rebuilt train was a duplicate of the original, with a British Pullman car, wagon-lit restaurants, a bar-salon car, and sleeping cars.
An attendant in a 1920's marine-blue uniform with gold braid carried Tracy's two suitcases and her vanity case to her cabin, which was disappointingly small. There was a single seat, upholstered with a flower-patterned mohair. The rug, as well as the ladder that was used to reach the top berth, was covered in the same green plush. It was like being in a candy box.
Tracy read the card accompanying a small bottle of champagne in a silver bucket: OLIVER AUBERT, TRAIN MANAGER.
I'll save it until I have something to celebrate, Tracy decided. Maximilian Pierpont. Jeff Stevens had failed. It would be a wonderful feeling to top Mr. Stevens. Tracy smiled at the thought.
She unpacked in the cramped space and hung up the clothes she would be needing. She preferred traveling on a Pan American jet rather than a train; but this journey promised to be an exciting one.
Exactly on schedule, the Orient Express began to move out of the station. Tracy sat back in her seat and watched the southern suburbs of London roll by.
At 1:15 that afternoon the train arrived at the port of Folkestone, where the passengers transferred to the Sealink ferry, which would take them across the channel to Boulogne, where they would board another Orient Express heading south.
Tracy approached one of the attendants. "I understand Maximilian Pierpont is traveling with us. Could you point him out to me?"
The attendant shook his head. "I wish I could, ma'am. He booked his cabin and paid for it, but he never showed up. Very unpredictable gentleman, so I'm told."
That left Silvana Luadi and her husband, the producer of forgettable epics.
In Boulogne, the passengers were escorted onto the continental Orient Express. Unfortunately, Tracy's cabin on the second train was identical to the one she had left, and the rough roadbed made the journey even more uncomfortable. She remained in her cabin all day making her plans, and at 8:00 in the evening she began to dress.
The dress code of the Orient Express recommended evening clothes, and Tracy chose a stunning dove-gray chiffon gown with gray hose and gray satin shoes. Her only jewelry was a single strand of matched pearls. She checked herself in the mirror before she left her quarters, staring at her reflection for a long time. Her green eyes had a look of innocence, and her face looked guileless and vulnerable. The mirror is lying, Tracy thought. I'm not that woman anymore. I'm living a masquerade. But an exciting one.
As Tracy left her cabin, her purse slipped out of her hand, and as she knelt down to retrieve it, she quickly examined the outside locks on the door. There were two of them: a Yale lock and a Universal lock. No problem. Tracy rose and moved on toward the dining cars.
There were three dining cars aboard the train. The seats were plush-covered, the walls were veneered, and the soft lights came from brass sconces topped with Lalique shades. Tracy entered the first dining room and noted several empty tables. The ma芯tre d' greeted her. "A table for one, mademoiselle?"
Tracy looked around the room. "I'm joining some friends, thank you."
She continued on to the next dining car. This one was more crowded, but there were still several unoccupied tables.
"Good evening," the ma芯tre d' said. "Are you dining alone?"
"No, I'm meeting someone. Thank you."
She moved on to the third dining car. There, every table was occupied.
The ma芯tre d' stopped her at the door. "I'm afraid there will be a wait for a table, madam. There are available tables in the other dining cars, however."
Tracy looked around the room, and at a table in the far corner she saw what she was looking for. "That's all right," Tracy said. "I see friends."
She moved past the ma芯tre d' and walked over to the corner table. "Excuse me," she said apologetically. "All the tables seem to be occupied. Would you mind if I joined you?"
The man quickly rose to his feet, took a good look at Tracy, and exclaimed, "Prego! Con piacere! I am Alberto Fornati and this is my wife, Silvans Luadi."
"Tracy Whitney." She was using her own passport.
"Ah! ? Americana! I speak the excellent English."
Alberto Fornati was short, bald; and fat. Why Silvana Luadi had ever married him had been the most lively topic in Rome for the twelve years they had been together. Silvana Luadi was a classic beauty,