TOPIC: Horror on the Orient Express - All Rotations

VII THE LONG VERSION

Wednesday 20th February 1923

A most morbid plan-but need’s must
We descended the stair of the dreaded minaret tower. Cartwright hit upon a plan; a scheme as brilliant as it was macabre. We took down one of the displayed victims of the Cult. One that had been re-dressed in its own flayed skin. Cartwright didn’t even flinch as he donned the skin. With his ghastly disguise he would masquerade as the Flapping Man—the nemesis of the Cult. The aim of the plan was to facilitate our escape by frightening away any cultists that still lingered in the mosque.

Nicholas Cartwright-performer extraordinaire
Cartwright was a born performer. He practically danced his way down the last few steps and glided into the great hall of the Shunned Mosque. Cultists, as monstrous as they were, panicked and scattered in the face of something worse. Madness gripped the mosque and Cartwright revelled in his role. Just as the last Brothers fled through the exits, a shimmering malevolence manifested below the great dome of the hall. It was an abhorrent apparition with bulging eyes that wore an excess of opaque skin, like a robe and cloak. It stepped on the air toward us. It was the real Flapping Man.

Lettuce Henderson-performer extraordinaire
At the sight of the apparition, Letty slipped into hysteria. She began to undress as if she were shedding her skin in the face of the Flapping Man. Banks and Father Mika tried to stop her. Ludwig tried to lead her away. Percy simply strode across purposefully, lifted her over his shoulder in a single motion and marched away with her toward the exit doors. We placed our faith in Cartwright to face the Flapping Man while the rest of us ran away.

Words of wisdom
Cartwright, showing no fear, engaged the Flapping Man in discourse. The Magnificent’s opening gambit was to inform the spirit that his enemies possessed an artefact of great power, the Simulacrum, and only we can stop the Cult from using it to inflict unspeakable evil upon the world. Only we can foil their plans. Will the Flapping Man help us by letting us go, or hinder us? The Flapping Man, an avatar of death, floated nearer and spoke in a rumbling basso voice from beyond our world, “This is how many will appear before the task is done. Look not at the skins which are the Brothers to command but at the hearts beneath, which not even gods can conquer.” With that, the Flapping Man drew loose folds of ethereal flesh around itself and promptly blinked out of existence. The spirit’s cryptic words were left to resonate in Cartwright’s mind. Surely there was deep profundity in them—or else the apparition was just talking bollocks.

The street
Outside the mosque, Banks and Mika, having picked up Letty’s clothes from the mosque floor, were still trying to force her to dress. While this kerfuffle was going on Pierre noticed a traumatised boy huddled in the street. It was none other than James Rutherford. Banks absent-mindedly wiped his brow with Letty’s silk drawers and beckoned the boy to come to us. We promised he was safe and we would get him back to his father. James joined us, and so did Cartwright who stepped out into the street still replete with his disguise of a dead man’s skin draped all over him. Young James almost passed out. As we moved away we looked back at the mosque which had a red hue like blood over its dome. Perhaps it was just the way it reflected the morning sun.

The Consulate
Having convinced Letty to dress and Cartwright to discard his disguise, we headed for the ferry port and crossed the Golden Horn to Pera. After disembarking from the ferry we went directly to the British Consulate at Pera House. Sir Douglas was overjoyed to be reunited with his son. The two embraced and shed tears. We had no time to tarry. We impressed urgency upon Sir Douglas. We told him that the head of the kidnapping ring was travelling to Britain and had to be stopped. Sir Douglas advanced us a sum of money to cover travelling expenses for us all to return to England post-haste. He agreed too to send a telegram to Inspector Flemming at New Scotland Yard and warn the police in advance of Makryat’s arrival.

Telegram
Inspector Flemming of the Yard, we said, was the man in charge of the triple-murder Makryat case. We spoke with Flemming about the case before leaving London. He would surely be keen to know that the real Mehmet Makryat was on his way back to England. Further, we hoped the authority of Sir Douglas, by virtue of his rank as Deputy High Commissioner, would impress upon the Inspector that this was no hoax.

Pera Palace Hotel
On arrival back at our hotel there was a strong police presence. The hotel was the scene of assault, robbery and murder. Police officers, resplendent in double-breasted uniforms with gleaming buttons and each with a tall fez perched on their head, scrutinised us before we were granted access to the hotel. With our credentials confirmed by hotel staff we were then escorted to our rooms. The hotel’s secure storage had been plundered. We protested to hotel management that our valuables were entrusted to the hotel’s keeping and were now gone. The Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits would be hearing about this. We had nothing left but the clothes in our rooms. We were exhausted but there was no time to sleep. We gathered what belongings we had left and booked out of the Pera Palace.

