to leave his arms, but he ignored the message and applied added pressure on my back, forcing me to bask a few seconds longer in his masculine scent. I lifted my nose up to object and was met by his cocky smile. Focus, Mara, he is toying with you, I reminded myself. Despite the fact that the dancing was pleasant, I had no intention of letting his self-confidence and easy charm get to me. So maybe it was time I reminded him that he’d been keeping me tense and on my toes ever since we met. I would show him how it felt. Literally. With a forced angelic smile, I pretended to miss a step to teach him a lesson.
“I think you need a refill,” he said and escorted me back to my seat before heading to the bar a mere six steps away.
I immediately missed the warmth of his hand on my back. It had been long since a man behaved with such gallantry around me. At the Control Tower, my working buddies, most of them graded army men, treated me with respect, but their deference merely extended to ordering me a beer at the local bar at the end of our rotation. These small courteous gestures were outdated nowadays. Not that I was an expert on the subject, but still, it was unfortunate.
He was back with another Kir Royal for me and a glass of clear liquid for himself. Vodka or water? Remorse for his stomped feet brought me to the conclusion that I’d been acting like a spoiled brat. Sobered up, I looked up into the depth of his greens. Better put my cards on the table or else I’d get distracted by the sly grin lifting the corner of his lips.
“How can you insinuate that I may have had something to do with a terrorist one minute and ask me to dance, I mean, force me to dance, the next minute? Don’t you have any —” I took a small sip.
“Common sense?” he interrupted, chuckling. “Well, I’ve been told it’s kind of flaky sometimes,” he admitted with his killer smile.
I shook my head with amusement. He was downright insane.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“For what?”
He stepped closer, putting a hand on my shoulder, “A luggage search.”
***
The cabin's intimate size felt like my own private cocoon, ideal to rest the scattered mess of my thoughts which, at the moment, strayed in every direction. The small shaded lamp spread a soft golden glow in the quiet room. The cozy space provided a welcomed solace but one I would not benefit until we’d be through with the search.
He’d followed me to my cabin, and I turned on all the lights available for the occasion, which included those lodged behind the panels holding the vanity nook. As a last step, he opened the partition door between our cabin to give us more room.
“Now, let’s see if we can find any stow away item,” he said with false enthusiasm.
I didn’t care for his humor but appreciated that he tried to relax the atmosphere.
First, I handed him my carry-on which I had kept on the overhead brass luggage rack. He unzipped it, and without ceremony, toppled it over on the seat of my cabin. The content scattered on the upholstered fabric. A few additional shakes to the bag ensured that everything was out.
I turned on my iPhone flashlight and offered it to him.
“Good idea, but you hold it,” he said.
I stood beside him to examine my bundle with attentive care.
“Let’s be systematic. You can provide the additional light while I inspect each item.”
“Roger.”
He started with the bag itself. Ensuring that the zipped areas we
re devoid of their contents, I took the flashlight to help him see each pockets and compartments. Next, he inserted a hand inside each pocket to verify that nothing was stuck to them. Empty. The bag was in order and had sustained no damage or visible tampering.
Next, we examined the scattered items. The sleep wear, vest, black skirt, printed top and toiletries bag. All articles received a thorough inspection, including a manipulation, shaking and turning each piece of cloth inside out. Once he was convinced that everything was correct and intact, I put them back in the bag. Finally, he brushed a hand over the seat to feel for anything small that might have fallen out while we were searching.
A light tap on my door startled me. I got up and opened the door only a crack. Mrs. Nosy Fox Stole was standing less than a foot away outside as if she’d been listening at the door.
“I am sorry to disturb you, my dear, but I heard something falling and wanted to make sure you are all right.” She was looking past me trying to get a better view inside.
“I’m fine. Everything’s all right. Thank you.” I gave her a tight smile and was about to close the door, but she continued.
“That’s lovely. Since we are next-door neighbour, I was wondering if you needed help?” Now she was even cranking her neck up to see over my head.
“No. Thanks, I’m fine. Good night.” And good riddance.
“You know she didn’t buy your act for a second, do you?” he said when I turned back to face him after closing the door.
“Well, it’s not like I was going to open the door and have her see you and think the worse. Let’s continue.”
Ok, I’m sure we did not make much of a racket, so I’ll bet she just found any excuse to poke her nosy head in here.
He had already thrown my purses’s content on the seat. The inventory seemed correct. The Channel bag, being smaller than my carry-on and containing small pockets and zipped sections, was more difficult to search.
He grabbed the purse to examine it, and I joined him as if assisting a surgeon with my flashlight during his delicate operation.
He turned it upside down and gave it a good shake in case any items had remained stuck inside. Nothing much came out, save a small candy wrapper I had omitted to discard. The bag was overall intact except for a few scratches on the lining. Everything seemed in order, and the outside texture of the reptilian skin was taut and undamaged.
I smiled, remembering when Josie had gifted me the bright red crocodile. With hindsight, I think she might have bought it for her own benefit. She kept whining about my choice of handbags.
“Mara, you can’t travel on the Orient-Express with that old beat up black, hand-me-down horror you call a purse!” she complained.
This was not the first time she’d accused me of ruining her style. Regardless, as usual, we just ended up laughing about our different fashion senses.
“Are you sure there is nothing missing or is additional?” he asked once the search was over and all the items had been put back in their place.
“Positive. Everything is accounted for. Does this mean you were wrong about me being a carrier?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, slanting his eyes at me.
Did he not believe in my innocence after this search or was he rather frustrated with the result?
He turned and took two steps to go turn off his lights in his cabin, then came back to my side. After closing the partition door, he shifted back to me.
