Express Pursuit

by Caroline Beauregard

  So Mrs. Marjory Flaggerty was the president of the Agatha Christie Fan Club and hosting this event to honor the train and collect funds for UNICEF. She also mentioned that the DuPont Company, owning the Orient-Express, were celebrating eighty-three years of the novel and the hundred twenty-eight years since the train’s first Paris-Istanbul run. No wonder the average age of the guests was over sixty years, except for the celebrities who had played in the newer film version.

  I surveyed the gathering and wondered for the hundredth time what I was doing here except keeping a promise to my dead friend. Maybe I had made enough of an appearance and could leave without seeming rude. Besides, people were busy listening to Mrs. Flaggerty’s long speech, who was now enumerating an overlong list of sponsors.

  Turning on my heels, I ambled toward the exit.

  “… and I would also like to invite one of our biggest contributors to this event, Miss Josiane Goodrich.” The round of applause played in my head like a crescendo from a foreign symphony as I tried to process the announcement.

  I stopped in my tracks and turned around, unable to believe what I’d just heard. Too late to make a discreet disappearing act now. I walked forward at an uncertain pace and lifted a finger to signal my presence to Mrs. Flaggerty. What was I supposed to do now? All the guests near the stage turned around, looking in my direction, expecting Josie to pop up and come on stage. Mrs. Flaggerty peered at me with a fake smile plastered on her face and demanded, with a slight nod to me, that I join her on stage. There was no doubt in my mind about the message she was sending me in capital letters. So much for wallflowers and my quick exit plan.

  I advanced at a slow and unsure pace toward the stage. I needed time to figure a nice way to explain my friend’s absence. Trying to keep a neutral expression, I inwardly cursed Josie and Flaggerty for putting me through this. Why hadn’t she told me about this? Goes to show I didn’t know her that well.

  Oh God, this was so unlike me to make a spectacle of myself, in front of three hundred strangers, no less. I had to fight with every fiber of my muscles against my instinct to flee in the opposite direction. But I owed it to Josie and myself to overcome my aversion of this type of situation.

  I stepped on stage, steeling myself for what was to follow.

  Mrs. Flaggerty leaned toward my ear and whispered with a phoney syrupy tone. “Miss Ellington? What a surprise. Do you know where Miss Goodrich is?” she asked with acid oozing in her cultured accent. “You never mentioned knowing her when I met you on the train,” she added, puzzled by Josie’s absence.

  “She passed away last month; I’m sorry for not notifying the organizer of the event.”

  A flash of empathy passed through her face, but after a second, she regained her composure and extended her clawed hand around my shoulder to make sure I’d stay put. Without wasting a minute, she straightened her back and continued her announcement without further delay as if someone had put her on pause with a button.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ellington will accept the award for best supporter and donor of our club on behalf of the late Miss Josianne Goodrich. On behalf of the Agatha Christie Fan Club and the DuPont Company, we would like to present you with this unique piece of art work created exclusively for this historical occasion.”

  The heavy brass award on a black metallic pedestal was composed of an inch thick circular plate containing the vintage floral logo of the Orient-Express. Around its edge were engraved the intertwined letters of the VSOE and of the ACFC, the Agatha Christie Fan Club. The center of the piece also included a carved inscription: The secret for getting ahead is taking the journey. The monster trophy, made of solid metal, must have weighed over ten pounds despite being only an inch or two larger than the size of a hand. Mrs. Flaggerty also presented me with a small jewelry box which contained a pin version of the trophy.

  Without further ado, the hostess pinned the commemorative trinket to my dress. “Aren’t you going to say something? It’s customary in these cases for a representative to give a few words of acceptance you know.” She spoke between her teeth while leaning close to my ear.

