Death on the Istanbul Express

To enjoy Book 2 without having read Book 1, begin with the Overview

OVERVIEW

Our Sleuth, Màiri Maguire, is a 32 year old auburn-haired green-eyed Scots Irish schoolteacher, small and plump but cute with it. She has a way with her, as we say in Glasgow, where Màiri lives, sharing a home with her widowed sister Katriona and Kat’s 10 year old son Niall. Màiri has 2 more sisters: Brenda, who lives in Canada, as does their mother; and Morag who lives in Glasgow with her husband Shuggie.

At the beginning of Book 1, July 1970, Màiri’s boyfriend of 12 years, Brian, has just left her for a girl he met in Singapore. This is a great shock to Màiri, who had expected to marry him.

Màiri’s BFF, Lianna, who has been her BFF since they were both 5 years old, had a similar shock 8 months earlier, when she caught her husband Donal cheating and left both him and the company which they had been running together. A mistake so far as the company went, because Donal spent the tax money and blamed his inability to pay the tax bill on Lianna.

An unscrupulous tax inspector, Charlie Stout, casts a lecherous eye on Lianna, and that’s the last straw. The friends decide to leave Glasgow until the furore dies down. Màiri accepts a job in Istanbul, and they go for a short break in Paris before travelling on by Express train to Istanbul.

Unfortunately the corrupt tax officer and his wife are also taking a trip to Paris. On the first night, he is killed at the Eiffel Tower. The Paris police decide that Lianna is the prime suspect. She is arrested and jailed. The onus falls on Màiri to find the real killer.

Immediately Màiri becomes the target of terrorist bombers Harry Brown and Ferghal Reilly, who have hidden a bomb detonator in Màiri’s luggage and stolen Lianna’s passport to enable their co-conspirator Magatte (a Senegalese woman activist) to escape to Italy.

During a three day sleuthing marathon, in which she is greatly helped by Major Ellis Peverel - the head of a British, French, and Italian anti-terrorist joint force, who is in Paris pursuing gun runners; working with the French police; and incidentally making Lianna’s imprisonment more comfortable and Màiri’s difficulties much easier through his influence over Tristan Toussaint (head of Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure and also of the Paris police) - Màiri discovers the real killer’s identity and narrowly escapes death at the hands of the terrorists.

Màiri escapes but her clothes do not; all the luggage and clothes she and Lianna possess have been destroyed by the terrorists.

Major Ellis Peverel is an unusual man, cultured, intelligent, wealthy, of the English upper class, fluent in 5 languages, a complete workaholic, highly observant, a trained and skilled warrior, a dedicated leader of men and a man of action, now in his mid-fifties. Yet he is also whimsical – it amuses him to pretend to be a decrepit old man; it amuses him to play word games with his peers. He is helpful to Màiri in practical ways, and he also knows how to revive her flagging spirits when her enormous difficulties and dangers threaten to overwhelm her. Does he care for Màiri or is he just doing his job? With the Major, it’s not easy to tell…

After Harry and Ferghal have been caught and jailed (because Henri le Blanc turns police informer) Lianna is freed. The friends start shopping, buying lovely new clothes and extremely expensive luggage to hold their new clothes.

PROLOGUE - Màiri narrates.

10:30 a.m. Friday, 21st August 1970

Platform 11, Gare du Nord, Rue de Dunkerque, Paris

Our journey across Europe to Istanbul starts at 10:35 a.m. We’re standing on the platform, and I’m zealously watching the porters’ every movement as they stow our new luggage in our compartment. I don’t want to take any risk that our lovely travel things might get damaged by careless handling.

A scruffy postman moves along the train corridor, a large mail-sack slung over his shoulder, for a second partially obscuring my view of the porter stowing our cases, but then he moves on past our compartment and I breathe a sigh of relief, because the porter is handling all our beautiful luggage with the care it deserves. He’s settling our cases onto a teeny-weeny shelf.

