Like a grande dame, they escorted me out in a wheel chair. They were definitely afraid of lawsuits here, like in the states.
A police car was parked in front of the hospital next to a shuttle dispatched for the returning VSOE passengers. A few of them were discussing the bus incident before heading aboard the bus. There went another visit I wouldn’t do, and I had so much been looking forward to it.
Steinfield escorted me to the police car. He opened the passenger door for me then sat behind the wheel.
“So I get the deluxe treatment?” I asked to tease him since I was the only one who was heading back with private transportation instead of the dispatched shuttle.
He remained mute with his eyes on the road. Only the tense set of his jaw let on that he was deep in thoughts.
“Are you upset with me for some reason?”
“No.”
“So?” I ventured.
He remained silent.
What was I missing here? Maybe he had gotten information, and from the looks of it, it was bad. I decided not to push him; he looked like he was fighting to keep his calm, or fighting with his inner demons. Later, I intended to find out what was behind his foul mood.
The VSOE tour operators were lost in excuses about our tumble into the Romanian scenery. They were meeting the passengers at the exit of the hospital. They offered the use of rooms to freshen-up at the Hotel Aro Palace in Brasov until the departure of the train, in two hours. Those who had not been injured were invited to go to the Peles Castle by taxi for a shortened visit. I would have gladly joined that group. Unfortunately, because it took so long in the hospital, I missed the opportunity to join the belated castle visit. I looked as if I’ve made a touchdown across a football field, minus the protective equipment. Once at the Brasov Hotel, I shooed away Steinfield, who wanted to stick around to ensure I was all right.
“Really, Agent Steinfield, do you think the hospital did a sloppy job with my discharge? Do you want to examine me yourself or were you just looking for an opportunity to ogle?”
“Are you offering?” he asked with eyes already roving with impertinence over my figure. “Ok, I’ll be down in the Internet saloon.” He sobered up with a neutral tone. “I’ll escort you back on board later. I have a few reports to finish.”
***
August 30th, Sinaia, Romania, Midday
A few hours ago, when he’d received the news of the tourist bus accident while transporting some the Orient-Express passengers to the Peles castle, Drake had driven to the accident site as fast as possible, white knuckles holding the steering wheel.
Did she really need to ask why he kept silent driving her back to the hotel after her visit to the hospital? He had highjacked a police car for his own personal use, lied to the local authority and driven over the speed limit on that slippery road to get to her in record time.
When he’d heard about the tourist bus’s accident on Road 71, he didn’t think. Just took off disregarding every rules of security and common sense like a madman. Any rational and professional thought was out the window as if there was no room for any other thought except “get to her”. He could puke with disgust for having turned, in a split second, into an automaton working on a single program. To make matters worse, he had misused his FBI CT ID card to get a vehicle. Everyone at the local police station was horrified that his interest in the matter was indicative of the worst possible scenario: a terrorist attack. He had to admit that sometimes he was baffled over the fact that his reputation in dealing with terrorist affairs preceded him to such an extent.
Earlier, his nasty conversation with one of the senior officers of Department of Homeland Security and the Interpol had confirmed his usual frustration about their lack of coordination and efficiency. Mara had mentioned her initial itinerary included an overnight train from Venice to Budapest. Well, now that was why explosives were found in that city’s train station, although he was thankful, they had not detonated. This piece of news did not sit well with him. Did it not relate to Rachid’s threats even if Mara did not end up going by train to Budapest? What was he missing here?
He’d made several calls to his head office. He got nowhere. Replaying the conversation in his head, he examined once again his arguments searching how he could have failed to convince them of the imminent danger of the situation:
“We don’t have time to wait for the reports about the bus driver. Aren't the explosives found in Budapest train station enough to convince you?” he told McDaniels.
“You don’t need to convince me, Steinfield. The problem is that we have no power over what the national security of these countries decide. They have to weigh the risks and the impacts of freezing over eight hundred miles of these railroad lines for days based on threat that are not specific to their territories. They would be more concerned about the immediate economic and tourist consequences. Budapest city officials might have been more apt to change their mind if an explosion had happened on their territory.”
“I told you that the reason they didn’t explode is that she had to take a flight to make it in time to catch her other Orient-Express portion.”
“Did you figure out how he’s using her to trigger the bombs?”
“No. But one thing’s for sure, she is the only passenger and common denominator between these two routes of the Orient-Express.”
At this point of the conversation, seeing how obtuse the spokespersons of these countries seem to treat his theory, he opted to check if there were more progress toward the organization of a salvage operation.
“What’s happening with the plan to evacuate the train?”
“The DuPont Company sent a bomb detection squad early this morning while the train was at Budapest’s Keleti station. They found nothing. They are considering the evacuation but wait for the consent of the Interpol,” said McDaniels.
“Well, I disagree. We should follow Rachid’s warning until we find out how he uses her to trigger these bombs. Even if Rachid’s texts message was addressed only to her, the Interpol shouldn’t risk the lives of the one hundred ninety passengers traveling on board by disregarding his threats against evacuating the train. Is there any news about the prisoners’s releases, Rachid’s two sons?”
