Express Pursuit

by Caroline Beauregard

  Chapter 16

  August 29th, Aboard VSEO, Budapest, Morning

  The following day, I was able to enjoy an uneventful guided bus tour of Budapest without Drake, thanks to him organizing with the local authority for an undercover security officer to accompany our group. The tour guide and all travellers on the city tour had been screened for safety as an additional measure.

  The weather was a perfect sunny day without a trace of clouds. Along the way, we passed some of the highlights of the typical sights this city. I snapped a bundle of pictures of some of the landmarks such as the Szechenyi Baths, the Museum of Fine Arts, the Zoo and Botanical Museum and also the Vajdahunyad castle. We walked along the Hero’s Square, the elegant Andrassy Avenue, the magnificent Parliament building and the old castle district.

  The group rejoined the VSOE in late afternoon. Josie and I had requested to be put in the same cabin number for this run as for our Paris to Venice run. My sore and blistered feet were grateful to return on board the train. I changed into a comfortable cotton two-piece lounge wear and put in a call for the steward to order dinner in my cabin. Before I turned in for the night, I sent another email to Sylvia, pressing her to get back to me. I had sent her one yesterday while waiting for Drake at the Venice airport, but she hadn’t replied yet. Even for Sylvia, this was beyond her usual belated response time. I waited a couple of minutes for her reply. There might be still a tiny possibility that she hadn’t been kidnapped and was missing for another reason. Until I had that confirmation, I must not loose hope and think the worse. Soon I couldn’t keep my eyes opened, and I turned off the light.

  August 30th, VSOE, in Sinaia, Romania, Morning

  I woke early after an untypical ten hours of sleeps. After breakfast, the train made a scheduled stop at Sinaia in the Romanian Carpathia. I was among the passengers who had booked the visit to Peles Castle, so I climbed aboard the chartered bus with a good dose of apprehension. Under normal circumstances, it would have thrilled me to join the visit to the castle. This was a classic stop for the VSOE travelers on their way to Bucharest, but would this visit be plagued by another attack? I had to keep appearances and play the hypocrite for the sake of the other passengers. Otherwise, they might have noticed that all was not perfect with this dream trip turned nightmare. In my case, every minute was spoiled waiting for more bad news.

  But since I was stuck with this situation, the only thing to do was to enjoy these visits as much as possible. My previous Internet researches from home had built my anticipation for this unique tourist sight. The pictures of the castle showed the prettiest piece of architecture I had ever seen. Straight out of a fairy tale, it stood with an alpine majesty in a luscious forest. The steep roof top and criss-cross half-timbering gave the structure an enchanting pastoral beauty. Its proportion, not too imposing, hinted more of an elegant hunting lodge with its stone terrace than a formal palace. Before arriving at Istanbul, this was the visit I was most looking forward to do. The photo opportunities should be great.

  Steinfield couldn't come because he had to attend a telephone conference and send in a pressing report to his head office. He was unable to get another agent to accompany me during the excursion. Additionally, no Interpol agent could be spared at the last minute for a two to three hour security detail. Nevertheless, he promised to join me as soon as possible. In the meantime, I would be with the tour guide and the twenty-two other passengers who had pre-booked this excursion. Anyway, we would not be in the immediate vicinity of the Sinaia train station, so I gathered we would be safe.

  That’s just too bad. Yeah, I never thought I’d say this but there was something missing when Steinfield was not around, for some obscure reasons. Maybe he had grown on me like a parasite or fungus. Handsome fungus. I didn’t see why the man couldn’t enjoy a few minutes of relaxation to take a breather. I could only guess the level of stress he must have been under to resolve this situation. On the other hand, terrorists and extremists don’t take breaks, so I guess it was understandable.

  But come to think of it, did he ever take breaks, go on vacation or even go home? I could not imagine how his poor mother must have felt, having lost her husband and two of her three sons to 9/11. And to make matters worse, her only remaining son was out of the country most of the time, leaving her alone with her souvenirs. Because I’d lost someone dear less than a month ago, I could empathize even more with the way an event like that can color your life in so many ways.