I’m checking our tickets again to make certain that we have the right compartment when Ellis comes up to us.

“Good morning, Major.” says Lianna, likely because she doesn’t feel that she knows him well enough to call him anything else. She’s only spent one evening in his company. And he’s so much older than us. Lianna was brought up right, like me. She’s respectful to her elders.

With a tiny half bow, Ellis hands her a small bundle of books. “To keep you busy on the journey.” He grins. Lianna blushes. I blush.

Then he turns to me and hands me a cake-box. “To make up for the cream cakes you didn’t get on the train from Le Havre.”

My face gets redder. “It’s very kind of you to come to see us off – ” but he interrupts

“Oh, I’m not seeing you off. I’m travelling to Rome. Time to get aboard, ladies.”

He tips his hat to us and saunters off to the First Class section of the train. For the first time, I regret not having spent the extra money for First Class.

Me and Lianna are standing beside our Second Class compartment, so we climb aboard.

I wonder what adventures await us in Istanbul? It’s bound to feel tame after all the ups and downs we’ve had in Paris.

The Guard blows his whistle and we’re off.

As Lianna slides open the door of our lovely compartment, made up as a tiny sitting-room, a train attendant rushes up.

“A million pardons, ladies. This is not your compartment.”

I have the tickets still in my hand, and it’s our compartment all right. I turn to the man, and show him our tickets. “It is so.”

He beams. “Yes, ladies. From Rome to Istanbul, this is your compartment. From here to Rome, you have been transferred to a suite in First Class. Please, follow me.”

No way am I leaving my exquisite new black luggage to the tender mercies of careless train porters. It will be moved under my eye.

“Very well.” I sniff. “Please ask the porters to come for our luggage now.”

The attendant is crestfallen. Obviously he thought we would be over-joyed to get moved into one of the super-ritzy First Class compartments just as fast as possible. He peeps into our compartment. Our tiny travelling cases sit on a teeny-weeny shelf just the right size to hold them. Lianna is a superb shopper – she knew exactly what we’d need.

The attendant beams again. “Of course. I will carry your cases.” He darts in too fast for me to say a word, picks up our cases, and is back in the passageway with us almost before I’ve opened my mouth.

“Thank you.” I smile “But we’ll still need a porter. There are two steamer trunks as well.” The attendant knows all about the compartments where steamer trunks are stowed, of course. It’s quickly settled that Lianna will go with him and our travelling cases to our new First Class suite; and I’ll wait here for the porters. You couldn’t move me with a crowbar before those lovely trunks are safely transported.

Soon two porters turn up. Only one can work inside the compartment at a time. The first goes into the compartment, opens the stowage, carefully removes Lianna’s trunk, and starts off down the passageway. The other goes to the stowage compartment on the opposite side of the carriage, opens it up, and begins to pull out my gorgeous glossy black trunk.

Three seconds later he stops dead, and backs out of the carriage, his body obscuring my view. Obviously my worst fears have been realised – some careless porter has scratched my trunk!

I crane my neck, determined to see the extent of the damage. And when I do, I wish I hadn’t. The top of my trunk is not properly closed, and a lifeless arm lolls out of it.

Chapter One FORTY MINUTES EARLIER

10:00 a.m. Friday, 21st August 1970

Holding cell, Commissariat De Police Quartier De La Porte Saint-Denis, Paris

The moment has come. Either Harry’s cronies will come through for them, or they will spend the rest of their lives rotting at the bottom of the deep hole the French authorities will throw them into. Captured would-be bombers are not popular people, and the Sûreté are especially unhappy with Harry Brown and his soi-disant OAS army because they had come so close to succeeding.

If not for that imbecile Ferghal, Harry thinks – not for the first time – Paris would be in ruins by now. It had been such a brilliant plan. Getting himself onto the committee for the Bastille Day celebrations, throwing money and fancy dinners around like confetti, creating an environment where the staff at the Eiffel Tower expected him to turn up at all sorts of odd hours burdened with heavy electronic equipment.