“Let’s go eat. I’m starving,” he said, bringing a hand to my back to escort me out to one of the restaurant car as if this was a date or something. Instead of swatting it off, my need for his false but reassuring warmth guided me to our next destination.
The singular atmosphere of this train had the uncanny power of transforming the most worrisome situation into an exciting adventure.
Chapter 6
August 25th, En route to Innsbruck, VSOE, Restaurant L’Étoile du Nord, Dinnertime
The restaurant car, L’Étoile du Nord, is one of the three available on board. It was large enough to accommodate about forty people. Its panels, sporting delicate inserts of inlaid woodwork, echoed the fresh bouquets of red roses gracing each table. As we entered, the soft notes of string concertos provided a classy background of music. The general buzz of conversation, highlighted by the cling clang of cutlery, porcelains plates and crystal glassware, made an interesting jazzy improvisation piece. In the air, aromas of roasted meat and spices from the appetizing dishes being served floated with delight around us.
The silvered lacquered haired maître d’ escorted us at a brisk pace to a table. Once seated in the plush armchair, I became nervous at the thought of continuing the conversation with my unexpected dinner partner. He inspected the menu while licking his chops like a lion in anticipation of a good kill. In all appearances, for him, this was business as usual.
I took the wine list and pretended to peruse through it. He was studying me now, not the menu. I felt heat rise to my cheeks without me being able to do a damn thing to stop it. Yes, a red one from Francis Ford Coppola Winery should suit my internal drama very well. Soon, the steward poured us a glass of the “Director’s Cut” merlot with its sexy aroma of ripe plums and black cherries. It warmed my palate with its vanilla and pepper finale. Everyone around was chatting in joyful animated conversation. It was almost like watching a movie but from the inside. I’d become a mere spectator to a scene to which I could not take an active part in. The silence of the man sitting in front of me was giving me the creeps like an icy current, counteracting the effect of the exquisite wine. My napkin slid to the floor for the second time, and I reached to catch it, but he was faster than me. I thanked him with a curt tone. His face held a mix of amusement and questions. Bet he noticed I’d been fidgeting on my seat.
After taking another large gulp to calm my restlessness, I took a deep breath and dived in the core of the subject.
"Mr. Steinfield, I think it's about time you tell me more about what you are investigating on this train."
"As I’ve told you earlier, I'm a special FBI agent affiliated with the Interpol division of Counter-terrorism. Normally, the United States doesn’t get involved in these types of international missions, but in this case, the activities of this terrorist group is of the utmost interest for our homeland security agency.”
Well, I guess that this information was not top secret. Otherwise, why would he tell me about this? Maybe he trusted me up to a certain point. More curious than ever, I encouraged him to continue.
“And?”
“I volunteered for this mission since I've been following with a close eye one of the group’s leader operations—Omar Ahmed Rachid—for the last six years," he explained.
“And you are expecting me to eat a good dinner while the safety of this train or these passengers may be in jeopardy?”
He didn’t answer. Just as I was about to pound on his silence, he continued.
“Miss Ellington, there’s something else I want to show you. Just pay attention for a minute,” he added, an edge of condescension in his voice.
The waiter interrupted us to take our orders for dinner. Once gone, Steinfield continued.
“I’d like to know if you recognize this man.” He took out his iPhone once again.
The screen showed a page entitled "Most Wanted Terrorist". The heading featured three round FBI logos. Below the headlines were three mug shots of a man. They were of such poor quality and grainy that the face features were hard to distinguish. They accused him of the murder of US citizens outside the United States, conspiracy of murder, terrorist attack, bombing of a federal facility and public areas resulting in death. Under the picture was printed a short description of the man, reward and caution which read: “Omar Ahmed Rachid, specializes in using mules to smuggle equipment for terrorist attacks and bombing”. A sour taste of bile burned my throat as the man wearing a turban on the mug shot looked at me with beady piercing eyes. He must have been
in his late sixties, and his bushy eyebrows and gray bear covered a good part of his face.
"So you think this man is the one who knocked me down in London's Victoria Station and that he passed me some bombing equipment?"
"There’s a strong possibility. Someone used the tear gas grenade to create a distraction,” he said, all serious now.
"You think this man, Rachid, is also responsible for the gas bomb in London? Because he wore a bandana and sunglasses, I had been unable to see the man’s entire face. I mean, I was half knocked unconscious from that fall, and he had already left when I could focus enough to call after him," I said with a defensive tone. The awkward scene replayed in my mind as I tried to match the man at the station with the mug shot. In all honesty, I couldn't say whether he was the same.
My voice sounded more shaky than I expected, considering I was, after all, an innocent victim to this whole bizarre incident.
“I suspect that Rachid will make his demands soon, but one thing is for sure: the man who knocked you down and the one who dropped the tear gas must be the same because the two incidents are too coincidental and happened only about fifty feet of each other. Did he say anything to you?" he persisted.
"No. He never stopped running. If that was the same man, the coincidence is hard to believe.” Lost in my wish to remember the short-lived event, I had missed an important detail. “You were there. You came to help me up," I reminded him.
“Unfortunately, he had disappeared in the crowd, and back then, my attention was centered on Platform 1.”
The waiter returned with Steinfield’s clam chowder and my chicken consommé.
“Why do you think he picked me?”
“I cannot say at this point," he grumbled in frustration. He cocked his head, as if reviewing possible explanations he was not willing to share. I could see the wheels turning behind those emerald eyes, which caused me to shift gears and go into full alert.
“Don’t you think one of Rachid’s team members may follow me to retrieve what they planted in my luggage?” But then I remembered something else. “I won’t be able to get to my main luggage before Venice.”
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