“I want to touch you,” he said, his voice cracking with passion. It wasn’t a question. More a warning, although there was more than lust in his voice. As his eyes shone with awe and reverence, I let myself be amazed by the power he had on me, that of stopping, in this insane moment, the flight of time.
I moved my hands to trace the contour of his jaw. My silent consent. He reached with gentle care for the hem of my shirt. I let him, a sigh escaping my lips at the anticipation of having him touch me more intimately. His bold fingers traveled up until he’d reached his target. My pulse crescendoed even higher at the contact of his warm fingers where my heart hammered wildly for him.
Perhaps he was only trying to distract me from our imminent fate. It worked for now. I was drunk and dizzy from his scent, his hands, his fervent lips pleading for this moment to continue against all odds. When his hands reached the cup of my bra, I arched with delight, but my quivering knees threatened to give out due to our awkward position and the cabin’s confining space. I reached up and grabbed the overhead luggage rack for support.
Chapter 19
August 31st, VSOE, Cabin 3504, 9 Minutes Before Arrival at Sirkeci Station
With my luck, I had forgotten that my purse, thrown up there with rage, was still on its precarious position on the edge of the rack. I had not bothered to push it back. The Channel toppled down on my head before bouncing off for a fast landing to the floor. Its closing latch opened and once again, the contents of the bag spilled on the carpet.
Drake released me and sighed at the untimely interruption.
He bent down, about to pickup the mess.
“Don’t bother.”
But he was already bending and reaching for the items when something caught my attention. I grabbed his arm.
“Stop.”
“What is it?” he asked, tensing up.
“Look, there, the SD memory card! I brought only one on this trip. It’s in my camera. That one’s not mine,” I said. The card looked like a knock-off of a known brand. With the shifting of the item, the edge of the card’s painting had come off.
“Fuck!” He grabbed the innocent looking one square inch plastic chip.
All this wasted time and horror because I’d failed to notice the stupid card? No way. Unless… Maybe it had been inserted in the lining of my purse when it got ripped. Must be.
“What do we do now? Burn it? Throw it out by the window?”
“No. We need to neutralize it and save it for analysis.”
What? He had found the wretched microchip and didn’t even want to destroy it right away? Was he mad? I refrained from voicing my opinion and kept my sharp tongue in check. If any man could get us out of here alive, Drake was the one.
Another look at my watch reminded me we were about to arrive in Sirkesi Station in less than five minutes.
“What can I do to help?”
“We only have five minutes to build a Faraday cage around it,” he said with a doomsday mug.
The problem was that I had no clue what that was or where to find this.
“Can’t we stop the train, pull the ER handle?”
“No. They’re monitoring us and will forfeit that five minutes if we don’t comply. Rachid was very specific about that point.”
“But where can we get that Faraday cage without leaving the train? Could we jump out and seek help somewhere?” I asked, trying to review all the possibilities as the blood hammered in my temple in sheer hope of producing a brilliant idea.
“There’s no time for that. I need a cloth, Saran Wrap, aluminum foil and a tin box.”
“Follow me,” I said.
He looked at me with surprise and gave a nanosecond of hesitation at my ATC tone. Yeah, that’s the one I use with every pilot in jeopardy. They obey without question when I’m on duty.
I was already flying out the cabin and into the hallway with renewed hope because I knew exactly where to go.
“Where are you going?” He ran behind me as the corridors were too narrow to run side by side.
“Galley.”
Sorry, but no time to apologize to the people we shoved to the sides in our mad race to the middle of the train, a few cars down. I wanted to check the time we had left, but every second was crucial.
We made it to the galley only to meet a locked door. It made sense since the food service was over.
“Move,” he said, taking his gun out.
I flatten myself against the hallway wall while he shot the lock of the door. We barged in, grateful it was deserted.
The clock on the stainless steel walls of the kitchen showed less than two minutes before arrival. Cold sweat ran down my neck as I tried to catch my ragged whizzing breath.
“Take the left side and I’ll take the right,” I told Drake, pointing to the rows of metal cupboards lining the working space. There were a dozen drawers where the items could be stored.
Beyond the galley door we had closed, the clamor of the people in the hallway was growing in volume with every passing second. Adding to it was the faint but growing sound of multiple sirens, but they couldn’t deafen the hard drumming of my heart.
A dishrag was the first item we found by the sink.
The sound of cutlery and metal instruments made a rattle akin to those wind chime clanking in stormy weather. Next, after opening half a dozen cupboards and drawers, Drake found the elusive plastic wrap.
He had placed the SD card on one of the cooking counters and brought the dishrag beside it. He tugged and pulled, at the roll of Saran Wrap like a savage, ripping it to unusable strips. My hands trembled as I tried to find the reluctant edge of the sticky roll. Of all the times for this to happen.
Since I was de facto mandated with the Saran Wrap mission, he continued the search for the other items on the list.
“Can’t find the aluminum foil,” he grumbled between his teeth. An unwelcomed image flashed in a corner of my mind showing the stereotyped male’s response when searching for anything in a kitchen.
“Busy with the Saran Wrap here,” I mumbled with impatience. “Keep looking.”
