Express Pursuit

by Caroline Beauregard

  I was also positive he had done a lot of maneuvering behind the scenes to ensure of my freedom, my reputation, and overall comfort. Sometimes the most romantic gestures are not what you read about or see in the movies. But then again, this had been rather a one way relationship. He had started with a heads up on me since I’m certain he had run a complete background check on me. In the end, I only learned a few personal details about him, but there had never been a question of anything between us beyond his mission as far as I understood.

  I hadn’t even said goodbye to him.

  I stopped the comb mid length of my hair and remembered something. Dashing to my purse, I pulled out the small scrap of paper he’d given me.

  A telephone number to reach him in case of emergency.

  ‘Really, Mara? You’re so innocent and pathetic.’ I chided myself after dropping it on the coffee table, dismissing it.

  It was stupid to even think he might harbor feelings for me. Yes, at times, his eyes spoke louder than his mouth. The memory of his green irises looking at me with laughter, concern, or desire still pursued me.

  I remembered the tender pressure of his sensual lips on mine the first time we kissed. His initial hesitation had exploded into an unexpected savage possession. He’d unleashed his hidden beast, releasing it from his harsh restraints when I’d responded with equal fervor to his lip assault. My skin could map every place he’d kissed and caressed. The sheer warmth left by his hands sent my nerve endings into a hypersensitive mode every time he touched me.

  A milky heat was rising in me as I relived the feel of his arms around me. The thrill of our mutual discovery and exploration was only equal to the joy of the embrace, body and soul, even if it had been only for fleeting moments. I wanted to feel him again. I wanted to feel whole again. Wanted him like I had never wanted another man. The sweet fever of my desire was not just lodged in the deepest recess of my core; it was tattooed with indelible ink into my soul as if he’d also branded me with the fiery gold speckles of his eyes.

  I will never be cured of his brief passage in my life.

  I kept repeating to myself that it was incredible and downright naive of me to fall for someone so fast, although I’d fought it every step of the way. He was everything I used to avoid in men: macho, always on the go, too handsome. What’s more, he was just interested in me because I was in the wrong spot at the wrong time. Logic reminded me I shouldn’t let the extraordinary events of the last few days color my brain cells from gray to pink. He had helped me, after judging me innocent, through a difficult time, and in the heat of stress, we had simply succumbed to a mutual carnal desire.

  But my heart was rebelling against such an oversimplified explanation. It was shouting: Relent or risk the spread of this disease until complete infection! It kept pumping its sweet love venom into my veins and would not cease unless I paid heed to its maddening threat.

  Granted, we spent several nights together but never ever made any promises or plans for each other.

  The room’s phone rang, and I jumped, almost dropping my comb. Drake?

  “Mara, it’s Sylvia. The Interpol told me how to reach you after they found me. Are you all right?” asked my sister.

  “Never mind me. I’m fine. Did they hurt you? My God, when I saw that picture of you yesterday, holding the newspaper, I couldn’t…” I choked, strangled with emotion.

  “It’s Ok, Mara. I’m Ok. I was covering a story when I was captured three days ago and then I was taken to a secret location. I’ve never been so afraid in my life” she said, her voice for once a bit shaky.

  “Oh Sylvia, I’m so glad to hear your voice! I thought …” The stress that I had been enduring over these last few day engulfed me like a pressure cooker having reached its limit. I burst into tears of exhaustion and joy.

  “Calm down, Mara. I’m not seriously hurt. Just a few scratches and bruises for the show and pictures, you know. I don’t need to tell you how scary the experience was, but eventually I told myself that if I got out of there in one piece, I would at least have a hell of a story to tell. The Interpol found out where they held me within eight hours after they received the picture. Hey, looks like you’ve got friends in high places because they managed to release me insanely fast under the insistent request of some International FBI agent. Say, I know it’ll sound crazy, but we could still meet tomorrow and spend the next few days together as planned. I really miss you, sis.”