  I tried to reason myself. This was just a stupid mike. Was I not speaking daily in a similar device during my shifts at the Tower? But this was a public speech, not a set of instructions to a disembodied interlocutor. Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and dived in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry to inform you that my dearest friend, Josianne Goodrich, passed away three weeks ago. It was her fervent wish I attend this event on her behalf. I’m sure she would have appreciated receiving this honor because she was a big fan of Agatha Christie and the Orient-Express.” Lifting the trophy high above my head with a gulp tightening my voice and tears threatening to overflow, I saluted her. “This is for you, Josie. To the best friend I ever had. As for me, it has certainly been an interesting adventure getting here tonight.”

  I rushed back down the stage and took off at a brisk pace, aiming for my previous safe spot at the other end of the garden, a good fifty feet from the assembled crowd. A mix of uncertain applause and laughter trailed in my wake. I put the cumbersome award on the table where I had sat a few minutes ago.

  I don’t think my green dress with a sweetheart neckline and flaring skirt was up to snuff with the designer attires that populated the garden along with the assortment of tuxedos. At least the green must have complemented the red of my face during my brief foray into show business. During this trip, every piece of designer clothes loaned by Josie, and the knock offs I had bought for the occasion, had been ripped, stained or soaked in dirty water. The only piece of evening wear that had remained intact was this one, a long-standing favorite of mine because it was comfortable, wrinkle free and lightweight to travel. Its elegant simplicity and the shade of dark jade had fascinated me when I found it in a factory outlet. Now the leafy green remind me of someone’s eye color, I mused half depressed.

  I had almost reached my destination when a man parked himself in front of me and boomed with a boisterous tone, “Miss Ellington, what a pleasure to see you here. Remember me?” he asked, grabbing my hand and shaking it with bone breaking vigor. Mr. Hartman, the train aficionado, showed no intention of letting go. “How about a dance?” he asked without waiting for an answer and dragging me to the dance floor in front of the stage.

  “Hmm, well, you see Mr. Hartman, I was about to leave and…” I tried keeping my toes away from his two hundred-fifty pounds of crushing power, but he was not taking no for an answer.

  “Nonsense. This party just got more interesting now that I’ve run into you,” he said with a wink, sliding his sweaty paw behind my back. “Did you know the Orient-Express has seen more celebrity during…”

  Oh boy, how long was this song? I couldn’t wait for it to finish. I thought if I stepped deliberately on his toes it wouldn’t even have affected him. My only salvation was that the man was so busy presenting his monologue of statistics that I didn’t need to pretend to keep a conversation.

  What was I doing here, living this life by proxy for someone else? The gala was enchanting and everyone had been nice with me. Even my unwanted dance partner was nevertheless acting like a gentleman.

  As promised, I had completed the trip, although it had not turned out like anything I expected. During these last few days, I had lived at two hundred miles an hour and yet I felt listless and disconnected. Empty. My spirit plummeting faster than a 747 on a free fall. I didn’t even want to imagine how strange it would be to return to my daily routine once back home in the states.

  I ignored my dance partner, and I didn’t care how rude it might seem. All I could think of was making another attempt to leave once this song was over. I glanced around and noticed a few women turning their heads toward the roped entrance of the garden. Maybe another celebrity was arriving, fashionably late. A minute after returning to my study of Mr. Hartman’s feet, I heard someone behind him.

  “Excuse me. May I cut in?”<
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  Chapter 22

  I heard with disbelief a voice I could now recognize anywhere in the world. Steinfield? Here? I had to admit that he had also made an effort to dress up. His black jacket contoured with his tall muscular frame, and a few ladies ogled him as he crossed the distance between us. But the ill-adjusted suit, short on sleeves and pants length, suggested that he had likely snatched his outfit off the back of some waiter instead of an Armani store. His confident stance was making me nervous even if his wannabe James Bond look had lost its luster. His eyes sparkled with mischief at my bewildered expression.

  “Missed me?” He smirked.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You thought I’d let you attend this alone?”

  Was that a comment on my ability to attract trouble or a statement on my lack of escort for the evening? I was still hurt my his easy dismissal at the train station.

