Chapter Fourteen: Paris to Calcutta

 

 

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Jonathan watched as the errand boy, under direction from Hubert, carried the last of the suitcases  up the narrow steps into the luxury steam locomotive.  He sighed with nervous apprehension.  “Here we go,” he murmured to himself, turning in time to see Jacques approaching. 

 

“Are you ready?” the Frenchman asked.

                                                                                                

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied honestly.

 

They were standing on the station platform, getting ready to depart from Paris.  It had only been five days since they had received the telegram from Shanghai, informing them of the discovery of the Black Book.  But here they were standing, about to leave on the Orient Express, the most famous railway line in Europe.  It would take them from Paris to Vienna, to Bucharest, and finally to Istanbul.  The trip would only take three nights and four days, but it was the easiest leg of their journey.

 

And it would take them only one fourth of the way to Shanghai.

 

Jacques smiled too.  “You are our only hope, Jon,” he said, clapping him on the back.  A torrent of emotions ran through Jonathan.  Part of him was happy and eager to start, while the other part of him was deathly afraid of what he might face.

 

It was strange, Jonathan reflected, looking around at the hustle and bustle, how the world was, in many ways, the same as it had been before Imhotep came to power.  Commerce had continued, practically the same as it had always been.  After Imhotep had cemented his rule, people adjusted to the new, odd stability he offered.  Entrepreneurs and business men rose to take the place of the old.  Shops, theaters, hotels; trains, buses, ships–all had continued running almost uninterrupted.

 

Of course, many things were different.  Thousands of human beings were enslaved.  Millions had been murdered.  The world was being ruled on the whims of a reincarnated High Priest of Osiris.  It was, Jonathan mulled, almost farcical.  But human beings are amazing in their ability to survive–to pull together, to overcome horrible loss.

 

Changing the name of a territory does not change the territory itself.  It reminded Jonathan of his school lessons of the ancient Roman Empire.  It didn’t matter to the peasants who wore the purple in the Imperial Palace.  The rulers and the names changed–but their farmland, trade, and lives remained very much the same.

 

“Everything’s loaded up,” Hubert said, joining the two men on the busy platform.

 

Hubert was a young French resistence fighter who was joining Jonathan on his trip to the East.  He was laconic, but intelligent, determined, and fiercely loyal.  Jonathan was glad to have him along.  It was good to have company when you were trying to save the world, he reflected sardonically.

 

“Great, thank you Hubert,” Jacques said, turning toward the younger man, but his eye was caught by a man in a dark hat who was leaning up against the wall of the platform.

 

“What do you see, old chap?” Jonathan asked, noticing Jacques eyes narrow in suspicion.

 

“Probably one of Imhotep’s spies,” he said lowly, not taking his eyes off of the man.  He suddenly looked away and back into Jonathan’s face, forcing a smile.  “Just keep an eye out for them.  Your papers and story are flawless.  You shouldn’t have any problems.”

 

Jonathan nodded, sticking his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

 

“Now, are you sure you have everything?” Jacques continued, looking at each man anxiously.  “You each have your passports and National Identification papers?”

 

Both men nodded nervously.

 

He paused, looking into both their faces.  “And you both remember your story?”

 

The three of them had gone over and over Jonathan and Hubert’s fake history and relationship many times.

 

They both nodded nervously again.

 

“What are your names?” Jacques prodded.

 

“Jean-Luc Belleau,” Hubert responded quickly, clutching his papers in his hand.

 

“How did I get the name Benedict Evans?” Jonathan joked.  “I sound like I belong in the House of Lords.”

 

“Because Benedict Evans had a clean record, and now he’s dead,” Jacques replied simply.

 

Jonathan nodded, quickly sobering.  “We remember our story, don’t we Huey?”

                     

Hubert nodded, tucking a hidden dagger into his boot. 

 

“Very well then,” Jacques said, clapping his hands together.  “We have all the faith in the world in you two.  We know you will succeed in finding the book.”

 

“We will,” Hubert asserted, adjusting his shoulder holster, which held a concealed handgun.  This gun was in addition to the two handguns and single shotgun concealed within their luggage, not to mention the package of extra bullets.

 

Jonathan shook his head warily.  “Are you sure we need that, old chap?”

 

Hubert nodded seriously.  “You never know when we might need one.”

 

Jacques nodded, agreeing.  “Hubert is an expert, Jon.  You have no need to worry.”

 

Jonathan forced a smile, realizing how immanent their departure now was.  They were about to depart for the unknown, for a hazardous journey they might not complete alive.  Hubert exchanged a few words with Jacques, shook hands with him, and then turned and disappeared into the massive black train.

 

Left alone, Jonathan turned to his friend.  “Are you sure you don’t want to come along?” he asked, the question somewhere between a joke and a plea.

 

Jacques shook his head.  “I am needed here.”

 

Jonathan nodded, understanding, a sad, bittersweet, shadow of a smile crossing his face.  He knew that he might never see Jacques again in this lifetime, a man whom he admired and had come to trust more than anyone.  But he drew courage from his task: a journey to help to free his sister and the world from the tyranny of the man who ruled it.

 

“Goodbye Jacques,” Jonathan whispered.

 

As the train’s whistle blared, and the locomotive slowly began pulling away, Jonathan turned to look outside his window, for one last glance at Jacques and the safety of his past.   As they chugged down the track, Jacques straightened and saluted him.  The salute a soldier gives to his General.

 

 

***three weeks later***

 

 

Jonathan sighed as he sunk into a cushioned chair in the dining car, glancing restlessly out as the landscape whizzing by.  This was their second day on the train from Bombay to Calcutta, and Jonathan reflected aimlessly that this once had been the crown jewel of the British Empire.  Now, of course, it was part of the vast, nameless territory controlled by Imhotep.