  I had regained somewhat control of myself and couldn’t help but think that Drake may have been this FBI agent she mentioned. I couldn’t wait to see her, and her enthusiastic tone helped me tune back into a more positive mood. At last, this story would end well.

  “I miss you too, Vivy.” I hadn’t used her nickname since our childhood, but it sure felt good to do it now.

  “Hey, I’ll head back to the States after I’ve finish a few articles I want to put out. Imagine, CNN is more than thrilled by my story from the inside. Tomorrow, we could go shopping in the Grand Bazaar, and once we’re dead on our feet, we’ll go to this hammam and get pampered. Sorry, I’ve got to go, I’ll text you later. See you soon.”

  I closed the phone, bewildered. She had sounded excited as usual. She always possessed the uncanny ability to hit me like a tidal wave whenever we talked. I mean, whenever she talked.

  It was already seven PM. Although I was elated that she was safe and sound, my sister’s phone call only provided a short lived diversion from my previous preoccupation.

  Had I been sitting here like a lovesick schoolgirl daydreaming about a love affair that existed only in my imagination? Was I hiding behind a litany of rationalization, or was it was because I didn’t have the courage to go after what I wanted? My common sense or pride must likely have been at the core of my dilemma, along with a hefty dose of fear of rejection, which kept freezing me into inaction.

  ‘Cmon, Mara, you’ve never lacked confidence in yourself,’ echoed Josie in a corner of my mind. But I had good reasons to be hesitant concerning men.

  A parade of failed relationships came to the forefront of my memory before bowing out with displeasure. Each of them reminded me I had had my heart broken almost every time. It had been because I misread the interest of the guy, or they accused me of being too driven and competitive which rendered me intimidating. The latest one had cheated on me. No wonder I was less than enthusiastic at the idea of placing myself in a vulnerable position again.

  Through thick and thin, Josie was always there to pick up the pieces and push me back into circulation, as she liked to call it.

  She would laugh, seeing me mooning over Steinfield. Yep, I’d have to agree with her; I had finally met my match.

  She was right. I’d never been so unsure of myself. But was I ready to come to terms with the fact that this man made me feel more feminine and yet more emotionally fragile than ever before? Then again, I felt stronger and more alive whenever he was around. I was comfortable giving him space to do what he had to do while feeling safer and more complete. For some strange reason, I trusted him more because he had given me his trust in the first place, even when all odds were against me.

  So admit it, for Pete’s sake, I chastised myself, giving up.

  Yes, the thought was forming with the brilliance of an indisputable revelation. A weight lifted from the constant churning of my deliberations.

  I was in love with him and wanted him under any terms, no matter what the price, and I didn’t care if it was only for a minute.

  Still in the living room, I resumed my wrestling match with my tangled locks while pacing back and forth in front of the scrap of paper.

  From the looks of it, I had two possible courses of action.

  The first was to do nothing. Maybe it was best he remember me as the strong no nonsense woman who kept her cool while facing danger and who didn’t let a few sensual moments turn her head.

  My second option was to call him. But did I want him to pick up the phone and s
uffer the embarrassment of dealing with what he might qualify as another clingy one? He must have encountered that situation often during his missions. Having to save and protect many women’s lives, the latter mixing gratefulness with other types of feelings.

  Besides, he was the one who had all the information to contact me, if he so wishes, even if for no other reason than to discuss the wrap up of his mission. Oh boy, that sounded so desperate.

  Before I gave in to temptation, I put the paper back into a small zipped section of my purse. After all, he had only given it to me to use in case I had an emergency, and this was certainly not the case. The corner of the paper got stuck at the bottom of the pocket in a little two inch tear in the lining of the bag. My breath caught in my chest, and I froze in place with realization. Why, after all these sessions of questioning, was I now remembering this? Had I had a momentary amnesia because of the blow to my head when I fell or had some emotional hang-up clicked this memory back in place?

  Finally, I understood why no one had noticed it after all this searching. It was not visible and so small.

  I replayed the scene in slow motion in my head.

