Istanbul Express (3 page)

“Night before last I decided I would never be comfortable on this train,” Jake said sleepily. “And that was trying to fit into my bunk all by my lonesome.”

She raised up enough to watch his sleepy eyes open, the little boy there with the man. Such a wondrous moment of intimacy, each one the very first time. “And now look at you.”

“I know what it is,” he said. “This bunk is bigger. You've been keeping it a secret.”

She kissed him softly. “Good morning, my hero.”

His eyes softened, the light strengthened. “It really is you, isn't it?”

She nodded. “Right where I belong.”

His arms tightened around her. “How did I ever come to deserve this?”

Suddenly the power of her love threatened to expand farther than her chest was able to hold. Breath came in a little catch, forcing itself about her swollen heart, the pressure pushing tears about her eyes. “Don't you ever change, Jake Burnes,” she whispered, her arms holding him as close as she could possibly manage. “Not ever.”

Beyond Sofia their world suddenly altered. Scarcely had they entered the dining car, seated themselves across from Pierre and Jasmyn, and exchanged smiles and comments about couples who did not eat breakfast until almost noon than the sun emerged. The sight was so startling and so wondrous after five days of unending gray that the entire car, waiters included, broke into a cheer.

Under the fresh sunlight, the train gleamed with seedy grandeur. The war years had left no funds for new paint, yet the ancient blue cars gleamed with recent polish. Not even
eight hundred miles of hard travel could disguise the glorious bronzework.

Outside their window, the countryside was undergoing a drastic change. The clearing sky looked down upon a landscape that was more accustomed to heat and dust than cold and rain. Rocky clefts proved stubborn homes for gnarled pines and scraggly undergrowth. Hillsides grew steeper, the contrasts between green and rock starker. Goats and sheep bleated as they scampered in search of meager fodder, followed by young boys who whistled and waved as the train swept by.

“Colonel Burnes, I presume?”

Jake turned from the window, looked up at the urbane gentleman with his steady gaze. “Yes?”

The man clicked his heels and gave a stiff minuscule bow. “Dimitri Kolonov, at your service.” He turned to the others and gave a lofty smile. “And this must be Major Pierre Servais, and these beautiful ladies Mrs. Servais and Mrs. Burnes. A great honor, I assure you.”

“Forgive me, m'sieur,” Pierre said, collecting himself first. “I do not recall hearing of you.”

“Of course not.” The man himself was in direct opposition to his dress and his manner. He had the hard-boiled look of a veteran fighter. His lips were two bloodless lines, his teeth sheered as though worn by years of clenched jaws. His eyes were as lifeless as marbles. Kolonov reached for his breast pocket and removed a slender yellow envelope. “Perhaps this will help clarify matters.”

Jake accepted the flimsy envelope, read the words “Western Union” and then something beneath in Cyrillic. Instead of opening the envelope, Jake asked, “Are you Russian?”

“I do indeed have that honor.” Kolonov motioned to the empty table across the narrow aisle from their own. “May I?”

“I do not recall seeing you on the train before,” Pierre said.

“That is natural, as I only came aboard in Sofia,” Kolonov replied, taking Pierre's remark as an invitation and seating
himself. “Like yourselves, I have been pulled away from other duties at short notice.”

Jake opened the envelope, noticed the last word. “It's from Harry,” he told his companions. Jake read the telegram first silently, then again aloud:

HAVE BEEN UNAVOIDABLY DETAINED IN LONDON. YOU ARE TO PROCEED TO ISTANBUL AND COMMENCE DUTIES WITHOUT ME. BEARER OF THIS MESSAGE IS DIMITRI KOLONOV FORMERLY OF NKVD AND NOW SECONDED TO SOVIET CONSULATE IN ISTANBUL. I ASSURE YOU THAT YOU MAY TRUST HIM FULLY AND REMIND YOU OF ASSISTANCE GIVEN BY MR RASULI. REGARDS HARRY.

“I do hope this has explained the situation,” Kolonov said.

“No doubt,” Pierre murmured, his voice a quiet purr. “May I trouble you for the telegram, Jake?”