  But Josie’s passing was due to an unfortunate accident, unrelated to a catastrophe mastered and triggered by despicable people. How does one really move on and reconstruct one’s life after being a victim of such a dreadful tragedy? What faith can you retain in the goodwill of your fellow human beings after an event of this magnitude? How did a young Drake live through that? I was positive it still affected a part of him. His career choice and current mission bore witness to this fact. In addition, I was convinced that he wouldn’t rest until he got Omar Ahmed Rachid behind bars or killed him himself.

  Did he join the police force because of his father or rather because he wanted to bring to justice the perpetrators involved in 9/11? My mind drifted to the pin he wore hidden inside his leather jacket. I couldn’t help but smile at the worn “I’m a Batman Crime Fighter” printed on the vintage button. He always kept it out of sight. That it looked so old suggested the vintage piece must have held a sentimental value to him. I found that most endearing, from a grown man. Must have got it when he was a boy. I didn’t know when I’d ever work up the courage to ask him about it.

  I looked out the bus window, taking in the light gray sky turning a tad darker with every passing mile. The snaking route of this road, above steep ravines, did not portend to anything reassuring. A light rain had started, making the road slippery, judging by the black skid marks on the pavement up ahead. Torn and broken guardrails offered a poor protection again the jagged edge of the high cliffs. They wouldn’t prevent any car or bus from toppling over on the sloping gravel edge of the road. Down the valley about two hundred feet, I spotted the Prahova River, mentioned by the tour guide accompanying us. I was sitting on the left side of the bus, which offered the best view of the valley.

  We crossed one of these yellow road sign announcing a twenty percent down hill inclination. Good thing it was still visible because a light fog was settling giving the landscape a mix of ethereal and mystical atmosphere. Regardless, from the bus window, this forested area was an enchanting backdrop if one was not afraid of steep rocky ravines and hair pin turns on this narrow portion of the Transfagarasan road. This mountain road crossing the southern section of the Carpathians Mountains of Romania was known for being one of the most dangerous in the country.

  The tour guide gave us a brief lecture on the history of the castle, built in 1873. Its architecture was in a style akin to Romanesque, Neo-Renaissance or gothic revival typical of Bavaria’s Neuschwanstein or even Disney parks’s castles. The interior featured hand-painted murals, intricate carved woods and exquisite fabrics, while the exterior boasted an Italian terrace garden with fountains. I couldn’t wait for the bus to arrive. I hoped the guide would give us enough time to enjoy the visit and take all the pictures I wished.

  I was positive that for most tourists not living in the area, this highway must seem like a suicide recipe. However, I bet these locals and seasoned bus drivers have extensive experience with these roads. Might even be a second nature to them. Ours is in his mid-sixties. Looks and acts with a nonchalance suggesting that he’s been driving these roads for quite a while.

  A few of the twenty-five passengers crack worried looks as we head for yet another sharp curve. One middle aged balding man is gripping the front seat with all his might. His white knuckles speaking volume of his fear. The up and down motion of the mountain road is giving new meaning to the expression “scenic view” road. More like a roller coaster ride, but I enjoy it. For my part I take it as all being a part of the adventure.

&nbs
p; The tremor from the ride made my writing in my journal a difficult task. Instead, I enjoyed the view and took out my camera to snap a few pictures of the meandering river, a good five hundred meter below.

  The guide continued his speech about the topography of the area. “The altitude of the valley varies from 767 to 860 meters above sea level…”

  I notice that my 4 GB San Disk memory card is already half full. Hence, I must keep that in mind not to get caught without enough storage leftover by the end of the trip because that’s the only one I brought.

  A strange rickety sound has just started. Maybe we caught something on the road.