 

“Hungry?” Hubert asked, breaking into his thoughts.

 

Jonathan smiled.  “My boy, I am always hungry,” he confirmed, reaching for one of the fancy menus.

 

Hubert concurred.  “This is much nicer than the awful salted beef and lemon juice we drank on the ship.”

 

“Well, we couldn’t travel first class all the way,” Jonathan commented as he debated internally whether he wanted the steak or the cornish hen.

 

After traveling on the luxury Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul, Jonathan and Hubert had boarded a ship bound for Bombay.  The trip had taken two weeks, across part of the Mediterranean Sea, through the Suez Canal and the Gulf of Aden, and across the Arabian Sea to the western coast of India.  Passing so close to Egypt–where so many of his memories were from, and where his sister was imprisoned–had been hard for Jonathan.  But he knew that he was helping Evy, no matter how far apart they physically were.  She was in his mind and heart every day.

 

Hubert’s parents were long dead, so he was completely unsentimental about coming within 10 miles of the entrance to the Nile valley.  His mother and father had both died in a car accident when he was a small child.  When Imhotep came to power, Hubert threw himself into the resistence movement.  Jonathan never said it aloud, but he suspected that Hubert was devoting himself to the cause as a way of giving meaning to his life. 

 

So Jonathan talked about his feelings of loss–losing Evy, losing Rick, losing Alex.  Hubert never said so, but Jonathan was sure that it made Hubert feel better.  The younger man could know that he wasn’t alone in his feelings of isolation.

 

Hubert had never been outside of France, and the views from the trains were nothing but grass and mountains, so Jonathan decided that they would stay for a few days in Istanbul and see the famous sites.  The former Constantinople of the Christians had absolutely amazed Hubert.  Walking through the mosques, the gardens–he had been completely in awe.  Jonathan hoped that he was helping the young man find what he was looking for.

 

“Gotta go with the steak,” Hubert said, leaning back and stretching on the plush seats.

 

Jonathan sighed.  “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded, dropping his menu with a flourish.

                                                                                                

It felt great to be able to order real food again.  The dining car on the Orient Express was known for its fantastic cuisine, and the two resistence fighters had eaten like they were kings.  The steam ship, however, was another story.  It wasn’t a passenger ship; Jonathan and Hubert had made special arrangements with the captain.  This meant that for two weeks they had slept on sacks of flour and had eaten salted beef and lemons with the rest of the crew.  It hadn’t been pleasant, but it hadn’t been terrible either.  It was just another experience, another notch on Jonathan’s belt.

 

As they chewed their steaks, pink on the inside and covered with a fine Bordelaise sauce, they spoke in low voices.

 

“Once we reach Calcutta, how will we get to Shanghai?” Hubert asked.  “Do we know if there are any trains that run from Calcutta into China?”

 

Jonathan sighed, considering.  “I don’t know.  My guess is that there may be a few trains, probably one that runs to Lhasa.  But China is a very backward country in many ways, Huey,” he continued, chewing his lip as he thought.  “Most of the citizens still use an ox driven cart, you know.  The roads, I’m sure, are terrible.  We should probably try to get a ship to take us further east along the coast.”

 

Hubert visibly grimaced.  “Another ship?”

 

The older man laughed at his discomfort.  “It was that bad for you, old mum?”

 

Hubert squirmed a little, embarrassed.  “You know I got sea-sick,” he mumbled.

 

Jonathan laughed sympathetically.  “We’ll try to find another way but I don’t think we will,” he said, stabbing a succulent piece of meat with his fork.  After chewing slowly, and enjoying every last taste, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a map.

 

He spread it on the table so Hubert could also see, and looked at it closely.  “Sorry, old chap, but it looks like we’ll have to take a ship from Calcutta, around the coast to Hong Kong.”

 

“Oh no,” Hubert groaned, holding his stomach, remembering all the nights he was unable to sleep, nauseous and unhappy.  “See what I’m enduring for you people?”

 

 

***

 

The train chugged its way down the final length of track into Calcutta, slowing down as it approached the platform.  Hubert pulled down the last of their suitcases from the rack inside their sleeping cabin, grunting as he lifted the heavy bag.  “We’re here,” he said, stepping out of the cabin into the hallway, where Jonathan stood carrying his own two bags.

 

The train slowly screeched to a stop, the whistle blowing.  A cabin boy rushed forward and took Jonathan’s bags from him, running down to the platform and neatly stacking them, then rushing back to take Hubert’s bags and place them too on the platform.  Jonathan tipped the boy generously as he and Hubert exited the train.  Men and women were all around them, unloading bags and suitcases.

 

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice spoke behind him.  Jonathan spun around.

 

A middle aged man of Indian descent with a thick black mustache stood there.  He was relatively short and spoke his English with a heavy accent.  “I assume you are English, no?” he asked, looking Jonathan up and down.

 

Hubert moved over and stood behind his partner.

“Yes,” Jonathan replied, looking the man over warily.  “Can I help you?”

 

The man smiled, the expression oily and hard.  “Yes.  Special police.”  And he flashed a shiny looking badge.  A badge with his name chiseled under an image Jonathan had burned into his memory.  The image of a scarab within a five pronged star.

 

“Imhotep’s special police,” the man continued, still smiling.  But the smile did not reach his eyes, and his voice was threatening and cold.  “Will you come with me please?”

 

 

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Note: A few notes on the historical accuracies/inaccuracies in this chapter: Please give me a break on the historical stuff.  I did my best to research it (what trains were running in the 1930s, where they stopped, how long it took, etc.) but I had to wing it and do a little guesswork for some of this.  Additionally, this is A/U, so who knows how people traveled under Imhotep’s reign? ;-) Thanks for cutting me some slack.  -M

 

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