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SHE CRINGED AND MOVED the phone from her ear. Over several days, Alexandra had attempted to navigate Paris secretively, twice changing her lodging. Despite her efforts, the pesky Parisian press corps kept finding her, and now even her father!
Fortunately, the connection from Brussels was breaking up.
“I was misquoted. It was just a fling. I am not dating the Prince of Wales. ... Too much static, Father. ... Ta!”
Alexandra thanked the hotel receptionist and nodded to Léon that it was time to bug out.
The chauffeur carried her suitcases to the car. “Will the prince be joining you today?”
“Not today, Léon. He’s likely up to some other royal mischief.”
Alexandra placed a bouquet of sunflowers on the seat and removed her Cossack hat. It was hours before sunrise as Léon smuggled her out of the city. She knew her dining escapade would haunt her for some time. She glanced over an edition of Paris-soir, thinking the photograph of her strutting down the staircase rather fetching. Dalí gazing at her arse had also come across well.
The caption read: Dame de l’intrigue Internationale.
That she had escaped via the aid of Pablo Picasso was only adding to the legend. Poor Oliver had sent a cable reporting that the British tabloids were swamping the office. Alexandra had no idea where to start in explaining she was not on the shortlist to reign as the next Queen of England.
“It appears, Léon, that they have declared me an ‘International dame of intrigue.’”
“Superbe, mademoiselle!”
She sighed. “How do they keep finding me?”
“Perhaps you should set aside your hat.”
“Never!” She could not return to London until all this royal mistress scuttlebutt died down. Since Brazil, Alexandra sensed that her life was unraveling. It was exhausting fending off the unassailable foes staining her mind with ugly graffiti. She was desperate to have lunch with Thomas in Bourlon Wood and talk it all out. It would be a long drive. She folded a blanket over her lap and tried to enjoy the scenery.
The panorama cooperated for several hours.
They cleared the city of Amiens and passed nearby where Will was wounded. An hour later, Léon, a wounded veteran, mentioned they were approaching the outskirts of Zone Rouge, and to proceed further would be impossible.
It became clear what the war had looked like.
Alexandra asked him to pull over and left the car to walk along the road. It was an otherworldly landscape, as desolate and chilling as the surface of the moon. The rolling fields northeast of Paris were now a wasteland. Within this contested abattoir spread the residue of four years of pointless struggle upon such infamous battlefields as the Somme, Neuve Chappelle, and Vimy Ridge. She stood forty kilometers short of Cambrai and would get no closer to Bourlon Wood.
Alexandra walked several yards into the field until coming to a sign strung across the barbed wire. The skull and crossbones forbade trespass. Spread before her stretched pockmarked fields, collapsed trench lines, rusted metal debris, and the sporadic carcass of a tree.
The ruins of a once lovely countryside hamlet brought a tear to her eye. It was now identifiable only by a placard marked Village Détruit—a village that died for France. Thousands of undetonated artillery shells and decomposed corpses remained within the cratered field, in soil so toxic with chemicals that nothing would grow for one hundred years. Not even birds flew over such desolation. It would only get worse ahead.
She returned to the car. Somewhere out there rested the remains of Lance Corporal Thomas Sawyer Bathenbrook—yet recovered, still unvisited, in Zone Rouge.
They had all been right. It was impossible.
—‡—
ALEXANDRA STUDIED HER French colleague and placed down her glass of red wine. “I love your necklace. It’s interesting.”
“It’s a Croix-de-feu,” Skendra Lilleth noted. “I also like yours. Are you aware those are anal beads?”
Alexandra was not and stopped fiddling with her recent Casablanca purchase. Her face reddened, and she slinked back in her chair. Their table was in a small café in the bustling terminus of the Gare de l’Est station. She had bumped into Skendra by happenstance, and they sat for a quick drink. Her train for Istanbul would depart within the hour. The journalist presented a paradox, blowing hot and cold. If she were to become a friend or another liaison lost to the wind remained unclear.
“Anyhoo, whilst traveling Albania, I learned their national hero, Gjergj Kastrioti, was honored with the title ‘Skenderbeg’ by the Sultan. It means ‘Lord Alexander’ referring to his comparable military prowess to Alexander the Great. Does this mean we share the same name? Are your parents Turkish?”
“Yes, I’m Alexandra.” Skendra flashed a sly smile. “My mother was French. I know little about my father. I was orphaned and raised by a prestigious family in Marseilles.”
What else could be expected from an enigma? A call came over the intercom announcing Alexandra’s train was set for boarding. She stood and gathered her bags. “I guess this is farewell.”