“No. Status quo from US, France and England.”
“I know the president doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, but can’t the government at least make a show of it just enough for a media leak? We have less than twenty-four hours before we enter Sirkeci Station, so I hope they are ready to deal with the aftermath if we don’t find how he is triggering these explosions long distance. Can’t believe we haven’t found how he operates his relay detonator.”
“You mentioned yesterday you picked up an unusual type of low radio frequency around the carrier. Is that still going on?”
“Yeah, she’s still emitting. Any news on the location of her sister, Sylvia Ellington, that CNN correspondent?”
“No, not yet, but we have a team working on it. That reporter sure picked a hot spot to get her scoops. With Turkey air strikes against the Kurdish Syrian area last April, it’s not easy to conduct a rescue mission when you take into account the tension over there. Any US representatives are seen as Turkish sympathizers. There is still a hefty number of prosecuted and jailed journalists who have yet to be liberated.”
“Ok. Let me know when you have an update,” said Drake before hanging up.
To say that the chances of finding and rescuing one single reporter among the multitude of journalists who had been jailed for months was perhaps asking too much. There was so many other people who were also deserving of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization efforts to protect their members. How could he insist on additional reinforcement in this case? He knew very well the reason. Mara’s blue eyes, clouded with worry for her sister, had a way of jabbing at his heart and sense of professional detachment.
Chapter 17
August 30th, Aboard VSOE, from Sinai to Bucharest
, Romania, Afternoon
We boarded the waiting train at the station to continue our voyage until we arrived at two o’clock in Bucharest and settled at the Hilton Athene Palace Hotel for an overnight stay. A city tour was planned before dinner. While the train was in the station, experts in explosives would recheck the Orient-Express in hope to finding any devices or detonator, as Drake informed me.
This was ridiculous. Was I expected to keep smiling in front of the other passengers as if nothing was the matter? Steinfield reminded me that the only reason he had informed me of sensitive information was because I had given him my word it would be for my eyes and ears only. But with every passing minutes this promise was getting hard and harder to keep.
As I changed clothes, I kept my eyes riveted to the news channel, waiting for the announcement of an incident. I opted for a comfortable stretchy jade dress with bronze metallic neckline trimming, another loan from Josie. I had washed my hair with delicate movements to avoid damaging the glued lacerated site and then gathered it in a loose bun to camouflage it further. A light touch of foundation make-up would take care of the few light scratches on my face and shoulder.
After a brief assessment of my appearance in the full-length mirror, I deemed myself presentable. It would be hard to tell that I had just been in a bus accident a mere four hours ago. The woman in the mirror rolled her eyes at me.
Stupid, aren’t you forgetting that everyone will know you’ve been in that accident because most of them were in it with you too? I chided myself. In my defense, this was not vanity but rather what I’d call ‘moving on’.
When I exited my room, I almost bumped into him. He was leaning with his ankles crossed against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor. He surveyed me from top to bottom. A gleam illuminated his face. He had also changed and sported a dark green button-down shirt and a fresh shaven look along with my favorite boyish smile. The shirt brought out his eyes, and mine. The semi-dry hair had been fingered combed, and one of his locks kept dancing on his forehead, taunting me. I had to refrain from the impulse of putting it into place. He surprised me by offering, even if in mockery, a gallant arm to escort me to dinner.
Because of the bad weather conditions, the city tour of Bucharest was put on hold. Outside gale winds and rain would have made even the bus tour unpleasant. It was the first time I could say I was glad for bad weather. Drake was hungry, so with reluctance I accompanied him to the stuffy grand ballroom featuring palatial gold-leaf walls, oversized intricate stained-glass ceiling and crystal chandeliers. They had set it up exclusively for the VSOE passengers. Most people, already sitting at tables set for ten, were engrossed in animated conversations.
“I don’t feel like eating, but you go ahead,” I said, backing up a step.
He gave me a light push forward on the small of my back.
“There’s no room here and all the seats seem taken,” I objected.
The waiter was approaching us at an eager pace.
“You just don’t want to sit with people; that’s the real reason.”
I didn’t care to grace him with a comment, not liking too much that a few people had turned their head toward us. Ok, most of them men, in my direction. They must have figured I was being fussy with the seating arrangements.
“Maybe they’d let us sit at the bar,” he suggested after eyeing my reluctant expression. The waiter escorted us to the English Bar.
At this time, the pub was almost deserted, and I beamed when the maître d’ accepted our request. I was glad that Steinfield proved resourceful even in this situation. But what was echoing in my ears was his use of the “us” word. The mere pronoun was sliding in my heart with sugar coated sweetness. Its saccharine unrealistic undertone, ringing like jingle bells on the sleigh ride, made my heart race and my face blush.
“But of course, I will send the waiter with menus right away. Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said, pocketing a tip that Steinfield had slipped in his hand.