Ah, at last, I got the roll of Saran Wrap going.
“Drake, tell me what to do with it!” I yelled over the cacophony outside the galley.
He pushed me aside and took the card in his hand.
Holding the SD card, he instructed, “Wrap the Saran Wrap around it carefully as to make a tight seal around it.”
I executed the order with trembling fingers, making sure I sealed the card air tight with the adhesive wrap. The task finished, I turn to him, the precious package in hands, eager to get rid of the hot potato.
“Shit, it won’t work without aluminum. It’s the key ingredient,” he said more to himself, poking his head into the last cupboard of his side of the galley. His searches turned zip.
He looked at his watch and then looked at me with death in his eyes.
“Check for a tea tin, coffee tin, anything,” I cut in with a tight voice.
The man may be a tough guy on a field, but it was another story in a kitchen environment.
I was about to have another go at his side of the cupboard when I stopped in my tracks and turned around to dash for the fridge.
“Thirty seconds, Mara,” he said, striding to me with a purpose.
By now, I could only hear with distant attention the racket going on outside the galley as the train was about to enter the station. Police, ambulances and fire sirens signaled that they were waiting for us at the station.
“Everyone, brace yourselves for an emergency stop. Grab a hold or go down the floor,” announced loud disembodied voices from speaker phones outside the train as we entered Sirkesi Station. Screams of panic muffled the orders the staff were yelling over the cacophony.
But the time of preventive evacuation was long gone. We were out of time.
Opening the fridge’s door, I surveyed my options with haste while scanning all the shelves for
the missing items. One was a stainless bowl containing whip cream covered with aluminum foil. The other, a small round tin of caviar.
After removing the aluminum foil covering the stainless steel bowl, I handed it to Drake. While he worked on the aluminum foil, I pulled on the tab of the caviar tin to open it. Shaking out the contents on the counter, I grabbed the deadly package and stuffed it inside. Next, I opened the nearest metal drawer and threw the loaded tin can inside it.
I didn’t have time to close the drawer because Drake had thrown me to the floor, covering me with his body and pushing my head down with one hand.
Oh God, this is it! I shut my eyes tight.
I counted the passing seconds, waiting for the end to come, bracing myself for whatever would ensue. Pain? Searing burning? Dismemberment?
Three one thousand. Four one thousand… Would we hear a deafening sound before the tremor of the explosion?
Five one thousand. Would we choke from the smoke of the fire?
I never thanked him for everything he had done, nor had I told him how I felt about him. My only consolation was that I would die in his arms. He was panting as hard as I was, shielding me as best as he could.
I jerked at the forceful sound of water being sprayed on the window. The shoutings were coming closer on the inside.
Was I going through a distorted sense of time because of our imminent death? Would I relive, in a blink, the highlights of my life?
Shouldn’t the bombs have detonated by now? The wait was excruciating. I took a deep gulp of air as if getting ready to plunge into hell.
A moment later, firemen, policemen, and all sorts of uniformed men pushed their way into the narrow entrance of the galley. Drake stood up and then helped me up. He opened the drawer in which I had thrown the infamous makeshift package and handed it over one of the uniformed men. In an instant half a dozen security officers pushed their way around me, and we were separated. In a rush, they exited the galley with their precious parcel. More official uniformed men surrounded Drake, pushing him to the exit of the galley.
A fireman approached to escort me off of the train. He was kind enough to ask if I was hurt, but I swiftly dismissed him as I pushed and shoved my way to reach Drake. The latter stopped and turned around to look where I was standing, about twenty feet away. At that moment, another man approached him and they both left with other police officers in tow.
To attract his attention, I lifted my hand. “Drake, wait!” I yelled over the commotion of people surrounding him but it was useless.
“Miss, please follow us,” ordered one of the remaining uniformed man, taking my elbow to escort me out.”
“But I have to speak to Agent Steinfield,” I objected.
“We must evacuate immediately. There could still be explosions.” He didn’t wait for my reply and pushed me without ceremony to the exit.
Drake had already left the train, accompanied by a horde of policemen and security officers. Scanning the crowd, I could not locate him.
In a daze, I followed the uniformed man while dragging my feet with incredible dead weight. Where had Drake gone? A heavy sense of discouragement shrouded my heart. The ordeal, despite being over, afflicted my body with a strange lethargy and numbness. With hindsight, this whole trip had now turned into a surreal haze.
With no explanation, I was brought to a waiting police car and taken for what must be another round of interrogation.
Chapter 20
August 31st, Istanbul, Turkey, Sultania Hotel, 5 PM
At last, by five PM, the police released me, and they allowed me to go about my day as long as I didn’t leave the city, as per instructions. I’d taken a taxi back to the train station where my luggage had been held. After retrieving them, like a sleepwalker, I exited the station, dodging the reporters and photographers throwing themselves at me to get an interview.
I had booked, from home, three nights at the Sultania Hotel, a short distance away from the Sirkeci Train Station. I hailed a cab and arrived within five minutes. Once in my room, I unpacked and called the secure line which one of the men at the Head office of Security of the train station had given me. The number would connect me with the Directorate General of Turkish National Police in Ankara who dealt with the Interpol. I needed reassurance that Sylvia was unharmed. The Interpol officials assured me that there had been no revendication about a kidnapping over these last few weeks. I should have known I’d get the runaround. At the end of the call, I had no additional info, which left me reeling and imagining the most horrific scenarios.