Skendra took hold of Alexandra’s cheeks and seized a long and sensual kiss. Their lips finally parted. A libidinous impishness colored Skendra’s expression. “Adieu, petite soeur.”
Alexandra remained stunned: eyes closed, mouth moist, and legs trembling. Pin drops tingled her body, and her thoughts seemed vacant. She stepped back, turned, and ran into the station.
Once on the platform, she freed her ticket and shrugged off her reaction. She thought it likely ordinary for a woman to savor a passionate kiss from another, but as for succumbing to the rest of it... maybe?
That evening, Alexandra sat in her compartment, reading. It was a classy wood-paneled lounging space hosting a sofa easily converted to sleeping berths, a drawing table, luggage racks, and a washbasin. The opulent blue carriages of the train she rode held the golden badge of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits and the bold lettering “Venice Simplon-Orient Express.” She would arrive in Istanbul in three days. Alexandra had accepted a job to help uncover the extent of ethnic cleansing the Ottoman Empire had inflicted on its Armenian and Greek communities during the Great War. The investigatory team had not sought government permission, rendering this a risky proposition. She would rendezvous with them at the Pera Palas Hotel before traveling down the Aegean coast to the city of Foça.
Her book of choice was Mystery on the Blue Train—the latest spellbinder featuring the overly fastidious and urbane Hercule Poirot. Needing a nightcap, she left to finish over a tumbler of something.
At this late hour, few passengers would stir the lounge carriage. She was desperate to get her hands on an edition of the London Times, which an old fuddy-duddy had guarded with the fierceness of a British bulldog since boarding. As expected, the spiffily outfitted lounge was quiet, with only a middle-aged woman seated alone and, of course... the British bulldog monopolizing the newspaper.
Alexandra bit her lower lip to avoid snarling and plopped herself into a plush armchair. She ordered a hot-toddy and shook her head at the fogy’s need to cling to the news of home. It defeated the purpose of getting away from it all. She had given London little thought since departing two months ago.
The steward placed down her steaming drink and she dove right in.
The middle-aged woman lifted her gaze from the window. Alexandra flashed a smile, and the woman returned one ever briefer.
The news hog fingered a few keystrokes on the lounge’s piano on his way out, and by some miracle, was leaving empty-handed. Alexandra sprang from her chair and pounced, rushing back to swish through the pages. The lead headline informed that the health of King George had taken a sour turn, rendering England awash in worry.
Runners-ups included Herbert Hoover’s campaign to be the next United States president and the latest scoop on the “London After Midnight” murder. Alexandra was eager for an update to one story and cheered in reading that Commander Dyott and the boys had emerged from the Amazon and were sailing for New York.
Though they had lost all of their films, everyone had survived. It was the perfect ending to her day.
“It smells so tempting,” the woman said, pointing to the steaming tumbler of lemon-spiked whiskey. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“That would be lovely.” Alexandra held up her tumbler and two fingers, to which the steward nodded. She placed down the paper and introduced herself as the tall woman took the seat across.
Her guest had an everyday look to her: dressed nicely, but plainly, sporting a slight wave to her short, reddish hair.
“Have you enjoyed your trip thus far, miss...?”
“Mary Westmacott.” She played with the long strand of pearls double-looped along her neckline and stated with sadness, “It feels odd to be on such a flamboyant excursion on one’s own. Bound for Baghdad is not what I planned for at this stage of my life.”
The steward brought their cocktails. Alexandra said, hush-hush, “If you find yourself afoul of the law there, ask for Detective Liam Kimball. Be warned, he might flee if you mention my name.”
Mary chuckled. She raised her glass. “To upcoming days beneath an unfamiliar sun.” After the shared toast and a hard sip, she asked, “How are you enjoying the novel?”
Alexandra’s expression went wishy-washy. “It is not one of Miss Christie’s stronger efforts, though I’m glad to see Poirot solving a murder back in his native France.”
“He’s Belgian,” Mary sniped, sitting up sharply. “What exactly do you find lacking?”
The inimical reproach had surprised Alexandra. “The book’s title, for starters. ‘Le Bleu Train?’ I think not! More like ‘Le Blah Train.’ Why not one as ritzy as this?”
Mary frowned and let out an unappealing gurgle.
Alexandra continued in her critique. “The first quarter of the book is so droll! It reads so like a soap opera for bland and unlikeable hoity-toities bemoaning their wealthy la-di-das. I’m only at the midpoint, but already know who the killers are.”