“You know, maybe I should insist you go around the tables assigned for the group and formally introduce yourself to them. About time you socialize.”
He chuckled in half mockery. Leaning over he approached his lips close to my ear. That woody cologne wrapped me in sensual comfort and I inhaled on purpose to get my fill.
“If you wanted to be invisible, you shouldn't have picked up that dress,” he whispered in a husky tone.
My first reaction was to wonder why he’d say that. The stretchy polyester thing was modestly cut, so I didn’t think there was a reason for concern, but then I realized he was paying me a simple compliment.
“Hmm…, thanks. You’re not bad yourself,” I said with my face down so he wouldn’t see my unworldly blush creeping up again on my cheeks whenever he was close.
As soon as we took our seats on the plush striped velvet arm chairs of the pub, the tension in my neck eased up. The soft projected light, along with the background mellow jazz, completed the cozy atmosphere of the venue with its mustard yellow and Ketchup red color scheme. A descriptive plate, by the entrance, boasted that the restaurant bar was filled with history and spy stories. The maitre D’ brought us water and menus.
“Care to join me for a drink first?” he asked.
“I’m sure it will taste better than the 90% proof alcohol they serve in the hospital for disinfection.”
Tossing his head back, he boomed into a fit of laughs that was both refreshing and contagious.
I hadn’t noticed how famished I was until my stomach reacted with high pitch swirls of anticipation. In no time, our waiter brought us warm buns, garlic butter, and two different spreads, one with a taste and texture of humus and the other a mix olive tapenade. He ordered a spicy although virgin Bloody Cesar for himself while I opted for a glass of Souther Comfort Ice Tea. The latter sounded like something befitting a “Gone with the Wind” plantation’s punch, but when Josie had introduced me to it, the citrus cocktail kind of grew on me. As for his choice of drink, it augured to nothing good if I had to take a wild guess, judging by his omission of alcohol and addition of hot sauce.
“So what’s the news?” I asked without further ceremony.
He took his drink, and after taking a sip, he grabbed the pepper shaker and gave it a hard beating.
“Well, at least the preliminary report on the bus accident shows that the malfunction resulted from a lack of maintenance and the fact that one of the front tires broke after likely running over a fist size piece of rock. The forensic’s team detected no fowl play.”
Ok, he was stalling with the good news before bad news routine, I could tell from his guarded tone. The stiff set of his jaw, strait back and general caution with his speech were not his usual modus operandi. He took another gulp of his drink and then unscrewed the top of the pepper and poured a quarter of its content into his dynamite potion. This would be bad.
He leaned a few inches forward and started in a half whisper.
“The head office of CT activity in US and their Interpol counterpart have received more specifics on Rachid’s plans. He plans to destroy Istanbul’s major tourist sites, including the Sirkeci Train Station, Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque and several sections of the Grand Bazar if his two sons are not released by US government within the next twelve hours. The loss of lives and its repercussion on an already tense political climate will produce a domino effect. He warned us again that if we make any attempt to change the itinerary, he will trigger the detonations while the train is on its way. At least the mayor of Istanbul has closed these tourist attraction in the meantime. Extensive searches are taking place as we speak, but the area to cover is widespread.”
“Can’t we evacuate the train?” I whispered, scanning the room for the return of the waiter or any passenger that might stroll by.
“No, Rachid gave specific instructions about that.”
“What else are you are not telling me?” This time I saw it in his eyes, the sadness mixed with frustra
tion.
“According to CNN officials, your sister was due to make contact yesterday to report on a story she was working on. Do you have any idea where your sister was heading after Ankara? This might be helpful to narrow down the search area in case she is being held near where she was taken.”
“I think she was to cover the ongoing conflict on the border of Turkey. Perhaps she went to one of the border cities like Cizre. Drake, I’m so worried…” But I stopped myself before cracking with emotion and making a public spectacle of myself.
In all honesty, I knew Sylvia had always been a thrill seeker and liked nothing better than to be in the middle of the action. Some of her pictures had ended up in the National Geographic. She wasn’t afraid to get too close even if it meant being unsafe. Getting kidnapped and held hostage was a completely different ball game, but somehow I just couldn’t stomach this reality, and instead retreated behind the fact that there was no irrefutable proof of it yet. He studied me with unveiled concern etched on his face. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing my sister so soon. Like involuntary flashbacks, horrible pictures popped in my head, the remnants pictures of TV news or newspaper articles, all with the face of my sister superimposed on them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching to touch my hand.
“Well, I haven’t lost anybody yet. Unlike you,” I said and regretted my words the moment they were out. Me and my big mouth.
Cocking his head to the side, he said, “It’s been over sixteen years, you know, so even if you don’t forgive and forget, you try learning to live with the loss.”
I could understand on some levels his point of view, but I didn’t believe the detachment he presented. Does anybody ever really move on after a tragedy like the one his family and himself suffered? I doubted. It was unlike him to confide about his personal life, so I seized the breach to dig further.
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