On the bright side, the room was spacious and geared to make one feel indeed like a sultan. The headboard was upholstered with rich gold damask fabric, and above it hung an enormous round medallion of a Turkish lady in traditional garb. The gilded intricate frame was back lit with a soft gold light. In the attendant sitting room, the wood carved coffee table presented two silver platters. Fresh fruits filled one of them while the other contained Turkish Delights, those chewy sugary confection. At the other extremity of the suite stood a small Moorish alcove, just large enough to lodge a cozy sofa where several multicolored silk cushions where fighting for space.
Despite the exotic beauty of the accommodation, I couldn’t relax and rejoice that I’d arrive at my ultimate destination alive and in one piece. I sure hadn’t thought we’d find that microchip in time to prevent a tragedy.
My fool dark mood wouldn’t rest until I got positive assurance that my sister was fine. Here, no news didn’t mean good news. Granted, I had, no tangible proof of Sylvia’s kidnapping so far. For all I knew, the grainy picture of her, holding yesterday’s newspaper could also have been altered with a photo editing software.
I needed to get a grip and think. I continued my exploration beyond the frosted glass wall partition picturing a Turkish bath scene. Wow. I’d get to enjoy my own mini hammam experience. The bathroom sported sleek gray marble floor and counter tops. The huge bath could hold two persons with posh comfort. Now, this is exactly what I need.
I sunk with guilty pleasure into the warm bath to which I had added a few drops of lavender essential oil, provided for the guest’s use. The soothing fragrance did wonders to calm the accumulated stress of these last few days. I pushed for the second time the button activating the invigorating jets of the whirlpool. After examining my wrinkled finger pads, I decided that I had stewed enough.
I must have sloshed water around because when I stepped out, I slipped but was fast enough to grab the glass door frame. But my fingers, still wet, slid off, and I skidded down the floor. Only then did I notice the wooden clogs the hotel provided for the guests in the bathroom. Once I got up, uninjured, I tried them on. They were so uncomfortable and way too big for me; I don’t know who would want to wear them in any circumstances. At least, they were decorative.
Exiting the steamy bathroom, I picked up my comb to work on my tangled hair. Unable to sit still I walked around the suite examining the play of light projected on the walls by the colorful traditional Turkish lamp. My fascination at the kaleidoscope pattern brought my eyes to fall on the documents I’d left on the coffee table.
I’d already passed them twice during my pacing. On the first pass, I had popped a rose water flavored Turkish Delight, which was soon followed by another one tasting of orange blossom essence. On my third pass, I took the VIP invitation I had thrown on the table. I struggled once more to decide. To make matters worse, I had to put up with the ethereal, friendly and yet nagging voice ringing in my head. And that’s not even counting the fake pout that came with it. Sometimes I wondered how Josie and I ever became such close friends because we were so different from each other.
“Cmon; this is one of the thing I was the most looking forward to do. You can’t do this to me, Mara. Can you imagine? The president of the Agatha Christie Society, Albert Finney, Sean Connery, Michael Bublé, the red carpet and all the designer dresses, and a special commemorative souvenir… It’s not fair; you promise
d, bla bla bla.,” popped the familiar voice in my head as if she was just standing here, manipulating me with her patented pout. I remember how she kept going on and on about the Gala as if it was the Academy Award for which she was expecting to receive an Oscar herself.
After a second round of battle, using a brush this time, I growled with impatience at the reluctant knots that deserved nothing less than a guillotine cut.
Maybe if I was lucky, the event taking place in the gardens of the Four Seasons on the Bosphorus Hotel would be rained on or canceled. Did I really want to attend this stuffy VIP Gala?
Sometimes I thought this whole trip was ridiculous but then again, I had not yet viewed this adventure with sufficient distance to be objective. I could hardly recognize myself now. I hadn’t been away long, but living at two hundred miles an hour can no doubt distort one’s perception of time. Was I the same woman who had stumbled onto the Orient-Express seven days ago? I must be and yet, something was different. During this trip, I had lived with more intensity than I had ever experienced in my life. The emotional rollercoaster had left me hyper relaxed, rejuvenated but morose if this was at all possible. Had I grown or become wiser from the experience?
To boot, I must mend my broken heart alone now that my confidant was not even here anymore. Yeah, I had to admit that I kind of fell in love with Steinfield. Ok. I knew I was indulging in self-pity but I deserved a break after all I’d been through. Maybe I needed closure. First, I thad to know that my sister was alive and well. Only then would I feel compelled to finish fulfilling my promise to honor Josie’s last wishes.
Anyway, who would I talk to at the Gala? I knew nobody there and not being an Agatha Christie fan or train oficionado made my presence there kind of ludicrous.
More important was the thought of never seeing him again. It depressed me more than I expected. We were not friends, not even lovers, but still, I wouldn’t have survived this trip without him.
Express Pursuit Page 26