  “Agent Steinfield, like I said, your mission is over, so why are you really here? And this gala is by invitation only, and I’m sure you didn’t receive one.”

  “Who says I don’t have an invitation?” he asked and pulled his VIP pass out of his jacket. His eyes sparkled with a teasing expression.

  “You stole Josie’s invitation?” I accused, my voice turning a couple of heads a few feet away.

  “Well, someone had to ensure your safety.” He chuckled while snaking his arm around my back and inducing me to sway with him.

  The ticket thief was patronizing along with his other annoying flaws.

  “If you were so concerned about my safety, you could have hired a bodyguard. I didn’t request any personal favors.”

  “And deprive me of the pleasure of watching you trip, fall, drown and God-knows-what?”

  “Get out of my air space, Steinfield; your mission is over,” I said, planting my heels on the ground. Yeah, that ought to cool his jets. Did he imply that I was incapable of taking care of myself or was he harboring other motives? He seemed to consider my comment for a second before recouping for his next move.

  The music had stopped anyway, and more speeches resumed, this time from the attending celebrities recounting anecdotes about the movie or their favorite part of the book.

  “There is unfinished business between us, and I always bring my missions to their full completion.”

  His serious tone hinted it might be more about personal business than professional. The piercing jungle green of his eyes held a challenging glint. What if he intended to force me to come clean about my feelings for him? Being a damn good interrogator, he would know if I lied, of this I was positive. He reached for my hand and lead us in the direction opposite of the stage in long determined strides.

  Once we had reached the end of the garden, close to the water front, he pulled me closer. The quiet retreat had provided such a serene refuge a few minutes ago.

  “Do you really want me to leave you alone, Mara?” he asked with a velvet voice grazing my earlobe with his lips. His personal scent intoxicated me while the familiar whiff of cinnamon reminded me how close his lips were to mine, teasing me, taunting me.

  I was failing to control the speed of my breath even as I willed myself not to fall for his animal charm. With futility, I imagined all the women who must have fallen prey to his virile hunting technique. It was useless. He had already crept under my skin. Plastered on me from within.

  “No,” I said, not trusting to say more or else he would see how much I was attracted to him. How much I had fallen in love with him.

  “Good.” He exhaled with a relieved smile while running the tip of his fingers from my earlobe to my chin. Leveling his eyes with mine, he added with an uncharacteristic choked tone, “Because there is something important I want you to know.”

  His pupils enlarged as a blush crept up on his cheeks. My heart was about to jump out of my chest with stress and anticipation. Where was he heading with this? Should I worry or dare I hope for something else?

  “But first thing’s first. I have learned an interesting piece of information. Did you know the travel agency your friend used for your trip is called Alsafar?’’

  “Of course. Josie chose them because they had a convenient location and practical hours. What’s the problem?” I asked, a little miffed.

  “That agency is financed by members of the TAS Group, meaning that they are owned, in part, by an Abdul Amad Rachid, who happens to be a relative of Omar Ahmed Rachid,” he explained, shaking his head with dismay.

  I was stunned speechless and upset at having been caught up in such a sick machination. Should I have suspected something was wrong when the travel agent offered to organize every detail of our trip? More questions ran in quick succession in my mind sending me reeling with indignation.

  An apologetic expression crossed his face.

  “Yeah, and when I think about it, ‘Alsafar’ means travel in Arabic. I should have noticed that,” he added, frowning with frustration at his oversight.

  “Do you think they targeted me because I’m an air traffic controller?” I asked.

  “Hard to say but possible,” he said, pensive with a far away expression.

  The waiter with the white bow tie walked over to us with the tray he had just transferred to his left hand. The image of that hand superimposed with loaded force over another one from not so long go. Too late. His hand had disappeared into his jacket, and I stared in horror as he pulled out a gun. The rancid smell of gun smoke crashed me back to the present as he fired in our direction.

  “Drake!”

