“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.
“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?”
Istanbul Express Page 2
