Istanbul Express Read online

  © 1995 by T. Davis Bunn

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-7094-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  This story is entirely a creation of the author’s imagination. No parallel between any persons, living or dead, is intended.

  Cover illustration by Joe Nordstrom

  TO AL AND EVAN STUART

  With heartfelt thanks for

  all that you have taught,

  all that you have shared,

  all that you are.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Chapter One

  By the fourth day, the glamour and the romance were wearing awfully thin.

  Despite the wear and tear of war, the Orient Express remained a luxurious way to grow bored. The lounge and dining compartments were resplendent with leather, brass, and oil-stained wood. Jake and Sally’s compartment offered fold-up beds, an accordion-style writing desk, high-back leather seats, and embroidered footrests. There were bells to call the waiter, wine steward, and porter. The nightstand was a model of rolling ingenuity, with the little crystal water goblet nestled in a suede-lined brass well, the pen with its capped inkwell and writing pad, and the locket-sized brass chest for chocolates—heaven forbid that they should wake up in the middle of the night faint with hunger. The daintily appointed bathroom had brought a squeal of delight from Sally. It reminded Jake of one of those expensive dollhouses, perfect to look at, and impossibly uncomfortable for anyone over nine inches tall.

  Sally baffled him utterly. Since they had boarded the train in Paris, his normally sensible wife had stayed happily entertained on nothing. Whenever his pacing brought him within reach, she bestowed a delighted smile, then went back to her book or her perusal of the window or her happy chatter with another passenger. No matter that the passenger was about as interesting as a large rock and had the intellectual depth of a sparrow. No matter that the train was now more than two and a half days behind schedule. No matter that there was not a single book in the train’s meager library with all its pages intact, or that it had rained continually since their departure.

  Nor did it appear to matter that their best friends and companions for the trip had effectively abandoned them. The honeymooning couple, Jasmyn and Pierre, had emerged from their compartment only six times in four days, and in that period had spoken a grand total of nine words to anyone else. Nine. Jake had been counting. He had nothing else to do.

  Their stop in Zagreb the morning of the fourth day was another excuse for more baffling enthusiasm from Sally. She rushed to him, grabbed his hand, pulled him out on the platform. “Look over there, do you see that woman?”

  “Barely,” he grunted, shielding his eyes from rain whipped sideways by the wind. “You really find this interesting?”

  “Are you kidding? She’s great. They’re all great. It’s like traveling inside a Victorian novel. The dowager empress, the English governess, the mysterious millionaire.” She hugged Jake with excitement. “I never thought I would be doing anything quite like this.”

  “Me neither.” Jake released a pent-up sigh. “Or for so long.”

  “Oh, you.” She released him. “I wish there were some way I could make this last another couple of weeks.”

  Jake showed genuine alarm. “Don’t even think about it.”

  She examined his face, then pulled him over so they were shielded by the train. “You’re still worried about not having heard from Harry?”

  “Among other things.” Harry Grisholm was Jake’s superior in his newfound field of international intelligence, and someone Jake admired tremendously. It was Harry who had followed Jake to Marseille and talked him into taking the Istanbul post. Harry was supposed to lead their project from the United States embassy in Ankara. After Jake had accepted the position, Harry had pressed upon them the urgency of the project, and stressed that there was not even time to return to England before beginning the new assignment. Every minute was required to bring Jake up to speed. Someone else would see to packing their belongings and shipping them to Turkey.

  A scant three days later, with Jake’s briefing barely started, Harry Grisholm had been called back to London. The command from headquarters had left the little man helplessly fuming. Furthermore, something in the tone of his orders had left him cautious about having Jake accompany him back. Instead, Harry had suggested they take a slower passage to Istanbul via the newly reopened Orient Express. Then he had departed, promising to make every possible haste to join them along the way and continue Jake’s briefing.

  Since then, there had been no sign of Harry, nor any word at all.

  “He probably heard we were being delayed and went on by air,” Sally offered. “He’ll be there when we arrive.”

  “And if he isn’t?” Jake’s worries congealed in his gut. “I’m supposed to have so much money arriving I won’t count it, just stick it on the scale and round it up to the nearest pound. And all I’ve been told so far is that I’m supposed to make careful note of how it’s being spent.”

  “He told you more than that,” Sally chided.

  “Not all that much.” Glumly Jake watched the platform vendors shout their way along the train’s length, selling everything from espresso to fur hats. “And not nearly enough to get the job done.”

  “Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now.” At the sound of the train’s whistle, Sally tugged him back up the steps. “Now promise me you’ll try to have a good time, okay? We’ll get there soon enough.”

