his voice booming the length of the station corridor, as Bliss emerged from his meeting with Nosmo King more than two hours later.
Anticipating an ambush from Edwards, Bliss had spent the final five minutes of the meeting mentally preparing himself, yet immediately went to pieces. The relatively diminutive figure at the other end of the corridor, now beckoning with furious hand movements, exuded such an aura of control he felt his willpower being siphoned away. Everyone, and everything, stopped, like a confrontation scene from a wild west movie. Who would be fastest to the draw?
The superintendent fired the first volley, shouting, “Here!”
Adolf Hitler, who, for all Bliss knew, may have walked this same corridor fifty-odd years earlier, could never have commanded such authority in a single word.
Bliss capitulated immediately. Heart thumping and blood rising, he answered, “Yes, Sir,” and started the lonely walk.
Yolanda fell in step—a henchman in a lemon yellow two-piece that would have been more at home on a catwalk. “I could kick him,” she suggested from the corner of her mouth, and probably would have done had he agreed.
Reaching into his pocket, Bliss pulled out King’s handkerchief and slipped it to her. “Thank you,” was all she could think of saying as she grasped it, with puzzled eyes, peeling away just as they reached Edwards.
“In here,” Edwards motioned to an empty room and Bliss fought desperately to get his mind under control in preparation for the string of lies he was about to tell.
Twenty minutes later the white BMW purred restfully as Yolanda concentrated on the face of the figure walking across the car park toward her. She had seen similar expressions before—faces of survivors fleeing the scene of a hostage taking. A vengeful postal worker had been pumping bullets randomly into his colleagues, his supposed tormentors, and the escapees all wore the same mask. Fear, anger, and disbelief combined with just a twinge of relief, producing a deadpan expression that said so little, yet hid so much. Any minute now he’ll break into a little nervous smile, just to prove to me, and himself, that he came through it alive, she thought, and, on cue, Bliss’ mouth widened, his teeth showed briefly, and he shrugged his shoulders lightly as if to say, “That didn’t hurt.”
“Hi,” he said airily, jumping in beside her.
She smiled, genuinely, “Okey dokey Dave?” and dropped the car into gear without adding to his discomfort by asking what happened.
Heading back to her apartment in thoughtful silence she glanced at him a couple of times and recalled how most of the hostage survivors had quickly disintegrated into snivelling, whimpering messes. She guessed he would not.
Yolanda’s expensive and well-travelled suitcase had taken her less than three minutes to pack and stow into the trunk of the car. Bliss had spent considerably longer gathering his few possessions. Deep in thought, he had moved around the apartment in a daze. The words, “Suspended from duty,” were uppermost in his mind. Edwards’ parting admonition, “Get your ass on that ship and be in my office nine o’clock Monday morning with a full report,” also left a nasty sting that wouldn’t go away.
“Have you got everything?” she enquired, creeping unnoticed into the bedroom behind him.
“I think so.”
“What about this?” she held up his toothbrush and made him reach for it. Their fingers met. Neither thought it was an accident. The electric charge that leapt from flesh to flesh was purely imaginary, yet perfectly real. Her heart pounded and she felt an inner tingling sensation. Their eyes locked over their hands and the vivid blueness of her pupils held him prisoner. He couldn’t escape; didn’t want to escape; didn’t even try to escape. Running his fingers along the length of hers, he found the wrist and held it while his other hand took the toothbrush and tossed it onto the bed. Pulling gently, he eased the outstretched hand toward his mouth and pressed the palm to his lips. An instant may have been a minute, or an hour, and neither of them could have guessed with any certainty how long they stood glued together by eye contact alone. Flustered, unsettled, he pulled away, grabbed the toothbrush and shoved it into his suitcase, saying, “I’ve got to go,” with unnecessary harshness. “The ship sails in half an hour.” Then they fumbled uncertainly around each other for a few minutes while Yolanda checked the lights, the taps, the answering machine, then locked the front door behind her.
Bliss’ half-closed eyes took little notice of the route to the port. The coastal fog had thinned a little but after ten minutes he still could not see the ship. Then rows of humped backed greenhouses replaced the little terraced houses at the roadside and stretched into the murk.
“Where are we going?” he enquired almost casually.
“Istanbul.”
His eyes went wide and his voice lifted an octave, “Istanbul?”
“Yeah. Istanbul.”
He sat bolt upright and stared at her. “Don’t be silly Yolanda, I’m in enough trouble already. Anyway it would take at least four days.”
“We’re not driving there.”
“We are not going there,” he said firmly.
“Why did you give me the handkerchief then?”
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Stop, or I’ll jump out,” he shouted, undoing his seat belt.
Her eyes stared straight ahead. “Go on then,” she taunted, pulling a “couldn’t-care-less,” face.
“Please stop Yolanda,” he said, trying hard not to get cross.
Her face changed; his seriousness had sunk in and disappointment dragged her down. She parked untidily, without indication, and suffered the angered blast of the following driver’s horn as he barely missed rearending them in the fog. “Dave, What else can we do?” she began, trying to reason with him.
“Contact Interpol.”
“Have you ever dealt with Interpol?” she asked in a way that made it clear she had.
“No,” he admitted.
“Look at your watch Dave.”
He looked
“What’s the time?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
With a confused look she quickly checked hers. “It’s twelve-thirty, Dave. You’ve still got English time.”
“Oh, right.”
“So,” she continued, “It’s twelve-thirty Friday. If we work hard the request will be ready for Interpol by five o’clock. With any luck they’ll deal with it first on Monday morning. They might have a Turkish translation by next Tuesday and by next Wednesday hundreds of Turkish police will go the address.”
“That’s useless,” he cried, “They’ll have cleared out long before then. They might have left already.”
Bliss gnawed on a knuckle, deep in thought, for a few seconds. Istanbul sounded good; Istanbul with Yolanda sounded … “Sorry,” he said eventually, shaking his head from side to side, his speculations soured by malignant thoughts of Edwards. “I have to go back. I would lose my job. Edwards is determined to nail me.” Putting his hand lightly on her arm he looked deeply into her face. “I really am sorry. You don’t know how much I’d like to say yes, but I can’t. Please take me to the ship or I’ll miss it.”
The roar of the ship’s siren sounded a final warning as they drove into the port. Yolanda expertly navigated a maze of plastic traffic bollards, snubbed a “no entry” sign, and came alongside the ship. Slinging his suitcase onto the end of the gangway, Bliss caught her up in his arms and their lips smacked together and refused to let go. A parting peck turned into a full-blown smooch. Her body swung limply in his arms, her mouth moved frantically against his, and his hands swam up and down her body.
The