“You also might enjoy yourself.” He sobered and took another look at his watch. “And you’ll be late if you don’t hurry; we’re arriving at the station.”
***
By midday, we had crossed the Bulgarian border and reached Varna. From there, the passengers who had opted for this excursion hopped on a charted bus, inspected for security that same morning, to Chernevo, twenty-two miles away, where the Barite Complex was located. The open-air museum was set in a secluded forest. The weather had cleared and warmed since last night, making this an ideal day for this outdoor visit. We were not the only group visiting today as several families were milling about the extensive site. Children were running around the wooden playground while others opted to see the kept farm animal and petting zoo from which a fresh hay odor came.
Several rural dwellings presented demonstrations of traditional crafts. Country men and women, dressed in traditional costumes, showed some long-forgotten skills used by farm people back in those days.
The rustic farming buildings, exuding a smoky aroma of burning wood, plunged the visitor into an epoch when lifestyles were simpler. And less stressful than today’s.
The children could ride in an old gypsy style buggy pulled by miniature horses, dressed in colorful harnesses complete with pompoms and jiggle bells.
One of the elder women demonstrated how to card and spin wool and do tapestry while the men showed smithery and carpentry. Their calm and quiet demeanor while they worked their crafts fascinated me. The light breeze carried the aroma of roasted meat cooking in an open-air hearth.
A troupe of dancers offered us a small show on the grass of this lovely meadow. After the second dance number, I moved to the back of the group to get the best angle for a picture when a light push on my back brought me to the circle of dancers beckoning the visitors to join them. At least I’d secured my camera away before they grabbed both of my hands to join in a high speed maddening polka. I struggled to keep up with the intricate steps and almost tripped two times. On my second turn, I caught sight of a familiar tall figure in the mist of their spectators.
Steinfield had managed to come after all and was grinning from ear to ear with mischievous eyes while giving me a little wave of recognition. He focused more on watching me half trip on my feet and making of fool out of myself rather than paying attention to the folkloric presentation.
But in all honesty, the relaxing pastoral atmosphere and the good meal were potent distractions, and there was nothing else to do than to enjoy the moment. But why should I deprive the good FBI agent from the pleasure of a bit of fun for a change?
Before long, two of the male dancers dragged him to the center of the circle. After placing him in front of me, they instructed him on how to do the ‘wedding dance’, the guide explained. His impromptu dance teachers gesticulated for him to place his hands on my waist and for me to hold his shoulder. The group and dancers cheered and clapped to the sound of the fiddle and tambourine. While I didn’t appreciate being the center of attention, it was worth it just to watch Steinfield’s reaction. The tip of his ears were turning redder by the minute as he tried to follow their instructions in broken English.
“What the f…,” he started, but upon seeing me break into a fit of giggles, he added with a mocked menacing tone, “Did you have anything to do with this?”
“Yes, and the look on your face now is priceless” I snickered, unable to stop laughing.
Anyway, I was glad he could join us, although I’ll admit that I was more than surprised and puzzled by his presence. He gave me a small rictus of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Yep, must be additional bad news or his plan of intervention did not go as well as he expected. Otherwise, he would still be busy discussing details, I gathered.
“So, you joined me here to make sure I remembered the boarding time for the final stretch of the journey or is there something else going on?” I tried to ease up the tension on his knitted brow.
“Come.” He extended his hand to my back to guide me to the exit of the folks museum.
Immediately, I tensed up, knowing why he didn’t want the rest of the group to hear our conversation.
We crossed the clearing at a brisk pace toward the exit of the site. He gestured for me to sit on an old wooden bench in the shade of a maple tree by the parking lot. The bus was waiting for the rest of the group to return to take us back to the train.
“A car exploded early this morning on one of Istanbul’s main bridges, the Galata Bridge. The fanatic driver killed ten people and injured thirty-six more before killing himself. Another Islamic group other than Rachid’s has claimed responsibility for this attack. Because of the ongoing investigation, the bridge is closed today.”
I cringed as I imagined the horror while my stomach dived.
“The Interpol thinks the Galata Bridge attempt and explosions planned on Sultanahmet District could be enough to trigger an international conflict.”
“Can’t they request at least a partial evacuation of the perimeter around Sirkesi Train Station?”
“Local authorities are still arguing.” He shook his head with a cynical expression.
We continued in silence during the short shuttle bus ride back to the train and made our way to our compartments on board. Once in the safety of his cabin, he sat pinching the ridge of his nose, his head shimmying from side to side. I sat beside him and laid a hand on his arm.
“I’ve been trying to get experts in bombing here and because of road construction and delayed flights, they cannot get enough manpower to cover the extent of the tracks before we arrive. We’re running out of time.”
“What about my sister; any news?”
He stared at me hard. “You know I’ve been trying to get her out of this mess as best as I can, don’t you?”
Tears welled in my eyes as understanding knitted my throat and stomach. After taking a deep breath, I couldn’t prolong the excruciating anticipation of the darkest scenario and prepared for the worst.
