Express Pursuit

by Caroline Beauregard

  “I want to know exactly what Rachid’s demands are.”

  “Classified.” He got up to the side of the boat and leaned against the railing to face the sea.

  “Oh, c’mon. I’m in this situation just as deep as you are, perhaps even more.” I had followed him and pulled on his sleeve to get his full attention.

  Running his hand thru his wind swept hair, he deliberated for a moment and then turned.

  “Do you have any idea of the difficult position you are putting me in with your questions?” he asked with a mix of incredulity and condescension.

  “Do you have any idea of the difficult position I’m in anyway? Geez, do you want me to swear on a Bible or something?” I almost yelled at him since I couldn’t hear myself over the noise and because I was getting pissed with him and his secrets.

  He turned around and scrutinized my face with dissecting eyes as if judging my trustworthiness. He could be intimidating if he chose to, but I was more than capable of standing up to him. I withheld his gaze deadpan without flinching. Italian spaghetti Westerns movies had nothing on me.

  After a brief sigh and a roll of his eyes, he relented, seeing my determination.

  “He wants the release of two of his sons incarcerated in US maximum security facilities and three of his nephews detained in London and Paris prisons. Both of his sons are convicted terrorists. He’ll continue his massive bombings in major European centers and Istanbul if the governments don’t free them.”

  “So why doesn’t the US start discussions or at least pretend to consider liberating his sons. At least one, to buy us some time.”

  “It’s not that simple. These men are on the list of internationally known terrorists. Besides, you know the US government never negotiates with terrorists.”

  Touché. But still. I wondered how many people he had hurt or killed since he’d started with his train station explosions. Why train stations specifically? Another question was also nagging me.

  “When were his sons sent to prison?”

  “2016,” he said, turning away from me to face the lagoon once more.

  Oh shit. I had a bad feeling about this. I studied his posture to know how many eggshells I was walking on. Many questions still burned my lips, but one stood out and would explain his attitude.

  But to my surprise, he volunteered.

  “Mohammed Rachid and Ali Alfayed Rachid are part of the Al-Qaeda terrorist organization. They were found guilty of planning and collaborating to the operations which lead, in part, to the 9/11 attack on New York World Trade Center,” he explained with a businesslike detached tone. He’d kept his eyes on the sea, but his efforts to sound aloof didn’t fool me.

  “Well, at least they were captured,” I said, trying to see a positive side to the situation. But then, an uncanny hunch nagged me.

  “You’re the one who caught them, aren’t you, Agent Steinfield?”

  “Correct again, Miss Ellington. So now you know,” he said, turning back to face me with a brooding expression.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I said with hesitation, nonplussed.

  “This is not only just another terrorist on the loose making trouble for his own selfish interests. No, this is personal and now the fucking bastard has so many allies everywhere that it’s hard to know who to trust and where you can be safe.”

  He shook his head in exasperation. His face and neck had turned into a deep shade of red, and a vein bulged on his forehead above one of his eyebrow. His jaw quivered as he tried to reign in his temper. At this point it wouldn’t take much for him to explode, judging by his expression.

  I trembled from the wind and the sight of his raw emotional display so out of character compared to his usual cool facade. Despite his anger for the terrorist, he still had slipped—I think—a subtle declaration that he cared about my safety. I was also glad he trusted me enough to confide in me in a more informal manner.

  He directed his full attention to the front of the boat, but he surprised me by reaching for my hand and giving it a brief squeeze. Was this an attempt at reassurance or a furtive affectionate touch? I couldn’t tell, but the simple gesture of comfort and companionship touched me. Glancing up, I noted that his eyes were looking everywhere but at me. He remained silent for the rest of the trip with my hand still in his.

  ***

  He knew he shouldn’t have taken her hand, but he wanted to feel her soft skin against his for selfish reasons.

  She pretended to be stronger than she was and she deserved credit for it. Although she had a feisty mouth and a no nonsense attitude, he’d caught her on many occasions with a fleeting expression in her eyes. The kind he’d seen on too many people, most of them women and children during rescue missions. The victims would stare as if he was a hero who possessed all the answers. Once he’d secured them into a safe zone, they’d grab him, wanting to express their gratitude with looks on their faces he found hard to bear. Their raised eyebrow and pleading eyes would tell what they usually couldn’t express with words: a silent cry of pain and relief.

  If they only realized he wouldn’t have to rescue them from the aftermath of bombings if the United Nations spent more budget on preventive tactics instead of intervention measures.

  US Homeland Security had pretexted that they had spent all their allocated budget on Rachid’s threats, considering that the attack were not posing a direct threat to US territory. Also, it had been almost five years since Rachid was active in US territories, or involved in bombings or other terrorist activities. For this reason, they had degraded him on the wanted list. The Interpol and Counter-Terrorists teams had been unsuccessful in locating him because Rachid remained invisible on the site, preferring to delegate and used many intermediates to outsmart his enemies.

  It was up to the Interpol to pull all the stops to put an end to his activities. But Drake knew because a consensus and a collective plan of action was difficult to organize and coordinate, there was a lot of wasted time, which often translated in a higher death toll.

