Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

Gunther Hartog told Jeff, “The statue is currently in the possession of General Alan McPhee.”

“The American war hero?”

“Exactly. The general will be on the Eastern and Oriental Express (E&O) leaving Singapore on April twenty-fourth at three o’clock. He plans to hand it over to his buyer in Bangkok on the twenty-eighth. Your job is to see to it that he doesn’t.”

Jeff had arrived in Singapore four days early, to give himself time to rest and to recover from jet lag. He’d enjoyed his time in the city, especially his last night with Lisa. These days, Jeff slept only with hookers. They were good at what they did, honest about their motivations and expected nothing from him other than money, of which he had plenty. He no longer missed Tracy with the raw, visceral pain he’d felt for the first year after she left him. But he knew that he would never love again. Not like that. Fleeting liaisons, such as the one with Lisa, fulfilled him sexually and protected him emotionally. These days Jeff reserved all deeper feelings for his work. He specialized in rare antiquities, and the only objects he ever stole were ones that genuinely fascinated him.

“I don’t need the money,” he told Gunther Hartog. “If I work, it will be for the love of it or not at all. Think of me as an artist.”

“Oh, but I do, dear boy. I do.”

“I need to be inspired.”

Singapore had been fun, but sorely lacking in inspiration. Jeff had dined on oysters at Luke’s on Club Street and indulged in some rocket-fueled cocktails served by gorgeous waitresses at the Tippling Club on Dempsey Hill. But overall the city reminded him of nothing so much as an Asian Geneva: clean, pleasant and, after a few days, really quite crushingly dull.

Thomas Bowers was ready to board that train.

Let the battle begin.

GENERAL ALAN MCPHEE’S VOICE carried through the intimate dining car like a stage actor booming out a soliloquy.

“Of course Iraq’s a beautiful country. Bringing freedom to those folks is probably the thing I’m most proud of in my life. But I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. A lot of painful memories there . . .”

It was the second night aboard the Orient Express and the general was holding court, just as he had done the first night. Jeff Stevens, aka Thomas Bowers, observed the way the people around the man listened with rapt attention. The women, particularly, seemed impressed by him. There were four at his table tonight, along with two men. Two older Japanese ladies, sitting with their husbands, were part of a large group of Japanese tourists who had boarded the train at Woodlands Station in Singapore. They were joined by an elegant Frenchwoman, traveling alone, and an American goddess with waist-length red hair, a knockout figure and amber eyes, who rejoiced in the name of Tiffany Joy. Thomas Bowers had made Ms. Joy’s acquaintance the previous night. A few discreet inquiries had confirmed his suspicions that she was the general’s mistress, traveling as his secretary in an adjoining cabin.

“Amazing, isn’t it, Mr. Bowers, to be sharing our journey with a true hero.”

“Absolutely.”

Jeff smiled at Mrs. Marjorie Graham, an English widow in her sixties traveling with her sister. The management of the E&O, and in particular Helmut Krantz, the train’s hilariously uptight German chief steward, encouraged guests to “mingle” at mealtimes and share tables. Last night Jeff had endured his overcooked duck à l’orange in the company of a profoundly tedious Swedish couple from Malmö. Tonight he had the Miss Marple sisters. Complete with tweed skirts, twinsets and pearls, Marjorie Graham and her sister, Audrey, both looked as if they’d walked directly right off the pages of an Agatha Christie novel.

“One hears about celebrities on these trips,” Marjorie Graham went on. “I half expected some ghastly pop star. But General McPhee, well, that’s quite a different matter.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Jeff. “Believe me, no one’s more excited than me to have the general on board.”

“Being an American, you mean?”

“Sure.” He nodded absently. Tiffany Joy had gotten up from the table, presumably to use the restroom in the next car down. As she passed, she smiled at Jeff, who smiled back, touching her lightly on the arm and exchanging some pleasantry or other. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the general watching them, and observed the jealous souring of his expression.

At the end of the meal, another depressingly average offering—putting a German in charge of hospitality was bad enough, but Jeff strongly suspected that they’d hired one of Helmut’s countrymen as head chef as well, which was unforgivable—Jeff headed toward the piano bar. As he passed the general’s table, a sharp jolt from the train propelled him into the lovely Miss Joy once again.

“I’m terribly sorry.” He grinned, looking anything but. “These narrow-gauge tracks are hellish, aren’t they?”

“Oh, they’re awful.” The redhead giggled. “I was rattling around like a coin in a jar last night in my bunk. You should see my bruises.”

“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” Jeff quipped.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” General McPhee looked at Jeff with all the warmth of a nuclear winter.

“I don’t believe we have. Thomas Bowers.” Jeff extended a hand.

“Mr. Bowers is an expert in antiques,” said Tiffany.

“Antiquities,” Jeff corrected. “And I wouldn’t say an expert, exactly. I’m a dealer.”

“Is that so?” The general’s expression shifted. “Well, Mr. Bowers, we should have a drink later. I have something in my cabin that I think may interest you greatly.”

Jeff allowed his eyes to linger on Tiffany Joy’s quite spectacular bosom. “I’m sure you do, General.”

“It’s not for sale,” the general snapped. “Not that you could afford it even if it were. It’s priceless.”

“Oh, I believe you, sir.” Jeff’s eyes were still fixed on Tiffany’s, and hers on him.

Thomas Bowers really was disconcertingly good-looking. Tiffany knew she shouldn’t flirt. It upset Alan. Married or not, General Alan McPhee was a wonderful man, noble and brave and lionhearted. It was his strength and integrity that had attracted Tiffany to him in the first place. Well, that and the power, if she was honest. But she couldn’t let him down, just because a handsome stranger paid her some attention. She blushed, ashamed of herself.

“I’ll take you up on that drink tomorrow, General, if that’s all right,” Thomas Bowers was saying brightly. “Unfortunately I have some work I need to catch up on tonight. Sorry to have intruded, Miss Joy.”

He nodded gallantly and took his leave.

Tiffany Joy’s blush deepened. “Mr. Bowers.”

Well, Jeff thought, grinning all the way back to his cabin. That should put a fox in the henhouse. Step one completed.

JEFF’S CABIN WAS CHARMING but minuscule. Tracy had once pulled off a spectacular jewel theft aboard the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express traveling from London to Venice and had compared her room to “the inside of a candy box.”

This was similar, a riot of red velvet and brocade with a single armchair, tiny table and foldout bunk bed that Jeff suspected had been shipped in especially from Guantánamo Bay, so torturous was it to attempt to sleep on. The decor was certainly nostalgic, and had a certain Art Deco glamour to it. But Jeff’s enthusiasm for the romance of the Pullman car was fading almost as fast as his appetite. Roll on, Bangkok.

Having attempted to shower in a stall so cramped Houdini would have thought twice before entering it, Jeff lay on his bunk rereading Gunther’s encrypted file on General Alan McPhee.