Istanbul Express (2 page)

Jake discarded the first comment that came to mind and made do with, “I don't have much appetite in the morning.”

Pierre turned to the waiter. “Your chef understands that I wish to have a large portion of everything?”

“You will be digging for a week to find the plate, sir,” the waiter replied calmly.

Pierre accepted the news with a grave nod. “That is what I like about the British,” he said after the waiter had moved off. “They may mangle every other meal until you cannot tell whether you are dining on smoked salmon or roast beef, but their breakfasts almost make up for it.”

“I think the food has been pretty good throughout the day,” Jake replied.

“Then the day chef must be French.” It was a statement of fact, not a proposition. Pierre turned back to the window. “Do you have any idea where we are?”

“Somewhere in Yugoslavia. The border guards came through, remember?”

“Ah, yes. Tito's new thugs.” There was a brief furrowing of Pierre's expressive face, then, “That was yesterday, no?”

“That was two days ago,” Jake replied gently.

“Of course. How time flies when you are standing still.” A fleeting confusion swept across Pierre's mobile features. “Did not Harry Grisholm say that we were in a hurry?”

“Right again,” Jake confirmed. “I guess it's the same as the army, hurry up and wait.”

“Ah, here we are.” Pierre's interest sparked as the waiter presented a plate arranged in neat layers. On the bottom was a liberal foundation of bacon, upon which nine or ten sausages had been set like pudgy logs. Surrounding these was an array of sliced tomatoes and wedges of fried bread. And laid gently on top was a blanket of six sunny-side-up eggs.

“Chef says that he will personally deliver seconds on anything,” the waiter said, “free of charge.”

“Please thank your maitre d',” Pierre replied solemnly. “I believe this shall do me quite well for the moment.”

“If you eat all that,” Jake declared, “we're going to carry you off this train feet first.”

“If I eat all this,” Pierre responded, grasping knife and fork with grim determination, “I shall hopefully survive the next four hundred miles.”

“These delays are such a nuisance.” The woman was dressed and coiffured from a bygone day, layer upon starchy neat layer, in a manner that told the world she traveled with a full-time maid. Her heavy jewels clinked and glistened with each grand movement. “I told the conductor again last night that I simply must get on to Istanbul. Do you know what he said? ‘It is the war, madame.' As if the war hadn't been over for ages. I cannot imagine how one is expected to get on, what with the quality of service these days. If he had ever dared to offer my father such a quip, the man would have been sent packing in an instant, I can promise you that.”

Sally hid her smile behind a discreet cough. For ten o'clock
in the morning, her compartment was surprisingly crowded. Jasmyn sat beside her, her exotic features quietly radiant in the way of a happy bride, her dark eyes observing the scene from a contented distance. Across from Jasmyn, beside the rather obese English lady, sat the English governess, quiet and prim in her neat gray suit. Beside her sat a Swiss woman whom the governess had brought along; she had not spoken a word since her arrival.

Sally asked, “Do you have something urgent awaiting you in Istanbul?”

“Well, of course. You don't think I would make this beastly trip for my health?” Mrs. Fothering had the full-throated voice of a very large goose. “Phyllis Hollamby is having her annual gathering next Wednesday. You of course know Mrs. Hollamby.”

“I'm afraid not,” Sally replied.

“Oh, my dear, you simply must.” As Mrs. Fothering played with the folds of her dress, her ring turned the rainy gray light into a cascading rainbow. The central diamond was as large as a robin's egg. “Why, Phyllis Hollamby is a pillar of Istanbul expatriate society.”

Sally smiled and glanced contentedly around her cabin. The woodwork gleamed of oil and polish, the seats were heavy brocade with starched pillowcases over the headrests. When she and Jake were at dinner, the carriage butler arrived to fold down the beds, plump the eiderdown quilts, and set out a serving of hot chocolate. Sally found it all utterly delightful. “My husband and I are traveling there for the first time.”

“Oh yes, I recall something now. An ambassadorial posting or some such, isn't that correct?”

She had to think a moment to recall the title Harry had discussed, the one intended to cover Jake's real purposes. “Jake has been appointed assistant consul.”