He'd given them the most spectacular pyrotechnics display they’d ever had, this July 14th.

And if not for that infuriating little Glaswegian school teacher, on August 19th he’d have given them the most terrifying display they’d ever had.

They’d all have been blown to bits, and he would be on his way, this very minute, to his tropical island, a whole island all his own.

Instead he’s sitting in an airless room concentrating on not biting his nails. A true leader, (Harry soothes himself with his favourite mantra) a true leader always acts, he does not permit himself to be acted upon by untoward circumstance.

The rescue team will turn up, because they need him. He’s got more brains in his little finger that all the rest of them put together have got in their heads. Besides, he’s the only one who knows where the weapons are cached.

Harry hasn’t been permitted to keep his watch, of course, but his internal body-clock tells him it’s close to ten o’clock. They will be moved at 10:15 a.m. Any moment now the guards will be coming to take them to the police transport. Ferghal flexes his biceps and tenses, readying himself to attack.

“Not now, you moron.” Harry snarls.

“Sorry, boss.”

The gendarmes may arrive at any moment, now is not the time to walk Ferghal through the plan again. But since the idiot could ruin everything by attacking as soon as the police walk in, Harry decides that another rehearsal is the lesser danger.

“Listen up, Ferghal. Very soon the police will come for us.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And when they do, they’ll find us sitting here quietly.”

“I’ll be doing my Zen meditation.” Ferghal nods.

“NO, Ferghal, not yet.”

“But boss -- ”

“You’ll be doing your Zen meditation as we’re walking to the transport.”

Ferghal manages to look both rebellious and quelled at the same time, and opens his mouth.

Seeing instantly that the word about to issue from him is Not Yes, Harry moves slightly to gain maximum leverage and swings one hand-cuffed wrist into Ferghal’s face. The iron cuff doesn’t quite reach the moron’s mouth, but at least he abandons the attempt to speak.

“You’ll go into trance as we reach the van – ”

Ferghal opens his mouth again, but nervously eyeing Harry’s hands, he thinks better of saying what he is about to say; and Harry continues

“ – falling into the van as they open the doors. Which will worry them, and then while they’re distracted by your motionless body, Rico and his lads will descend, and we’ll be offski.”

“I thought it was Gilberto coming for us?”

As it happens he’s right, and this annoys Harry even more.

“Gilberto, Umberto, Renato, Ricardo, who cares?”

“You do, boss.”

Impervious to Harry’s glare but swift to dodge his moving hands, Ferghal continues placidly

“You don’t want Umberto, he’s a lousy driver.”

10:11 a.m. Friday, 21st August 1970

Lucky 8 Casino, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, Paris

Gilberto is feeling resentful, and in his open-hearted Italian way he is making his feelings known to Rico, nominally his capo in this operation. For a start, Gilberto resents that Rico is capo in this operation. He, Gilberto, has seniority. Perhaps only 5 weeks, but still, seniority.

He, Gilberto, is the Getaway driver, the most important role in the operation. Is there a better Getaway driver anywhere in Italy? Anywhere in Paris? Anywhere – Gilberto waves both his hands expansively – on the face of God’s beautiful creation? (Gilberto crosses himself.) There is not. Rico must know there is not.

Rico, keen for Gilberto to talk himself out and get on with the job, nods vigorously. This has the twin advantages of not interrupting Gilberto’s flow of speech and being open to interpretation.

Eventually Gilberto gets to his point, which is that he doesn’t see why his priceless talents, his unparalleled driving skills, are being wasted on an incompetent Englishman who has been so foolish as to get arrested; or why he, Gilberto, is in Paris at all, a city he detests. He wants to be back in Milan, a city he should never have left.

Rico uncrosses his legs, and re-crosses them the other way, waiting to see if Gilberto has finished. Thankfully, he is talked out. Now Rico interjects gently that Harry is the only one who knows where the weapons are.