  * * *

  The lounge would have been his perfect hideaway, had not every other man in the train decided the same thing. And Jake was the only one who did not smoke. The puff of choice was either a cigar that brought to mind the word pumpernickel or pipe tobacco that smelled of a long-dead cherry orchard.

  There were three distinct groups of passengers. In the majority were the men who wore tuxedos with starched high collars and white bow ties—at eleven o’clock in the morning. They held themselves as aloof as possible while being crammed together for days on end. They traveled with two hard-edged intentions; to return to a life of ease, and to restore their sense of position and status. To their minds, the recent war was an inconvenience, now best forgotten.

  Next came the wealthy European business owners, in bright suits and nervous manners. Many were war profiteers, who quaffed back bucket-sized goblets of brandy and scotch as they gambled recklessly, and talke
d in voices that would have made foghorns shrivel with envy.

  A third group, far smaller than the others, were professional travelers. These bore the hard-earned stamp of distant gazes and guarded reserve. Jake would have liked to meet them, but they came and went like the wind, holding themselves utterly aloof from the others. Sally had managed to briefly meet two, an English governess traveling to Damascus to take up a position with a sheik’s family, and a Belgian missionary returning to his flock and family in Beirut. Travel still suffered from war-inflicted wounds, and for the time being all safe roads ran through Istanbul. Thus the Orient Express, such as it was, remained the best overland passage to the mysterious east.

  Except for Sally, there were no gawking tourists on the train; postwar rationing saw to that. As for Pierre and Jasmyn, Jake did not bother to count them at all. For all he saw of his friends, they might as well not have been on the train.

  Under Harry Grisholm’s persistent urgings, the time following Pierre and Jasmyn’s wedding had passed in such feverish preparation that the newlyweds had managed only a single day on a secluded Riviera estate. After a half-dozen urgent messages had brought the couple home early, Pierre had declared to Harry and everyone else within range that a one-day honeymoon was like being led to the wedding banquet and being granted a single bite of dry toast. Although clearly pleased to be assigned a post near his friend, Pierre had boarded the train intent upon making up for time lost.

  The fifth morning dawned as gray and wet as the previous four. As was his habit, Jake rose at first light and made his way to the dining car. These solitary breakfasts were his only chance to be outside their compartment without being surrounded by smoke and noise. A sleepy waiter took his order and left him alone.

  Sometime during the night, the train had pulled into yet another nameless Yugoslav village and stopped. Around the red-brick station spread a small hamlet of ancient cottages. The village was surrounded by fields of grain bowed under the weight of unending rain. Jake smiled his thanks when the waiter brought his coffee. He took a first sip, unbuttoned his shirt pocket, drew out his small New Testament, and was soon lost in his study.

  “May I join you?”

  Jake’s head popped up. A rather sheepish Pierre stood waiting patiently beside his table. Jake motioned to the seat across from him. “By all means.”

  “What can you recommend?” The Frenchman slid into the leather-upholstered bench with a quiet sigh. “I regret to say that until now all my meals have been served in the compartment.”

  “I’ve noticed.” His friend looked rested, but a little pale, and his voice sounded drained. “Everything is great.”

  “Then that is precisely what I shall have,” Pierre said as the waiter approached. “A breakfast of everything.”

  “Very good, sir.” The English waiter had the unshakable calm of one trained to handle the most difficult of passengers. “Eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, mushrooms, kippers, beans, and fried bread?”

  “Nix on the beans and kippers,” Jake advised.

  “As my friend suggests. And extra on whatever else you said,” Pierre amended. “As well as a pot of that coffee.”

  “Right you are, sir.” The waiter turned and left.

  Pierre turned his attention to the window. Outside, a group of Slavic dancers entertained on the platform, though it was doubtful how many of the passengers were awake enough to enjoy the spectacle. Accordions and fiddles flew through ancient mountain melodies as the beribboned dancers gyrated and kicked their heels to incredible heights. Security was ominous and everywhere. The official police wore belted woolen overcoats with holstered pistols at their waists.

  Pierre observed, “We are not moving.”

  “We’ve been doing a lot of that,” Jake agreed.

  Pierre rubbed the side of his face. “As I recall, we were supposed to arrive in Istanbul the night before last.”

  “Right again.”

  “Yet this does not look much like Istanbul to me.”

  “If it did,” Jake replied, “then somebody’s managed to move the city about four hundred miles.”

  “Ah.” Pierre examined the plate of scrambled eggs and toast that the waiter set down in front of Jake. “That does not look very substantial.”

  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.”