“How perfectly fascinating, I'm sure.” Mrs. Fothering gave the watch-pendant attached to her ample bosom a nearsighted inspection. “My goodness, just look at the time. I do hope
my maid has managed to complete the pressing of my day dress. Well, if you will excuse me, I have a thousand things to see to. Good day, my dear. You must be sure and remember to look up Phyllis Hollamby.”

“Cross my heart,” Sally said, her smile breaking through.

Mrs. Fothering bestowed a ponderous nod upon the entire compartment. “Ladies.”

As the compartment door slid shut behind her, the train's whistle gave a wheezing toot, the car jerked, and they began to move. The Swiss woman spoke for the first time. “Finally.”

“It certainly is nice to be moving again,” Sally agreed.

“I thought she would never stop,” the governess told her acquaintance.

“Nor I.” The Swiss woman was of late middle age and had the sun-dried complexion of someone who lived for the outdoors. Her clothes were expensive yet severe, and magnified the sharp lines of her chin and nose. Her eyes were gray and direct as they turned toward Sally. “My dear, your husband is in grave danger.”

“What?” The word was a gasp torn from deep within her.

Instead of replying, the woman turned toward Jasmyn and continued, “Yours, too, I would assume, although his appointment came so swiftly it is hard to know who has been informed. Rest assured, however, that once his position is made clear, his life will also be in jeopardy.”

“There is always danger,” Jasmyn said, as tense and upright as Sally. “But Turkey is secure.”

“I assure you it is not.”

“Who are you?”

“That does not matter.” She waited while the English governess rose and discreetly checked the hallway in both directions. “Listen, for that addle-headed woman has left us with little time. You are aware of the name Ataturk?”

“Of course,” Sally replied, striving for calm, though it cost her dearly. Ataturk had led Turkey after World War One had ended the rule of the Ottoman caliphs. He had fought to draw
Turkey closer to the West, and had severed ties with traditional allies and colonies in the Middle East and Africa. He had established alliances with Europe and America, granted women equal status as citizens for the first time in a modern Islamic state, and even changed the alphabet to Roman script. This much she had gained from the hurried tutoring given them prior to their departure.

“Ever since Ataturk's death, his followers have been attacked from all sides,” the Swiss woman said. “Turkey's government is still openly sympathetic to the West, but its enemies are openly anti-Western. And the Communists are fomenting trouble wherever they can. They see your husband and the power he represents as a threat.”

Sally glanced toward Jasmyn, saw that she was pale and tight-lipped. She placed one hand over the two clenched tightly in Jasmyn's lap and said as evenly as she could manage, “I asked who you were.”

“You will be contacted upon your arrival,” the woman replied, rising to her feet. “Someone will approach you and ask if you have happened to visit Topkapi, the sultans' summer palace. It was closed to visitors during the war and only reopened six months ago.” She reached for the handle, halted. “This is most important. You must not forget the password.”

“Topkapi, the sultans' summer palace,” Sally repeated. “But how—”

“Do not try to contact either of us again. And be careful what you decide to tell your husbands.” She slid the door open and stepped outside. The governess followed her.

“Whatever happens, wherever you might be, as soon as you hear those words, stop and follow. Your very lives may depend upon this.”

Chapter Two

“That's all?” Jake looked from one woman to the other. “No idea of what we're heading toward?”

“Or whether we should go at all,” Pierre added.

Sally examined the men's faces in turn. “Would you just get a load of you two.”

Jasmyn clearly agreed. She rounded on her husband, said, “You don't have to appear so pleased.”

Pierre's flexible features tried hard for wide-eyed innocence. “I am simply eager to arrive at the bottom of this, ma cherie.”

But Jasmyn was not so easily convinced. She crossed her arms, huffed, “It is as though you are happy to see our honeymoon interrupted.”

“Perish the thought,” Pierre said, then made the mistake of glancing at his watch. “Although it has been quite a bit longer—”

“It seems like if those women were going to go to all the trouble of contacting us,” Jake amended hastily, “they would have had some distinct purpose in mind.” He found himself not minding the news at all, or the new tone to the voyage. But he did not like having Sally read him so easily.