  Major McDaniels, his boss at FBI CT division, was only a bureaucrat in Drake’s opinion. The former was still conflicted about the so-called goose chase since Drake had so far turned up empty-handed. He trusted Steinfield because of his irreproachable track record in catching terrorists, but he also thought the timing sucked. If Drake apprehended him without sufficient proof —more than circumstantial—this could impede the credibility of the US as an anti-terrorist force in foreign territory. Never mind that a capture without official mandate could precipitate rage in the Islamic community.

  His superior had ended his last phone conversation without a firm commitment about reinforcement for Steinfield. His demand to increase local security force in Venice were sacked, which left him with the only option of requesting it from the Interpol. In addition, the US government had no intention to pay heed to Rachid’s threats or his request to release his imprisoned sons.

  At least Drake’s conversation with Jeff Thornhill might prove more satisfactory.

  “Yeah, McDaniels gave me the run around as usual. Jeff, can I call in on your connections with your nerdy friends at Massachusetts Institute of Technology? Yes, I need them to work with a geek from Bologna University to check Mara’s cell phone.”

  “Mara?”

  “I mean, the mule, the carrier. I think they sent the text through the Dark Web. See if you can trace it. That would help. Should arrive by courier tomorrow.” Yeah, he should have known his partner would catch him calling the suspect by her first name, which was not professional.

  “You know, Drake, there are lots of other terrorists threatening US territories and easier to get these days, so quit focusing on Rachid, even if I do understand your reasons. There are two other groups you should check into who might follow your carrier to steal the high tech equipment she is likely carrying. This would suggest that they might know what it looks like. I think you’re over your head on this one. Be caref
ul not to confuse justice and vendetta. Maybe it’s time you look for other things than this job to fill your life. And don’t forget that you promised my little Sarah you’d be there for her eight birthday next month. She’s looking forward to beating you at a Backgammon game.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do my best. Just phone me back when you have more details on the case.”

  He had expected Jeff to serve him a similar lecture that McDaniels had. If he had to carry on solo, that suited him just fine. He’d waited too long for this opportunity, and he had no intention of letting go when he was this close to nailing his man.

  The vaporetto had reached the Piazzale Roma, at the foot of the Ponte Della Liberta bridge where the Venice Security Office was situated. He let go of her hand and smirked, noticing she had not tried to remove hers either.

  I followed Steinfield, who took care of our luggage, as we entered a security perimeter they had put in place around the building, including a checkpoint at the entrance. When we walked in, I eyed a variety of electronic equipment. I couldn’t tell what they were for. Two sniffing dogs, held on leashes by their trainers, sat in the hallway.

  Steinfield exchange a few handshakes and words with some officers and then turned to face me.

  The facility had more high tech equipment than the local police station, including scanners and x-ray types of machines, but after running all my luggage and purse through it, nothing suspicious was found. No odd piece of electronics. Zip. Drake’s frown hinted that he was just as puzzled.

  Once they had gone through yet another hand inspection of all my belongings, I was taken to another room where Drake had started an animated conversation, judging by the gesticulation from the two Italian officers with him.

  They insisted on interrogating me again as if I had not answered everything twice already. Drake translated. I complied with grace after peering at my watch. I had not expected this visit to last so long. After two hours of constant questioning, I was physically drained and my head was throbbing from my internal turmoil. Being investigated in reference to a suspected crime must be hard for anyone, but having to deal with foreign police and investigators repeatedly is enough to drive anyone insane. Were they hoping I would trip on my story? With the means of communication nowadays, one would expect that they would share their findings across borders and stop asking me redundant questions until my mind turn into a useless mush of gray matter jelly.

  They kept me in this small room for most of the day. I had the option to stare at four yellowed walls or the faces of two security agents who eyed me with a disgust and distrust. Once in a while, I was escorted to the restroom. Drake popped in on and off from one of the station’s offices, but the tense set of his jaw suggested that I should meekly accept that my day was ruined and bide my time.

  I checked my watch for the fiftieth time; only twenty minutes left for me to make it to the departure gate at the other end of Santa Lucia station. Otherwise, I’d miss my next train. Josie had booked us on the overnight train leaving Venice at six-twenty PM and scheduled to arrive in Budapest’s Keleti station at nine-twenty the following morning. I didn't want to cut my answers short and appear like I was hiding anything, but there were just so many times you could recount the same forty-eight hours.

  “Who did you meet since you left home?” Drake translated.

  Incredulous, I opened my mouth. I must have crossed a good five hundred people since my departure from New York in those busy airports and train stations!

  Steinfield’s jaw clenched at my rebellious expression. He clarified with an incisive voice. “They want you to describe every individual you came in contact with and leave no one out. They’ll want to validate your story with any CCTV cameras available.”

  I was flabbergasted by this new request. Perhaps, I should ask for a paper and pen to proceed in a systematic manner because…

  His eyeballs grew along with that tiny vein on his forehead as I collected my souvenirs of the events since my departure.

  “Agent Steinfield, all this is taking too much time, and I will miss my train, and according to the anonymous text, I’m supposed—”

  “You’d better talk soon because right now they consider you under suspicion for terrorist activities all across Europe even if they haven't quite been able to nail to what extent.”