  He’d fallen on his knees, hit by the bullet. The elderly waiter took two more steps with the firm intention to finish him. Too occupied with aiming at his target, he didn’t see me launching at him. I shoved him off balance, using his blind spot to stop the gun from hitting his mark. His second bullet grazed Drake’s left arm, but he was quick enough to grab one of my arms and pull me to him.

  I was now his hostage. The few seconds of distraction allowed Drake to pull out his own gun. But the pain must have slowed his fast reflex, and I watched in terror as the barrel of Rachid’s gun turned to face me.

  “Allah will make you pay for getting in our way,” the Arab proclaimed as he pressed the barrel against my temple.

  Drake looked at him with a face contorted with pain and rage. All the pent up anger was visible on the handsome face I hardly recognized now. Terrified, I closed my eyes tight to meet my fate. Panic strangled my throat. My heart raced, and it felt like I was going to either choke from stress or go into cardiac arrest.

  I heard a struggle, followed by another shot and guttural growls. Now free to move, I opened my eyes. Drake was wincing with pain while holding his right arm, but Rachid was readjusting his aim. Drake was fast enough to grab the older man’s right wrist and was hammering it against one of the heavy garden chairs. The fuming enemy was still trying to hold on to his weapon despite Drake’s maneuver. Their vociferations had become loud enough to attract attention.

  The orchestra went silent as people over fifty feet away turned around. My eyes reverted to the wrinkled and hairy hand still clinging the gun. There was a kind of demonic desperation in the way Rachid held on despite his injury and age. I stood there, morbidly transfixed. The image of the bushy haired finger drilled in to my memory with the sting of a slap in the face. Oh! The man from London’s Victoria Station!

  After a moment Rachid lost his grip on the gun, and it fell. Drake still held his own gun, but Rachid grabbed his throat. My army trained FBI agent had youth and strength on his side, but Rachid measured up with his raw red evil determination. They now held each other's throat. Both men’s faces were transfigured and crimson from their mutual attempt at strangulation. This fight allowed only one conclusion, a single survivor. I wasn't positive that Drake, now injured, could fight him much longer.

  Horrible grunts and gurgling sounds escaped their grimacing mouths while their eyes popped out from the pressure in their faces. Everything wou
ld be over in a few seconds unless I did something. The security agents were running in our direction, but they were still too far away.

  I couldn’t wait. Drake couldn’t wait.

  I pushed Rachid’s fallen firearm away with my feet because the terrorist had wiggled himself free for a second time from Drake’s iron grip and was reaching for the gun again. Even if I had grabbed the gun, they were moving too fast. I had zero experience with firearms and was too afraid to risk a shot and hurt Drake.

  Despair invaded my heart and choked me. I had never felt so useless and ill equipped in my life. Time stopped, allowing for my determination to gel and push me further into full combat mode. Please God, I prayed, wishing for a miracle. At that moment, something caught my eyes in my peripheral vision. The golden bright object stood at the level of my right hand.

  Putting an end to my useless fascination with the fight, I grabbed Josie’s brass trophy I’d left on a nearby table. I crouched down beside the two fighting men and smashed down the heavy trophy against Rachid’s skull with all my strength. The force of the impact resonated with a deep thud, and the foe dropped at once on the ground. The resulting bloody gash spread its crimson stain on the marble floor, and the diversion was enough for Drake to overtake him. Was he dead? Crouching over his enemy, Drake pulled a few punches on the man’s jaw before grabbing his own gun again. He stood up, towering over him. Rachid was still breathing, although he was now unconscious.

  Drake’s right shoulder was bleeding, and his mouth sneered in a tight rictus. His slanted eyes barely shielded the vile hate he held for the man at his feet. The gun shook from the difficult restraint and inner debate. His desire to fire it was written all over his face. I could well imagine how much he wanted to kill him. But the price for taking the law into his own hands would only fuel more hatred and give more ammunition to these terrorist factions. He would only succeed in being judged as having assassinated his enemy. These evil criminals only needed another excuse to continue their vicious attacks. In the long run, aggravations and sorrows would be the only winners.