“Something more definite than just passing on a general warning,” Pierre agreed. “We already know the situation is dangerous.”

Sally rounded on Jake. “Since when did you know?”

Jasmyn showed alarm. “Why was I not informed?”

“Nobody has said anything definite,” Jake said soothingly. “But Stalin is dangerous, and it just stands to reason that any post this close to the bear's lair would have some risk attached.”

Sally returned to perusing the gray scene outside her window. The rain had finally stopped, but no break had appeared in the heavy, brooding clouds. The train wound its way along
a craggy hillside, the sense of speed increased by grinding wheels and shuddering cabins. No amount of plush comfort could disguise the fact that the track was in a dismal state of repair.

“I don't like it,” she said finally.

“Well, what do you want us to do?” Jake grasped her hand, found the fingers cold as ice. “Turn around?”

“I want you to be careful,” she said quietly.

“I always am. You know that.”

“More than that,” she said, turning back around, her features creased with worry. “I want you to survive.”

They crossed the Bulgarian border late in the night, the passage signaled by squealing brakes and heavy boots and rough-hewn voices. It seemed to Sally that all the world was asleep except for her. Above her head, Jake turned over, the bunk creaking softly at his movement. Her head rang with the words of warning spoken that morning, words that had transformed their train journey from an adventure to a prison.

The compartment door slid partway open, the curtains chinking gently to permit both light and a hulking form. She fended sleep as a flashlight scampered about the room, resting briefly upon her, then moving on. She cracked one eyelid, caught a fleeting image of a peaked cap, badge, broad shoulders, narrowed eyes. Then the curtain dropped, the door slid shut, and they were alone.

Instantly a shudder of fear ran through her, a fear not of unknown guards, but of being trapped. Nowhere to run, no way to protect what was most important to her.

There was the sound of movement, soft as a cat, as Jake slipped from his bunk and crouched down beside her. Strong arms enveloped her, drawing her up and close and safe. She yielded to his strength and to her fears. “Oh, Jake.”

“Shhh. I know.” He slid into the bunk alongside her, never letting go of her for a moment. Giving her the comfort she craved. “It's going to be all right.”

“How do you know?” Worries scampered about her mind. “What if—”

“Not now,” he murmured, nestling into the space where shoulder joined neck. He took a long breath, something he often did when holding her like that, taking the scent of her down deep. The simple act consoled her far more than words. He was here and he was with her. He murmured, “Where is the strong and independent Sally I married?”

“She got left behind in Marseille,” she said, trying for humor, but the smile beyond her grasp. “Sorry.”

“Think we should go back for her?”

There it was, the invitation she had been hoping for, yearning to hear, the chance to turn around and leave behind all that had entered her life with the pair of women and their obscure message. But she felt Jake's arms about her, this man she loved with all her heart, a man who lived for life on the edge. “No,” she sighed. “I guess not.”

“That's my girl,” he said, holding her tight, giving with his embrace what words could not, remaining there and close until sleep drew up and carried her away.

The train screeched around a sharp bend, and Sally awoke to another rainy morning. Jake was still there, one arm under his head and the other draped across her, the two of them somehow comfortable and cozy in the tiny bunk. She dimly recalled being awakened briefly around dawn, as the train rumbled into a station with squealing brakes and chuffing steam. There had been the sound of voices outside the window, strange after so much isolation, and she had lifted the edge of the window shade far enough to read the station sign overhead—Sofia. A shadow had flitted past her window, and she had let the shade drop back into place. Before long, the safety and comfort of Jake's slumbering closeness had drawn her back into sleep.

Jake stirred, on the edge of wakefulness. His arm tightened, searched, recalled the feel of her, all without reaching
the shore of consciousness. She buried her nose into his hair, softly kissed his ear. He responded with a half-murmur. As smoothly as she could, she drew her arm up and around his neck, reveling in his strength and warmth. She nestled in, surrounded by her man, safe and isolated even here.