Express Pursuit

by Caroline Beauregard

  “Wait here and don’t move,” he said, marching off down the street in the direction of the canal’s current.

  The couple had put the restless child down but kept a secure hold on him since he still looked keen on jumping into the canal. His father was kneeling in front of him.

  “We’ll buy you another one from the same store when we’ll get home, I promise,” he professed.

  “Nooooo, I want Teddy!” He half choked between two wails.

  I was still standing a few feet away but could hear all their conversation. I snorted. That argument never works with kids. His mother was now coaxing him to calm down with the promise of a gelato at Piazza San Marco. As a result, the toddler threw himself on the ground and went into full tantrum mode.

  I decided that since I must appear like an impolite eaves-dropper, I might as well try to help the poor parents.

  After nodding to the mother with a sympathetic smile, I crouched down beside the tear drenched boy.

  “Hi. What’s your name?”

  “Tom, Tommy,” he stuttered between two hiccups.

  “My name is Mara. What’s the name of your Teddy bear?”

  “Dudley.” He sat up wiping his tear with the back of his hand.

  He must have been three years old.

  I asked for fun if his parents had a picture of him and Dudley, so we could alert the police, I informed the child, with as much seriousness as possible. He looked at me, a startled look followed by a gleam of hope in his striking blue eyes. Perhaps I was on the right track, so I pursued with the same approach.

  “Could you describe him for me because, you know, Dudley’s like a missing person. I must make sure we have a good description, in case we find him.

  The boy scrunched up his little nose, frowning. He couldn’t talk fast enough to give me an elaborate portrait in minute details of his bear. While the parents were glad I provided a diversion, they also looked at me, not too sure if I was a godsend or a flakey head. Regardless, they played along with my instructions; they got busy searching for a photo on their cell phones while I continued my conversation with the calmer boy.

  “So Tommy, tell me about the most amazing adventures you and Dudley shared ,” I offered when he ran out of steam with his description of the item. I darted a furtive glance at my watch.

  Drake had been gone ten minutes.

  The sound of a clamor of laughter and cheers resonated with increasing volume up ahead down the street. Curious, I turned around. The oncoming scene was nothing less than unbelievable. A parade of tourists, most of them busy taking pictures and making videos, were circling an approaching Drake. The latter was brandishing, like a sword, a broom with its bristles facing up. Tied to the bristle was a butcher’s fork which speared the dripping teddy bear.

  Drake, a comical rictus on his lips, seemed less than thrilled by the attention. The unwelcome cheering of his fans, for his bizarre heroic rescue, was putting him ill at ease, judging by his expression. However, when he arrived at the level of the mesmerized toddler, his annoyed and bored expression softened.

  After untying the wet trophy and giving it a few squeezes to stop the dripping, he handed over the beloved wet friend to the mother. The boy’s mouth gaped open as his eyes gawked in total adoration at the sight of his new hero. Superman himself could not have made a bigger impression on the boy.

  Tommy pulled the wet toy from his mother arms and with his dirty soaked bear clutched in his arms, he threw himself at Drake’s standing figure, encircling his legs with silent devotion. Drake’s expression soured a second, likely from wetness soaking his pants. The parents beamed with gratitude.

  “Sir, whoever you are, we can’t thank you enough for what you did,” said the father while putting a hand in his pocket. But before he could take out his wallet, Drake lifted his hand up, gesturing for him to stop his motion.

  “Hmm, it’s fine. I was glad to help. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to go,” he said with a gruff voice and turned to me. I couldn’t help but smile at the embarrassed blush on his cheeks.

  He crouched down giving a quick ruffle on the head of the boy.

  “Now, you’d better keep an eye on your pal,” he said in a mock serious tone before nodding off to the parents.

  We resume our walk toward the hotel, and when we were a safe distance from the scene, I pulled on one of his arms to stopped him.

  “What is it now?” he asked with unveiled impatience.

  “What changed your mind?” I asked, unable to hold back my curiosity any longer.

  He looked around as if ensuring we were alone. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned against a wall and plunged his hands in his pockets, averting his eyes to study the pavement.

  “Had a cat when I was a boy. One of those orange-marmalade types. Called her Ginger .” He half smiled at the found memory. “Followed me everywhere. A nasty neighbour got to her,” he added with pursed lips.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “One morning we found her floating dead in our pool. I found out he’d poisoned her,” he said with a grim tone.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, full of sympathy for his confession. I tried to imagine how he must have looked as a boy. “But I must say your creative rescue technique impressed me. You’re a real MacGyver,” I said in a lighter tone, invoking an old TV hero which ran on reruns during my childhood.

  “Well, I was not going to jump in that canal” he added between his teeth. “Hate swimming. Did you know this dirty dripping excuse of a bear cost me fifty US dollars?” he complained with a touch of incredulity.

  “How come?” I said surprised and amused.

  “I had to find a restaurant owner willing to sell me the broom, the rope and the spearing fork. When they realized I was in a hurry, they cranked up the price,” he said, half laughing and shaking his head in disbelief.

  On impulse, I lifted myself on tiptoes and planted a swift kiss on his cheek.