  I was on the floor at Victoria Station in London and this man, who stood beside me, leaned over my purse. Look, focus, slow down the memory. Concentrate. After a few seconds, a fog lifted, as if someone had removed the blur or turned up the sharpening button on the picture. The colors intensified along with the definition. Then, the full scene unfolded, bright and clear, frame by frame.

  The elderly Arabic features of his face with its large grey-white eyebrows appeared. His hands handing me my cell phone. Fingers with lots of salt and pepper hair on them. I took my phone from him. When he got up, something caught my eye. Something shiny sticking out of his hands. A knife? A razor? No. A sharp blade. A handle. I’d seen that somewhere. Think, Mara. Yes, it was something I’d seen during my last move, three years ago. Boxes. Cardboard boxes. Yes! Got it. It was an exacto knife.

  Chapter 21

  August 31st, Istanbul, Police Department, 6 PM

  As he sat in one of the small back office room of the Interpol Security Branch downtown, near Istanbul University, Drake found it difficult to complete his final report. The room, devoid of windows, was quiet, but despite the absence of distraction, his thoughts kept straying. They pulled him in so many directions; he found himself ill prepared for such a turmoil of emotions.

  First, he had to deal with his failure to bring Rachid to justice. There was nothing heroic about the aborted bombings of Sirkeci Station and Sultanahmet district. If it hadn’t been for Mara, he wouldn’t have been able to produce that Faraday cage in such a short time. It was her sense of logic and her cool practical mind that had led him to understand how the device operated.

  Maybe he could forgive himself for crossing the line since that last kiss had brought down that damn chip to light. How had he missed it? It only took a few seconds for an agile hand to make a two inch incision in the lining of the purse and drop in the phony SD memory card. Even after all that shaking, the item had stubbornly remained lodged in the lining until, by chance, it had shifted toward the opening, allowing it to slipped out when they arrived at Sirkeci Station.

  He was also upset with himself for acting like a coward when he grabbed the easy excuse of being surrounded, after the train arrived intact at the station, not to respond to her outstretched hand, signalling for his attention. He told himself if was better to let her go on with her life because there was no freaking way he could have fallen in love so hard for a woman he met not even a week ago.

  Maybe he just needed to finish his report. That’s right. It would give him a sense of closure. Perhaps one day he’d cross her path in New York. Maybe he could take some time off and visit his mother. The familiar pang of guilt gripped him as he remembered her face the last time he saw her two years ago. Mara Ellington had succeeded in making him irrevocably homesick.

  Well, if he was so desperate to see the young woman, he could always contact her. He had all the information. But what for?

  He turned off his laptop, unable to concentrate. That’s what she did to him. He placed it back in its case, and his eyes caught the edge of a white card, sticking out from one of the opened side pockets inside his briefcase.

  ***

  I left my hotel around seven forty-five PM and took at taxi to the venue which was figuring on the Gala invitation card. This would conclude my promise to Josie.

  The Four Seasons Hotel was located by the Bosphorus Strait, which separates Europe from Asia. As per the website, the former Ottoman palace dating from the 19th century offered a prized view of the old city. In the distance, one could see Istanbul’s landmarks basked in golden light across the river. The mosques, a mastery of architectural wonder, with their domes flanked by tall lean spikes, looked like outlandish spaceships in the Turkish landscape.

  The elegant converted palace, with its old world charm was caressed with the sunset light of the early evening. I crossed the refined Moorish lobby area and headed toward the back of the hotel. The exit to the terrace facing the river was off limits and guarded by an usher standing in front of a red velvet rope.

  As I dug in my purse to take out the VIP pass, I reflected once again on the missing event ticket. When I had packed in a rush, after making a last-minute decision to go, a little over two weeks ago, I had not bothered removing the second ticket from the envelope. But now, one had disappeared. Had someone taken it? Stolen it? Should I worry about this? It was not the first oddity to happen since this trip had begun, that’s for sure. But still the missing ticket left me ill at ease.