Jake handed over the yellow sheet, caught sight of a courtier's smile creasing Pierre's otherwise blank face. He turned back to Kolonov, willing himself to remain as composed as his friend, acutely aware of the telegram's double message. Sultan Al-Rasuli, as Harry Grisholm well knew, ruled a fiefdom in Morocco's central highlands. He had held Pierre's brother, a former leader of the French Resistance, in his dungeons while offering to supply Patrique's head to the highest bidder.

“I don't see how much use I'm going to be to anyone,” Jake said carefully to Kolonov. “Not only do I not have any training in diplomatic operations, but I'm not even fully briefed.”

“Our departure was very hasty,” Pierre added, maintaining his calm composure.

“Harry said it was imperative to get us into place,” Jake finished. “He insisted that our training could be completed once we were settled. All I know is that the first batch of building funds were to arrive three weeks ago, and that someone needed to be in position to manage their dispersal.”

That much had been clear from the news and from Harry's
hasty summary. Relief funds had been pouring into Europe since the war, including some construction funds for Turkey. Not much, compared to what was being poured into Germany and Italy and France, but what was relatively small by international standards was a staggering amount in Jake's eyes.

“Then what happens, but you have been trapped upon this train for five days now,” the Russian commiserated, oozing slick sympathy. “Never fear, my new friends. I have it on strictest record that we shall experience no further delays and shall arrive in Istanbul by daybreak tomorrow.” He flashed another humorless smile. “I have personally spoken with the man at the controls, and assured him that otherwise the train will be forced to find itself another engineer.”

All four joined him in a moment's tense laughter, and shared blank looks about their table. Jake then said, “NKVD. That's the initials of the Soviet secret service, am I right?”

“It has indeed been my honor to serve my country as you have served yours,” Kolonov announced proudly. “Which shall grant us wonderful opportunities to exchange our stories and know-how, did I say that correctly, know-how?”

“Absolutely,” Jake said.

“Your English is impeccable,” Sally assured him, her tone as cool as her gaze.

“Thank you, Mrs. Burnes. And speaking as one professional to another, Colonel, I must tell you, your lack of training matters not a bit. Why, I myself have not the first iota of experience in such matters as the distribution of funds. And just look at yourselves. What in your military backgrounds has prepared you to handle so much money?”

“Not a lot.”

“Precisely!” Kolonov thumped his open palm triumphantly upon the table. “So why have we been selected for these positions?”

“Search me.”

“As figureheads!” Kolonov beamed at all and sundry. “We shall be paraded here and there, attend the openings and meet
the government leaders, be seen at all the best functions. And why not, I ask you? We have served our countries through the hard times. Let the pencil pushers count the zeros and keep their books, that is what assistants are for. Is it not time that we should savor a little of the easy life?”

Before Jake could think up a response, Kolonov gave a quick glance up and down the almost-empty car, then leaned conspiratorially across the aisle. “Listen, my friend, I tell you, this posting will do wonders for our careers. Just think of the contacts we shall make. And the businesses eager to win the contracts, why, two years of being wined and dined, then—”

“Oh, the honeymooning couple, how absolutely charming.”

The overstuffed English woman, Mrs. Fothering, bustled over to loom above their table. “I was so looking forward to meeting the dashing French officer. And you must be the famous Colonel Burnes.”

Jake caught Sally's silent flash of humor as he rose to his feet. “I don't know about the famous part, but the rest is right.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense. Medals were made to be worn, not hidden in a drawer, that's my motto.”

“Jake, this is Mrs. Fothering.” Sally's voice had the lilting charm of a carefully disguised smile. “She's traveling to Istanbul for a party to be given by Phyllis Hollamby.”

“I don't know why I am surprised to find you were paying attention, my dear. You most certainly have the marks of a proper upbringing about you.” She offered Jake a yellow claw of a hand, surprisingly parched and narrow given the ample size of the rest of her. “How do you do.”

“Charmed, I'm sure.” Jake motioned to where Pierre stood. “This is Major Pierre Servais and his wife, Jasmyn.”

“Yes, I have already had the pleasure of meeting the lovely young bride.” She extended her hand once more, gave a subdued cluck of pleasure when Pierre leaned over and kissed the air above her wrist, then purred, “Major.”