  “Thank you, Drake,” I said.

  He faced me with searching eyes that glistened with an emotion I could not quite place. Hadn’t seen it before. He made a slight move to lean his head down but aborted his plan. The tip of his ears colored as he resumed walking in silence. I smiled with amusement thinking: if the boy only knew the man who saved his bear was hiding an “I’m a Batman crime fighter” badge, he’d think he had met Bruce Wayne in person.

  As we continued to walk in silence back to my hotel, all the quaint charms of the ancient city exercised a new spell on me as if the serenading gondoliers, the old world charm of the decrepit buildings along with the bright candy cane colors of the docking posts had put my mind into a romantic disposition. One would think Venice had dressed itself with a fresh veneer, filling me with a new energy and a more positive outlook on things.

  My attention centered on the man walking beside me. We were not holding hands, but the tangible tension between us kept increasing and weaved us together as if there was a million of tiny lines connecting us. Every now and then, our hands would brush together as we strolled, and stealing a glance at his face, I’d catch him slightly blushed. I would put a little more distance between us, but the hand brushing would reoccur.

  The problem was that I was uncertain what kind of current was running through sit. My mind was drifting between the easy silent companionship I appreciated while with him and the intriguing thoughts sneaking into my mind. Thoughts such as how endearing he had been around the child and his candid admission about his childhood beloved pet. An intimate undercurrent was starting to meander between us, and I suspected it was a mutual feeling, although I couldn’t prove it.

  Before I knew it, we were at the reception desk of Hotel Flora, and without thinking we squeezed in the tiny elevator. My temperature rose faster than the slow cabin of the lift. We both tried to keep a polite distance despite the small confining space. Useless. His proximity was sending intoxicating messages to my pheromones. I lifted my head as st
upidity flashed. Why had we taken the elevator instead of the stairs? He had the same question written all over his face. Along with the raw gleam of desire. Color crept up to his neck and cheeks. Not so smug now, I mused with satisfaction, sensing my effect on him. He swallowed hard. I had a similar lump in my throat. He moved his body two inches closer and his head tilted down at a measured pace, leaving me time to react in case I did not agree with his intention.

  There was no question in my mind I wanted him to kiss me. But did I want a kiss that would be just a spirt-of-the-moment kiss? A kiss that would be cut short when we’d arrive on the third floor. A kiss that would not give us the chance to explore and see where it took us.

  The snail elevator opened its door with a loud clank. I exhaled the breath I had not been aware I was holding.

  “Do you always lodge in these establishments, Princess?” he asked, stepping into my room.

  His tone suggested a judgment of the room’s extravagance. Last night, with the commotion of the mugger's attempt, I guess he didn't have a chance to appreciate the elegance of the room. The antique furniture, meant to maximize the space, offered a sense of posh exclusivity. Romeo and Juliet could almost have shared their honeymoon in this historical room. The wooden shutters and wrong iron handles of the windows, offered a view of the garden and its peaceful retreat. Outside, multicolour vines, in their early autumnal glory, ran against the courtyard walls.

  Admittedly, Josie’s choice of hotel proved to be superb, even if Agent Steinfield assumed that I was a spoiled brat for indulging in such luxury. How could anyone resist the charm of this tiny and rare piece of greenery in Venice center?

  “I didn't organize this portion of the travel arrangement,” I defended myself.

  I would have opted for a cheap Bed and Breakfast near the train station, but upon my suggestion, she had threatened to book us rooms at the even more extravagant and pricy Cipriani Hotel ran by the Orient-Express owners. This three-star boutique hotel had been a compromise.

  “I guess working as an air traffic controller pays well enough for you to afford this kind of place,” he said from the bathroom, unwrapping one of the soaps and sniffing it.

  So he had me pegged as a spoiled rich girl. That explained the hint of contempt in his voice which he didn’t even try to hide. If he only knew how much appearances can deceive. Ok, I’ll admit that with my salary as an Approach air traffic controller, I could afford such a trip but only because I had saved for two years. It still felt as if I’d stepped into Robin Leach’s “Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous”. I shuddered to think what he’d think about the rest of the itinerary. But on second thought, why should I concern myself about what he thought of me or this trip? He was just doing his job and was on duty.

  Except that now, after washing his hands, he strutted around my room as if assessing if it was good enough for him.

  He opened the window, looking up, down and sideways and closed it back. Next, he peered behind the head board of the bed, looked at every table lamp shade, lifted the phone receiver. Out of one of his jacket pockets, he took a small black matchbox size device sporting a short antenna. Looked like a small detector of some sort. I had thrown my purse on the bed, and he moved it away to check the space between the mattress before running his hand under the bed. He explained that the device was called an SRD, a short range device, which is useful for checking low radio-frequency emission sound. As he was moving the device around the room, the frown on his face deepened.

  “You still owe me an explanation about what went on in that police station, so quit stalling, Agent Steinfield.”

  I was getting so irritated by his lack of attention to what I was saying to him. At the moment, he was more keen on scrutinizing every nook and cranny of the room.

  He continued his contemplation of his gadget. My guess was that he wasn’t getting the results he expected.