He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and tapped it a few times before he handed it to me.
I grabbed the phone with trembling hands as a tear threatened to roll down my cheek. The picture seemed to come from a secure FBI site, judging from the three logos I recognized from his ID card he’d presented in London. The grainy picture showed a young woman sitting in a small room with damaged plastered walls with what appeared like a red stain smeared on the back wall. She sat on a simple straight chair holding a newspaper dated yesterday. Despite the dirty, disheveled state of her hair, the black eye and swollen lip, I couldn’t deny that she looked like my sister, but I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure.
“Do you think she’s still alive?” I prayed she was as the errant tear ran down my cheek.
He raised his eyes, full of empathy for my sorrow, and wiped the tear away. He took a moment before answering as if looking for the best way to tell me.
“They would lose their leverage with you if they killed her. I think they forwarded this picture to ensure that you continue your trip as per instruction.”
I gripped his leather jacket sleeve. “Are you sure?” I didn’t know if I should be hopeful or incredulous at this point. But regardless, I held on to this possibility like a drowning man being tossed a lifesaver. This would never have happened to her if I had not stumbled into this terrorist beehive.
“It could also be a fake picture using someone who resembles your sister,” he offered, his tone unconvincing.
Upon examining the picture again, I had to admit that it was hard to say. She had been missing less than a week, but I hadn’t seen her for more than half a year so she might have gained or lost weight. The hair was the same length and color. With the back eye and swollen lips, her facial features were hard to recognize. Then again, the picture was so grainy that I had to enlarged it to its maximal capacity to see better. The white T-shirt she wore had no distinguishing marks. Something was not adding up, but I couldn�
��t put my finger on it.
“I also received an update on your status.”
“My status?”
“At my request, my colleague Jeff at the CT FBI Head Office has been screening for any information circulating about you. So this morning he picked up that you are now officially on the US No Fly list. The FAA has suspended your ATC certificate because the Interpol considers you an accessory to terrorist activity. Until what you carry is found or Rachid’s faction confesses how they have been using you, the FAA can’t risk allowing you back in the States.” He lifted a hand up as I opened my mouth in protest.
“I know you have committed no crime, but with those Interpol notices on your head, authorities would assume there is a possibility you may be involved in terrorist activities even if only as an unwilling accessory. Unfortunately for you, the FBI can blacklist you because, according to them, you qualify as an individual suspected of being engaged in conduct related to preparation of terrorist activities. Therefore, you constitute a threat to US national security until this situation is resolved.”
I sat there and let it crash over me. I knew that this news shouldn’t have surprised, me but it was still a blow. By my forced silence, I had become a participant in the sacrifice of innocent victims. I couldn’t live with myself even if we made it through this alive.
He offered his hand, but I got up and left to cross to my cabin and closed the door behind me. I wanted to be alone.
August 31st, VSOE, Bulgaria to Turkey, Afternoon
The rest of the passengers who had opted for the Barite Complex excursion joined us back on board with joyful chatter about the good time they had as they headed for their respective cabins. We would then start the last stretch of the trip. The light tremor of the seat announced our departure from Chernevo train station. After two minutes, we reached the train’s usual cruising speed, but the gentle rolling sound got interrupted by a deafening detonation resonating as if lightning had struck us.
It came from the back of the train, but I couldn’t be sure. I winced from the strident, piercing sound, like chalk scratching on a blackboard, ripping throughout the whole train.
It screeched to a halt, projecting me off my seat and to the floor.
On both sides of the cabin, muffled surprised gasps, screams and shrieks enriched the high pitch level of decibels ringing in my ears. All reverberated with distortion as my twisted senses processed the impact.
I shook my head as if to reboot its bugged connection caused by the multiple sounds assaulting me and to work through my new head trauma. I’d landed on the carpeted floor, my back against the seat. Geez, how many blows to my head was I supposed to suffer during this trip? Now I knew how a boxer feels in the arena.
Drake had crossed to my cabin and was now crouching by my side. I guessed from years of training on the field with crisis and surprise attacks, he was quick to offer assistance to victims. He gave me a hand up after a cursory glance.
“You Ok?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he was already exiting the cabin, leaving its door open. I guess alive and breathing qualified as Ok. He must have wanted to beat the upcoming congestion in the hallway to reach the train master as soon as possible.
My mind was reeling with the implication. Was this another bombing from Rachid’s group? Within two minutes, everyone had stepped from their cabins into the hallway, hoping to see better what was going on. Soon, police and ambulance sirens added to the erratic noise.
The stewards instructed us to remain on the train and stay calm. From an open window in the hallway, the smoke fumes seeped in from the train station we had just left. I closed it back, not wanting to let the odor stink my cabin. In the hallway he passengers were badgering the stewards for explanations. Some had their carry on luggage in their hands and demanded to get their checked luggage. Others requested that the train leave at once to get away from the danger zone. An elderly passenger held a cross and was kissing it while reciting prayers.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, return to your seats; we are currently checking to see what happened. I’m sure we’ll soon be on our way. Is there anybody hurt?” asked our compartment head steward.