“Won't you join us?” Jake asked, with all the sincerity he could muster, both because of Sally's sudden smile and because the Russian was clearly irritated by the interruption. Jake motioned toward him, said, “May I present Mr. Dimitri Kolonov, who has just joined the train in Sofia.”

“How positively fascinating,” she sniffed, and managed to avoid offering her hand by stumbling slightly as Jake held the back of her chair. “Oh, thank you—these blasted rails, they really should do something to smooth out this journey, don't you agree?”

“There has been a war on,” Dimitri offered, resuming his seat.

“Just what the conductor told me,” she said, her tone icy. “You and he must have a chat, I am sure you shall no doubt find positively hordes of things to discuss.” She dredged up a smile for Pierre and Jasmyn and said, “Now then. You must tell me all about your ceremony. I positively adore weddings, particularly my own.”

Pierre asked, “You are married?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. Let me see now, is it three or four times? I never can remember. No, five, if you count the disastrous second try Alistair and I made. That was an utter mistake, I am sorry to say. But a positively beautiful wedding. Absolutely gorgeous. I had to forgive him for pressing me into giving it that second go since he let me fulfill my every wish with the wedding.”

Kolonov rose to his feet, steadied himself as the train gave a squealing lurch, then bowed and said stiffly, “Perhaps we can speak further at another time.”

“That'd be just swell,” Jake said smoothly.

When the Russian had given the ladies a stiff bow and departed, Mrs. Fothering sniffed once more. “What an utterly beastly man. However did you meet him?”

“He met us,” Pierre replied.

“Yes, that is the problem with his sort, I'm afraid.” She
rose to her feet, drawing them with her. “Well, I shan't keep you any longer.”

“Oh, you mustn't rush off,” Sally said.

Jake found himself liking the old dame, if for no other reason than that she had saved them from further time with the Russian. “Maybe you'd like to join us for dinner tonight?”

“What a positively gallant invitation. Alas, as I wish to be fresh for our arrival tomorrow, I shall most likely dine in my compartment.” She reached across the table to take Sally's hand. “You must remember to look up Phyllis Hollamby when you arrive, my dear. And be sure to suggest that she show you Topkapi. No one knows the sultans' summer palace better than she.”

Chapter Three

They entered Istanbul at the breathless hush of first light. The train wound past a series of dry-scrabble rises, farmland, and individual houses gradually giving way to dusty streets and ancient tenements. The buildings grew in size, the space between them lessened. Then they rounded the final rise, and before them stretched the glittering waters of the Bosphorus.

“This is perfect!” Sally flung her arms around Jake's neck and planted a kiss with perfect accuracy. “How ever did you arrange it all?”

Pierre covered his laughter with a discreet cough. Jasmyn rewarded them with a warm smile. Jake looked from one woman to the other and saw no trace of worry, nothing but the excitement of new beginnings. “What has come over you two?”

Jasmyn asked, “You are complaining?”

“Not at all.”

“You just have us wondering,” Pierre allowed, “after the long faces and worried voices of yesterday.”

“Oh, hush, you two, and let's enjoy this.” Sally's face was pushed up close to the glass. Without turning away she found Jake's hand and drew it into her lap. “This is the first glimpse of our new home. Aren't you the least little bit excited?”

“Absolutely,” Jake agreed, then nodded to Pierre's shrug. Women.

The sun rose huge and smoldering into an empty sky. The light turned the entire world a ruddy orange. Cargo ships plied the fiery waters like vessels of old, their scarred and battered hulks transformed into ships of mirrored gold. Tiny fishing craft spun and darted about the behemoths, glittering fairy boats whose nets rose and fell like gossamer wings.

They followed a gradual curve around the water's edge. Then they ducked inland and were swallowed by the tall
buildings of a great metropolis. Only this particular city was dotted with structures beyond time—crumbling aqueducts, remains of medieval walls, a city garden sprouting a forest of Roman columns. Everywhere rose the slender needles of minarets, the mosque towers from which the Muslim faithful were called to prayer.

Jake waited until Sally turned her beaming face back to the cabin to ask, “What's with the change this morning?”

“Oh, you,” she smiled. “Isn't it enough just to sit here and be excited about everything that's up ahead?”