Mary seemed to find this hard to believe. “I dare ask, Alexandra, who are the killers?”
She chuckled. “Major Knighton is obviously the marquise and conspired with the maid.”
Mary discharged a snorty harrumph. “I didn’t find it so obvious. What else?”
“Miss Christie has become so stale in this gathering of suspects thing at the end. If I were the killer, I would refuse to show up.”
Alexandra sensed she was on a roll. A hot-toddy was her favorite cold-weather nightcap. It keened her intellect, and she was pleased it no longer rendered her melodramatic in speech. She continued. “It would be better stew if the culprit escaped and started threatening Hercule whilst on the lam. Have Poirot so discombobulated that he stops bathing, shaves his mustache, and even orders scrambled eggs. Then, instead of ending it in a boring casino or train, do so in Istanbul. Poirot tracks down the marquise and hands him over to the authorities, who publicly impale the killer to the detective’s delight!”
Mary worked her pearls furiously. The sour, disturbed expression on her face expounded she thought differently. “You have a vivid imagination, my dear.”
“Hear, hear.” Alexandra raised her drink. She leaned forward and whispered, “We can’t be too hard on poor Agatha. The papers so ravaged her about her disappearance and divorce. Let’s just chalk up this disaster to her, you know, ‘fragile mental state.’”
Mary slammed down her glass and stormed out of the carriage. Alexandra lifted an eyebrow, thinking it emotionally healthier to be a fan of Agatha Christie, rather than a fanatic, like Mary Westmacott.
Alexandra finally had the lounge to herself, except for whoever was playing “Clair de Lune” on the piano. The melody seemed to allude to it being acceptable to be alone in life, though someday...
She shut her eyes and smiled, lost in thoughts of Archibald Leach. The lulling piano notes were interrupted by a sparkling glissando... and then silence.
“I first met Larisa Monvoisin on a piano bench. This was her song. Her family was very obliging to my requests. She was the most ravishing woman I have ever ravaged.”
It was him!
Alexandra darted up from her chair. It was her first impeccable view of Astor Lys, and it confirmed her worst fears. He was something that appeared to have only one foot in this world. He was thin, yet sinewy; old, yet virile. Though composed in speech, his voice thundered malice.
Alexandra frantically looked for the lounge steward, but the man was elsewhere. “Who are you, sir?”
“I am an empty vessel, allowed continued breath so greater beings can ensure you do not wander too far astray.” Lys produced a decorative hand ax. “Your benevolent, albeit foreboding, shadow.”
“You are nothing more than a demented man,” she challenged. “An illusion! A deceiver!”
“Is that so, Dulcinea?”
He slowly approached her.
“Did thou not touch your womb to safeguard your inheritance? Was I not there when your raft entered the rapids? Seul le Maître peut goûter votre chair. Who guided you from the jungle as you dallied with death? Thine eyes betray a desire to fall. You were born an abomination, but upon your first bleeding, you became the most precious thing on earth.”
Alexandra refused to believe him. She backed up against a window, closed her eyes, and trembled. She sensed him looming over her and meekly asked, “What do you want from me?”
A low, taunting laugh preceded his answer. “Those you are meeting will spend years in a Turkish prison. You would not like the food served. Depart this train. If you do not, I will hack the heart from Liam Kimball, just as I have the other men you’ve so sluttishly allowed to soil you. The date is written; the table has been set. Nothing must interfere with that.”
Alexandra did not move for several minutes—long after her eyes opened, and she sensed nothing more of him. She frantically reached into her purse for a cigarette, but instead, freed her Papuan dagger.
Enough is enough her mind thundered.
She could no longer tolerate any wonderment over this enigmatic tormentor. If Lys were flesh, he would bleed. If but imagined, she would cut her wrists. She rushed out of the carriage, hot on his trail, but came to a halt in the passageway. The dagger was tucked away.
The steward stopped folding towels and tipped his cap. “Mademoiselle.”
“The tall man that just passed. Which cabin?”
“No one has stirred, Miss Bathenbrook.”
Alexandra feigned a smile, nodded wearily, and calmly headed for her compartment. A few tears moistened her cheeks. She could no longer tolerate insanity; not to this extreme. All she wanted to do was go home, but no such place existed. Death would need to rendezvous with her here: naked, alone, and welcoming.
She shed her clothing and placed the dagger on her left wrist. Demons roared in her ears, imploring her to cease such madness. She looked at her nightstand and postponed the final cut.
Atop of it rested the braided bracelet she had lost over two years ago on the RMS Empress of Australia.