Mr. Hartman, a rotund man I’d met earlier in the hallway because one couldn’t help but graze him due to his expansive girth had grabbed a steward’s arm and was now demanding his full attention. The self proclaimed train aficionado was an imposing figure who would put any adult walrus to shame. His matching large, bushy and droopy mustache almost hid his mouth. The man was a walking encyclopedia about trains and could bore or sedate anyone within a ten feet radius with his regurgitated statistics.
“Don’t you give us crap about staying calm and not exiting the train. We have a right to know what’s going on, and for your information, young man, this train is equipped with an RCAS to prevent collisions, and there’s no crossroad coming up for the next ten miles. So I ask you again, what’s going on?” As he spoke, one could observe his face turning a pressurized reddish purple, including his three chins and neck.
I wondered if I should try to calm him down before his blood pressure gets high enough to trigger a stroke or heart attack.
“Mr. Hartman, I knew you’d be the best man to reassure me with all the safety features of this train. Could you perhaps tell me if these tracks could be tempered with?” Pulling his arm gently toward me, I guided him to the direction of my cabin.
I was positive Steinfield wouldn’t want me snooping around or breathing down his neck to learn what was going on at the back of the train. I might as well get more information from the next best resource on railway safety.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to explain some of these things while we let them sort it out. Because I work as an air traffic controller, I’m curious to know if railways have a similar system of traffic control as we do for airspace,” I said once we were seated in my compartment.
He wiped the excess sweat from his forehead and cleared his toady throat while straightening his expansive back. If he had feathers, he would have fanned them like a peacock’s tail.
“Well, Miss Ellington”—he laid his stout hand on mine—“this is a fascinating subject, and I’ll be glad to explain to you how this company runs one of the most efficient…”
After calculating that it had been ten minutes since we had stopped, I jumped from my seat. Half the people in the hallway had returned, although grumbling, to their seats. Now that the paramedics and police forces were on the premises, I figured I could try to reach Steinfield to get an update.
“Please, Mr. Hartman, I’d be thrilled to hear about it, but all this commotion has left me thirsty. Let me run and get us more mineral water,” I said and hurried out.
“But, but Miss Ellington, you have plenty here?” I heard him behind me, having not bothered to close my cabin’s door on my way out.
I jogged toward the back of the train. Further down, another steward was issuing more instructions to the worried passengers.
“Please, the Head Master has requested that you regain your seats. We are inspecting the train for damage as we speak. These delays are beyond our control. We appreciate your cooperation and hope to be on our way soon. In the meantime, please accept our apologies for the inconvenience,” announced the head steward of that section.
Because they had not issued a request to evacuate the train, I figured we were in no immediate danger. Immediate being the operative word here. Rachid must have successfully triggered one of his bombs in the Chernevo Train Station from which we had just departed. But then again, a sour note crossed my mind. Did Rachid factor in these delays when he set up his explosives? Was he not, since the beginning of this horror, relying on the train’s timetables? If he does, we would arrive in Istanbul later than planned.
August 31st , somewhere in Europe, Midday
The small bistro reeked of pungent Turkish coffee while its air sustained a permanent cloud of shisha pipe smoke and cigarettes.
At a corner table in the back of the arcade gallery from which hung an assortment of silk woven carpets sat three men. The eldest, in his seventies, wore the traditional caftan and head cloth. There was several scars and blemishes on his wrinkled face, most hidden by his long beard. Sitting to his right was a middle aged man wearing a classic cut European suit while to his left, the youngest sported an ultra sleek leather jacket and Hugo Boss T-shirt.
The eldest took another sip of his hookah and exhaled slowly before speaking.
“Yesterday, Baghdadir’s men have located the reporter. They are waiting for my order to proceed with step four of the plan. I am still waiting for the report about Budapest explosion. Those who failed at their mission will be executed if they talk,” he said.
“If you’d stop using locals all the time, you wouldn’t have failed this mission.” The beardless young man sneered, popping another date in his mouth from the small silver tray on the table.
“Quiet! Young punks like you do not think,” admonished the eldest before continuing. “You always want to act without regards to the master plan. We will never overtake these Infidels if we allow someone to identify our unit. The last thing you want is for one of us to appear longer on the Interpol or FBI wanted list.”
“But why don’t we request a ransom for the reporter. We could use more funds for our cause ,” suggested the middle-aged man, keeping his eyes on his empty expresso cup.
“You are letting your mind get infected with the capitalist ideas of these Infidels. Sometimes, I am ashamed to call you my son. All you should think about is to do your duty for the cause and the glory of Allah. Have you verified the installation of the equipment in Sirkesi Station?”
“Yes, everything is ready. No delay this time.”
“Very good, my son; we will announce our next demands through the usual channel. By the grace of Allah, we will win this war and we will soon be reunited with Mohammed and Ali,” said the eldest, inviting the others to join hands for a prayer.
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