  “But—”

  “They simply don’t believe that it was a mere coincidence that you happened to be at the time and place for Rachid’s organization to drop off sensitive technology. You are the only person on the VSOE who opted to do a double itinerary and ever since you arrived in London, explosions or bombing devices have been found in your wake soon after you leave typical stops on your train trip. Don’t you see why they are suspicious of you even if they haven’t found any compromising equipment on you or in your luggage?” he asked in a menacing tone meant to impress. Worked fine.

  “Well, first at Victoria Station, there was the clumsy tourist who ran me down. Then, you arrived, Agent Steinfield. But before that, while waiting for the Eurostar, there was this backpacker who asked me directions for a cafe in Paris with an outdated map, then I remember an interaction with the steward of the train and had a pleasant discussion with a certain Mrs. Marjorie Flaggerty. Next, a couple of youngsters to whom I asked directions when I was on my way to the Teatro San Gallo. Following this, as you remember, the man who mugged me afterward.” I left out the cabiniari as I doubt he would appreciate that I included them in my list. “Hmm… there was also that waiter in the Piazza San Marco, and of course, the hotel staff.”

  The chief of operations, as Steinfield had introduced him, was still arguing with him once translation was finished. Next, the latter turned back to me.

  “You never mentioned that backpacker before. I want to know word for word what he told you,” said Drake.

  I sat on one of the chairs they had offered earlier. This was no use. Upon another look at my watch, I had to say goodby to my train to Budapest that had departed five minutes ago. Didn’t this chief of operation know that for everyones’s safety, they shouldn’t impede my itinerary?

  Once I finished my descriptions, Drake exchanged a few words with one of the staff, who nodded his consent. Next, he took my elbow and pulled me up with a firm hand.

  “Come, we have a few suspect ID pictures we would like for you to look at to see if you’ll recognize any of them. After that you’ll meet with their facial composite artist to see if we can come up with their portraits for future identification.”

  Another hour and a half went by. They were about to let me go, but then another argument started between the chief of security and the police. Steinfield intervened, but I couldn’t quite follow. One thing I was certain from the way they waved my passport back and forth between them, my authorization to leave Venice remained undecided. Upon seeing the document, I realized they had left the confiscated passport under the care of Agent Steinfield since yesterday. Maybe I should search his luggage to see what else he was hiding. After another twenty minutes and another suspicious handshake between Steinfield and the chief of police, they finally allowed me to leave the premises. I was glad to be allowed to leave, but Drake’s eye exchange with the chief of security hinted that they had made a sort of secret agreement which left me to wonder what they may have said about me behind closed doors.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?” I asked once outside the office.

  In response, he pulled harder on my hand to force me to walk at his insane pace. We returned to the storage room where the security agents had stored our luggage after being scanned and examined.

  “There’s no time to explain. Later,” he said, grabbing my bags. We took a taxi to the airport.

  Although I was glad they took in consideration my tight timetable, my instincts told me this was not just a random act of kindness because they had, in fact, disrupted my travel plans and make me lose my connection train for Budapest. They likely had decided that it was best to
heed Rachid’s threat and make sure I got back on my schedule with my double Orient-Express journey.

  Once there, he parked me on a bench near the ticket office with our luggage.

  “Wait here. This should take no longer than ten minutes at the most. And don’t talk to anybody.” A glint of mockery passed through his face as he took in my furious expression. Next, he took out a pen from his jacket and scribbled with haste on a scrap of paper. “Here, take this. It’s my personal cell number on a secure line. Call me the instant something suspicious happens,” he said with a softer tone.

  I took the small piece of paper and glanced at his scrawl before putting it away in a zipped section of my purse for safekeeping.

  When I looked up again, he was still standing in front of me, an irritated expression on his face.

  “Wilco. Roger. Wait here. No talking to anyone,” I said in ATC lingo. He’s not the boss of me despite the debasement of being treated like a child, I felt like reminding him. Nevertheless, I almost succumbed to the temptation of sticking my tongue at him once he had his back turned.

  Aug 28, Venice, Marco Polo Airport, A Few Minutes Past Noon

  As per his word, he was back within nine minutes with boarding passes.

  “I’ve received clearance to prioritize us on the next flight to Budapest in time for you to follow your itinerary. Flight leaves in forty-five minutes, so let’s go.” He grabbed our luggage and left me to handle the carry-on. Like an obstacle race, the airport was jammed packed as this was still the peak tourist season. He kept distancing me to a point that I almost lost him in the crowd.

  The over-bright neons and high decibel level of the airport were assaulting my senses. Nothing to do with the quiet and serene open space of my childhood. While some parties were struggling to rush to their gates like that Home Alone Christmas movie underscored with the “Run Run Rudolf” song, some others, seemingly clueless of where they should go, made a point of blocking the way of the runners. Between the blaring cacophony of a multitude of conversations fit for Babel, the ambient music and the mix scent of coffee, sweat, floor wax and perfumes, I couldn’t wait to be in the more subdued safety of the plane’s cabin.