Gilberto, who is not stupid, only too talkative, gets the point. Where are they rendezvousing with Harry after the jailbreak? In Rome, in St Peter’s Square, two days from now.

Gilberto is satisfied. They need weapons, and two days is not long. To wait a shorter while would be foolish, would draw attention. He glances at his watch. 10:14 a.m. Time to get behind the wheel.

As Gilberto leaves, moving smoothly at high speed, Rico smiles. 45 seconds left for Gilberto to get from the Lucky 8 to the Secure area at Rue de Chabrol. Since Rico had the foresight to send the heavies to sit in the car 5 minutes ago, there’s no question that Gilberto will make it with seconds to spare. He talks too much, but he drives like the Vengeance of God.

10:14 a.m. Friday, 21st August 1970

Secure Vehicles area, 43 Rue de Chabrol, behind Commissariat De Police Quartier De La Porte Saint-Denis, Paris

Just as Harry anticipated, four gendarmes enter the room soon after he finishes talking. They form a square around him and Ferghal, shepherd them out, and bring them into the secure vehicles area where the police transport waits.

From that moment onwards, things fail to go according to plan.

They cross the yard and reach the van. Ferghal doesn’t go into trance. He looks perfectly normal, putting one foot on the step to enter the van. And there’s no sign of the Getaway car.

Harry wants to kill Ferghal and his Italian fellow conspirators too! But he always stays cool in an emergency. He kicks Ferghal’s kneecap, sending him writhing to the ground. That will create a distraction, Harry reasons, and give him a moment to think.

Two policemen seize Harry’s arms.

Gilberto crashes through the locked gates in a Mercedes Estate that has got to be armour plated to have barrelled in like that. He pulls up inches away.

Gilberto doesn’t only drive like God's Vengeance, he has Zero Tolerance for anything which interferes with his driving. Gilberto is not happy to see Ferghal, who’s meant to be in a trance, flopping on the ground.

He flies out of the car, Peppe and Carlo behind him.

Scooping up Ferghal, Gilberto tosses him to Peppe, and Ferghal goes limp in mid-flight, the Zen trance cutting in at the most inconvenient moment possible.

Peppe’s out of the fight now, it’s going to take all his energy to get this sack of lard into the back seat of the Mercedes.

Peppe calls aloud on the Mother of Mercy for aid. Absorbing the dead weight of Ferghal landing in his gorilla-muscled arms, he turns swiftly to the car.

Gilberto barrels on without even checking his stride. He plunges both hands into his pockets, bringing them out in a lightning arc of fluid movement. He punches the gendarme turning toward him in the stomach.

The gendarme cries out. Gilberto pushes something straight into the man’s opening mouth, his other hand clapped over the gendarme’s nose.

Harry is furious. Screaming police weren't in the plan. The noise may bring help. His escape is coming apart. Swiftly Harry brings up his cuffed hands at the best angle to knock out one of the policemen trying to hold his arms. Harry turns, his rising steel-cuffed wrist hitting the other.

Carlo reaches the last gendarme. He too punches his target, pushing one chloroform pad into his mouth and the other over his nose. The gendarme sinks.

Carlo grabs Harry and pulls him away from the falling gendarmes holding him.

At the same moment, Gilberto seizes Harry and half carries, half pushes him through the open back door of the Mercedes.

Harry is bundled into the car beside Peppe and Ferghal.

Carlo follows as Gilberto reaches the driver’s door.

Peppe whips out a lockpick.

The car takes off.

Through the crushed gates.

Left into Rue de Chabrol.

Swinging violently right into Rue La Fayette.

Zig zags through the roundabout.

The Mercedes tears up Rue La Fayette, weaving between cars as if they aren’t there.

Peppe is releasing Harry from his handcuffs as the car arrows onward.

As Gilberto passes Gare du Nord, Harry and Ferghal are pushed out of the massively slowed, yet still moving car.

The Mercedes vanishes into the traffic stream.