  Still holding my camera, I was jerked with violence to the left against the window. My left shoulder and arm pressed against the side of the bus with such a force, while pressing me on the backrest of the seat that for a moment, I thought the bus was overturning. The scenery had shifted and now, the bus was getting off the road and skidded off into the ravine. I watch with horror as we headed down.

  The passengers screamed in panic, unnerving me more than the bus out of control. An odor of burned rubber and rancid smoke invaded the cabin while across the aisles, more people were projected to the left as the bus tilted at what might be a forty-five degree angle as if its right wheels had lifted off the road.

  Next, the screeching sound of the brakes, along with the cogwheel staccato of the transmission showed that the driver had attempted an emergency maneuver to stabilize the bus. After what took like an eternity, the bus straitened itself although at a listing angle. From my vantage point at the window, it looked like we had descended perhaps fifty feet off the road. Now, the screams had morphed into a cacophony of yelling, moaning, whining and plain crying.

  Was the bus accident a result of a mere malfunction or had terrorists tampered with it? Then again, perhaps it is rather just an unfortunate accident and I’m sure it’s not the first one to happen in those mountain roads.

  Unharmed, I got up from my seat to see if I could help. Dozens of haggard eyes crossed my path. Some with bloodied hands trying to get a grip on the situation. Up front, the driver was reciting a litany of prayers or curses, I couldn’t tell which. The tour guide, who had been standing, was knocked unconscious, because he did not have his seatbelt on. He’d fallen on the floor and his still form was visible from my vantage point in the central aisle. After a quick visual survey, the group, alert now, seemed to have suffered no casualties. More than a dozen had superficial scratches and bruises. I ran to the front to check on the guide. He was coming through, thank God.

  I pushed my way around him to see if there was any First Aid Kit. It had suffered a few bumps itself but I managed to unclipped it and opened it after a few tugs and curses. Meanwhile, the driver was busy calling for help on his cell phone. I assisted the tour guide to get back to his jump seat.

  “You’d better sit down and rest,” I instructed. “You might have a concussion. Are you hurt otherwise?”

  “No, thanks,” he said compliant. He didn’t strike me as a take-charge type of man as he let me go tend to other passengers without further argument.

  A young girl had banged her forehead against the overhead baggage compartment which ran the length of the bus. The open gash caused the blood to run down her cheek. I needed to stop the bleeding fast, so I invited her to sit down. Her mother was fussing around her, caressing her hair and praying in a non productive waste of energy. The good thing is that she allowed me to tend to her daughter without questions when I cleaned the wound with antiseptic from the emergency box. The yellowed dressing packages must be past due their expiration date. Better than nothing. I figured that the mother would appreciate being useful for her daughter so I put her to work.

  “Put pressure here,” I said, placing her hands over her daughter’s dressing.

  I unwrapped the rolls of gauze and finished the dressing making the best Halloween mummy hat I could muster.

  In the meantime the driver had gone out to examine the damages on his bus. I directed my attention to a man speaking a foreign language, maybe Russian. He was wincing, his face contorted with pain as he held up his left arm with his right one.

  Nearby, I found a woman wearing a scarf holding her abundance of springy black hair. This would do fine.

  “Excuse me but could I have your scarf please?” I pointed to her head.

  She stared at me clueless. My expression must have conveyed that this was not a bad hair day or an urgent fashion desire. With a suspicious expression, she nevertheless removed it and handed it over. My first folding attempt would have been better suited for a baby diaper emergency. I gave it another try hoping that this impromptu foray into scarf origami would be better. There, that’s more like it, I said proud of my makeshift sling.

  A few spectators had, for a moment, seemed to have forgotten our unfortunate accident however, my patient, instead of thanking me, kept pointing at my left temple with insistence. His eyes grew rounder by each passing second until he uttered a disgusted “Oh.”