  “Welcome, Miss Ellington,” greeted the usher after validating my invitation with the guest list. He darted furtive glances around me and said, “I believe a Miss Goodrich had also booked a ticket along with yours, if I am not mistaken. Perhaps Miss Goodrich will join us later?” He checked the guest list on his ledger for the second time.

  “No, it’s just me.”

  “Very well. Please follow me,” he said with a flourished gesture of his hand.

  After only a few steps into the expansive marbled esplanade and manicured gardens, my jaw slacked open in awe at the pristine setup extending over the whole back of the hotel. The fantastic oasis featured an abundance of geranium planters and potted cedars offering a colorful foreground to the deep green of the Bosphorus, visible through the glass guards of the terrace.

  Stone fountains sparkled with icy blue lights. About thirty round tables, set for diners, showcased centerpieces made of tall lighted vases where an assortment of exotic flowers exploded in all their glory: birds of paradise and anthuriums. Other tables had centerpieces made of peacock feathers and purple and turquoise crystal drops. What a striking dramatic effect they created.

  The whole garden could have passed for a movie set from the 1930s. A soft breeze from the edge of the water cooled the balmy air. Two vintage film cameras stood with open flaps on strategic stage areas. All throughout the garden, several old time slate board clackers on stands, featuring “Murder on the Orient Express,” were sprinkled everywhere tying in the movie theme. Dozens of potted palms in Turkish terracotta vase gave out an almost Victorian atmosphere. There was also extensive security as I spotted at least six security agents spread throughout the venue.

  I estimated the number of guests to about three hundred. Most woman had dressed in variations of the 1930s vintage theme while men stuck to classic tuxedos.

  At least the waiters were easy to spot. There was a dozen of them, all wearing the same white shirt and gray checkered bow tie and carrying a silver tray. I clocked ten, each once covering about a range of twenty feet around them. I had already pinpointed them in each section. Must be a distorted sense of professional habit on my part or the simple fact I was already bored.

  The waitresses, dressed in sexy black dresses, were passing finger food, and I noticed the comical mini-dagger used for spearing the appetizers. A few of the
guests were making comments about those in relation to the book. Two of them even pretended to stab each other with them. Maybe they were also getting restless. It reminded me that I had never finished reading the famous book.

  Champagne corks were popping at a dissonant rhythm. The fifteen member chamber orchestra held residence on a small stage at the far extremity of the garden where most of the action and guests gathered.

  A sigh escaped my lips. Josie would have been thrilled to be here tonight. I guess I should make an effort to mingle. I recognized a few faces from the Hollywood and European celebrity scene. Couldn’t remember their names, but they were top-notch actors. The big band played a mix of oldies and contemporary dance numbers. Dozens of couples danced on the dance floor. Since I was no dancing queen, I worked on improving my wallflower skills and stayed clear from risks of being invited. I opted to stroll by the waterfront, away from the action at the opposite side of the garden.

  One waiter from my section swung my way. This one was sporting a white bow instead of a gray one. Perhaps the senior head waiter? I extended my hand, and he stopped with a light nod to allow me to grab one of the etched gold rimmed champagne glass. As no one was in my immediate vicinity, I checked out my musical ability. After dipping my index finger in the champagne, I coated the rim with the bubbly and repeated the circling motion. The undulating pitch of the impromptu instrument provided me with gleeful satisfaction.

  The waiter continued his run of champagne but because of the way he held his tray, I wasn’t surprised he spilled part of the flute’s contents on a guest.

  “I’m sorry, I should have been more careful,” he apologized. The pitch and his accent sounded vaguely familiar. Strange. At least, for once, the spilling wasn’t on me.

  The orchestra rumbled into an opening snippet announcing a guest speaker. I returned to my previous vantage point closer to the orchestra. I almost choked on my champagne when I recognized the bejeweled hand and extravagant glasses. In haste, I reviewed in my head all the conversations I had had with Josie and couldn’t find when she would have told me about this.