Henri cannot stop thinking about the telephone call he made from the train station in Belgrade. He does not want to dwell, not yet—but the man that she spotted on the train has complicated matters. Even now, back in the relative safety of their compartment, he can see that it still occupies her mind, as it does his own. He wishes he could say something to alleviate her worry, to put them both at ease, but he knows that there is nothing he can say without lying.
Henri turns to the window, watches from the corner of his eye as she takes out a book and begins to read. He wants to say something—anything—that will take them back to where they were before, in the dining car, the conversation light, teasing, even. But all he can hear are the words spoken to him earlier that morning: a threat, whispered softly into the telephone.
The truth was, in Spain, they were done waiting.
They had been done for a while, which Henri knew and had tried to ignore. Instead, he continued to tell himself that he just needed another day, another hour—but soon, he would not have even that.
Standing in the terminal that morning, public telephone in hand, Henri had nodded, had made promises to the voice on the other end of the line, knowing that he would do what they asked when it came down to it—or a version of it—that he was a man of his word, if nothing else. He knew, too, that there was no other conclusion. No other way for the story to end.
“It has to be Istanbul,” they had told him that morning. “That’s the end of the line.”
Henri had agreed. Only this time, it was different—everything was different after Belgrade, he thought. Something had changed between them, had shifted, locked into place, so that there was no longer any way to deny the connection. The only uncertainty was just what he was willing to risk to protect it—to protect her.