  “Hmm?” He lifted his head in my direction but was still not looking at me.

  “The police station. Spill the beans, Steinfield,” I raised the volume, taking my air traffic controller trademark assertiveness. Was he totally distracted or just ignoring me?

  He didn’t seem miffed by my impatient tone. Instead, a glint of amusement highlighted his eyes and dimpled his cheeks.

  “Now that I am, once again, in your bedroom, maybe we could switch to a first name basis?” He winked with a mocking tone.

  The man sure knows how to push my buttons and make me lose my train of thoughts, especially whenever he flashes me that bad boy smirk.

  He avoided my flying hairbrush before it hit its mark. I was sorry about that for two reasons. First, he deserved it and second, that object hasn't run through his messy hair for a long time from the looks of it. As if on cue, he lifted his right hand and raked his fingers through his locks in an awkward effort to groom his mane as he sat down on one of the Renaissance period upholstered arm chair.

  “Easy, tigress; let me finish my sweep, then I’m all yours.” He laughed before returning to the bathroom this time with the device. After a few seconds, he came out with a perplexed expression.

  “There are no bugs in the room but there is an unexplainable low radio frequency present. It’s specific and not like the ones used in bugs or miniature tracking devices. I must call in for additional technical support,” he added more to himself.

  At last he answered my earlier question.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, they were not too keen to let you go free with these notices suggesting you may be involved in these terrorist attacks despite the fact that they have found nothing on you. Because of the threat you received on your phone, they assume that these terrorists may blackmail you into helping them with their next attacks. I reminded them that since there is no warrant for your arrest, they can’t hold you or your passport.”

  “But this is unbelievable. I have done nothing wrong, and they don’t even have a thread of proof about my involvement. What about my phone? How did these terrorists manage to send me this anonymous messages?”

  “Nowadays, it’s not that hard. Tomorrow, we’ll be getting a report from our IT team. I’ll bet that Rachid’s faction used the Dark Web to send this type of hard to trace message.”

  “What about my passport? When do I get it back?”

  “It is being held for security reasons. They’ll release it when this whole situation is over and you return to New York.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he lifted his hand to stop me.

  “Passports may be seized by foreign governments if the bearer is suspected of committing a crime while travelling internationally,” he said with an even voice as if he was reciting the rights to an accused.

  “In fact, I would suggest that you book a flight home to New York as soon as you are allowed to do so,” he concluded with a resolute tone. He ran a hand over his face. “With the intense security and metal detectors at Marco Polo Airport and the notices the Interpol placed on your head, I am positive that if there is anything that shows up on the security scanners, the airport staff and security will remove the illicit object from your luggage and this will be the end of the story.”

  “You mentioned notices?”

  “Yes. They are color coded. The Interpol tagged you with a Blue and Orange notice to warn the authorities you may be dangerous. The Blue one is to collect information about a person’s identity, location or activities related to a crime. The Orange is to warn of an event, an object or a process representing a serious and imminent threat to public safety,” he stated as if quoting a manual.

  I was sorry I asked. Could I feel any more like a criminal? In the eyes of justice, I guess I was no better than this Rachid.

  “Anyway, the authorities will soon locate any illicit equipment. I will personally supervise the security screening at the airport to make sure they don’t miss anything. I’m sorry, but so far, it looks like Interpol was wrong to assume that you were the carrier chosen by Rachid’s fact
ion. Once it’s found, they’ll deactivate it and send it to ICPO.”

  “ICPO?”

  “The International Criminal Police, better known as the Interpol. We have an office in Washington which works in conjunction with our US Department of Homeland Security. They’ll hand it over to their IT team who will isolate its components,” he explained with a sense of pride for what his colleagues at Interpol and himself were trying to achieve.

  “Why not destroy it?” And if I could help put the bugger to pieces, I’d be more than happy to volunteer.”

  “No. We must trace back its designer and component supplier to prevent any further crafting of this damned device.” His expression turned apologetic. “Sorry if your trip didn’t turn out as you expected.”

  He also sounded as if he might be glad to wash his hands of me. Perhaps my minor incursion, although by accident, into international terrorist activities was no longer worthy of his time. He was about to be disappointed if he thought he was through with me.

  I thought his office would have informed him better about my travel plans. Did they assign him to this mission at the last minute?

  “I’m sorry, Agent Steinfield, but it looks like you are not quite rid of me yet.”

  “How’s that?” he said wearily, pinching the ridge of his nose. His tone betrayed how much sleep depravation he has suffered over the last forty-eight hours.

  “The text message said I am to pursue my travel itinerary as planned or else there will be consequences, remember?”

  “So?” He squinted his eyes, irritated. My guess was that he had figured that after a few more days in Venice, my plan was to fly back home.

  “Well ,” I started, hating to bring him more aggravation, but I was just a victim of unfortunate events. Unlike his many accomplices, I hadn’t agreed to get involved in Omar Ahmed Rachid’s terrorist organization. “I guess you’re not aware that tomorrow night, I’m scheduled to take a train to meet the Paris to Istanbul Orient-Express stationed in Budapest for the night.