  I patted myself with a tentative hand to check what was the matter. As I ran my hand on my now tangled hair, my index finger scratched itself on a small pointy shard. Touching around the sharp object I came into contact with warm and gooey fluid oozing below it. My finger ceased its journey, frozen on the spot. For a second, I figured the gash couldn’t be too deep. Otherwise, I would have been light headed and unable to move around. With slow calculated movements, I turned around to my left and stared at the still intact tempered glass of the window where I sat. On the other hand, perhaps with the forceful shifting of the content of the luggage racks, the frame of the window was torn and a lighting fixture above my window had broken.

  The driver raised his voice over the group. “Attention, we stay inside the bus. Police and ambulance come in ten minutes,” he said with a strong accent, gesturing for people to sit down. Appearing to wake up from a sort of trance, the group roused their voices and hurried out as if the bus was on fire.

  Once outside, the precarious angle of the bus and its damage struck me as more dangerous that I had first estimated.

  The recovered tour guide was approaching me with the first aid box. However, I didn’t trust him to deal with my shard as by now I felt a piercing sting shooting from my temple. At least he was attentive and tried to keep the passengers calm. The driver had been right; within a few minutes, we heard the sirens of police and ambulances signaling their arrival.

  Out of one police car at the far back was a figure who was running at full speed in our direction. As the person got closer, I recognized the man with the familiar flopping hair coming my way.

  “Mara, you’re hurt!” he stated reaching my level. His worried expression was exaggerated, considering I was not the only one who had suffered injuries.

  Putting his arm around my shoulder, he guided me toward the nearest ambulance, “Come, let’s go.”

  “Wait, what about the others?”

  “There are more ambulances coming. Everyone’s going to Brasov hospital; it’s just a few minutes from here,” he explained while the paramedics helped me up into the ambulance. To my surprise, Steinfield jumped in with me before they took off.

  “Hey, I’ll be fine; you don’t need to do this,” I said, wondering now if I was more hurt than I thought.

  Once the vehicle took off, he leaned down and whispered in my ear;

  “Just making sure they’ll take proper care of you,” he moved closer and leaned down for a quick kiss on my forehead.

  Speechless, I thanked God I wasn’t plugged to a cardiac monitor. It would have been beeping like a disco song. The concern and affection written on his face stirred my heart. I reached for his hand. He hesitated a second, and I wondered if maybe I had read the situation wrong. But then he wrapped his hand in mine, offering its warm yet strong protection. A question was burning my lips to voice out loud, but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to ask it yet, especially not to him.

 
The paramedic tending me on my way to the hospital applied a kind of donut shaped dressing around the spot where my shard was. Then he secured the donut in place with a bandage around my head while leaving the shard free of pressure. He explained that it was to prevent it from moving during transportation.

  The Brasov hospital, to my surprise, was modern and well staffed. They rushed me without delay to one of their examination rooms. Although located in a small town, they seemed to be capable of accommodating the small avalanche of twenty new patients arriving soon from our bus accident. The tour operator, affiliated with the Orient-Express, insisted that every passenger be examined before being allowed out of the health facility. The last thing the DuPont Company wanted was a lawsuit for neglect on their hands.

  They removed the shard of glass stuck in the skin of my temple with the utmost care and dexterity. I even had a chance, after gesturing to the nurse, to have a look at it. About two inches long by half an inch wide, it had not lodged itself too deep in the flesh of my scalp because they did not see fit to take out a suture kit. I was very thankful for that. I don’t mind blood and all its gruesome accessories but to me, the mere idea of any needles gives me the willies. To my delight, instead of sewing me up, they closed the wound with a special glue. I must remember to pack a tube of Crazy Glue the next time I travel. They ran a series of X-rays and a CT-scan and kept me under observation for an hour in case I had a concussion.

  Through the window at the far end of my examination room, I caught sight of Steinfield, who was wearing the floor while on his phone. I bet he thought Rachid was behind this mess. For sure, he had to wait for the forensic team to examine the bus before jumping to a conclusion.