Inventory
We took a mental inventory of what we had lost, either stolen from hotel storage or confiscated by the Cult when we were captured. The Sedefkar Simulacrum was gone. The Sedefkar Scroll of the Head was gone. The historical tomes and journals were gone. The Mims Sahis was gone. The Vampire Slayer Amulet was gone. Cartwright’s sword-cane, a family heirloom bequeathed to him by his grandfather, was gone. Pierre’s silver coin, one of thirty, was gone. Our weapons were gone. All our funds were gone. But at least we still had the matching Louis Vuitton travel case set—so it wasn’t all bad news.


More to follow

Wednesday 20th February 1923 continued.....

Tickets to London
We returned to Stamboul and made our way directly to Cirkeci Station to purchase tickets for the Orient Express to London. Availability for the next train was limited. We would have to settle for shared berths in Coach Class—sharing with strangers at that. Ludwig turned his nose up but acknowledged we had no choice but to obtain whatever tickets we could. “Practically Third Class!! Hummpf. Outrageous!” he blurted. The next departure was the only one today, due to leave Cirkeci Station at 4.30 p.m. Unless Makryat had taken local trains and planned a slow journey, then he too would surely be leaving Constantinople on the 4.30 Express. A steamer would be too slow and there were no flights. This meant a real possibility we could be sharing the same train; an interesting development.

Resupply—with cheap souvenirs
We had almost four hours to kill. We were desperate for sleep but the station was too busy, and possibly too dangerous, to risk resting on a bench. We chose instead to kill the time with a visit to the bazaar. Pierre, Letty, Percy and Banks purchased curved blades—the sort sold as souvenirs—and Cartwright replaced his sword-cane, albeit with one of inferior quality. We also purchased matching cheap and gaudy rings. Makryat was a master of disguise. If he were to try and impersonate one of us he would not have a ring to match. But just in case we hatched a back-up plan too, involving coded questions and answers.

Watching for enemies
Half an hour before the Express was due to set out we stood on the departure platform. The platform bustled with life. Among the flow of people we kept watch for Makryat or any stand-out group that may be part of his entourage—if he has one. We saw nothing and no-one suspicious. While we waited a few of us doubled-over in strange discomfort for a few moments. A symptom of how tired we were? Or perhaps the baleful influence of the Simulacrum, now taken from us, was beginning to exact its toll?

All aboard
Porters thrust themselves in and out of the ebb and flow of people on the platform, calling for passengers to board the Express. We made ourselves known and our luggage was taken on board. As we entered our carriage we were cheerfully greeted by our conductor. “Hello. My name is Amile. Welcome aboard the Orient Express. May I check your tickets please?” Tickets verified, Amile directed us to follow the porters to our berths. Our berths are allocated and cannot be changed. None of us is sharing with each other. We are all to share with a stranger.

Compartments
Each compartment was a tight space comprised of two berths—a top and bottom bunk. The exceptions being a few single berths at the end of the carriage—all fully booked. Pairs of compartments shared an adjoined bathroom together which was sandwiched between them. Each of us entered our allotted compartment and prepared to meet our new travelling companion; and each of us planned on getting some sleep before dinner.

Luigi Martinelli
Pierre finds himself squeezed for standing room. He is sharing with an overweight and overly jolly Italian named Luigi Martinelli. Luigi is big and loud. A middle-aged opera singer by profession who greets Pierre with a warm smile and a sing-song salutation. Why speak normally when you can communicate instead through the joyous medium of song? Luigi asks Pierre if he wouldn’t mind swapping bunks. Luigi prefers to sleep on the bottom—he stood with fingers pointing, indicating his huge waistline as the reason why he doesn’t want to climb to the top bunk.

Jack Gatling
Father Mika tries to see the good in everyone—we’re all God’s children after all. But some people are sent to try us. Case in point being the grinning young handsome man in their shared compartment. The young man offered his hand to shake, crushed Mika’s hand in his own, and introduced himself. “Jack Gatling” he said in one of those cheery American accents that really gets on your nerves. “Mein name ist Helmut” replied Mika in his clipped High-German verse. Jack is a well-travelled man in his early thirties but with a certain world-weariness in his eyes. They’ve known each other less than two minutes and Jack is talking freely about himself and his exciting professional experiences as a travelling journalist. Mika prefers to be a little more reserved. He does his best to smile. He isn’t sure he cares too much journalists—or Americans.

Sir Robert Harrow
George Banks is comfortable hob-nobbing with members of High Society—most of those he meets in such circles are beneath his own god-like status of course, but none-the-less are generally quite affable people. Sir Robert Harrow was a wealthy adventurer. A stoic man in his early forties wearing an impressive handlebar moustache and caddish grin. What a man of Sir Robert’s standing was doing in Coach was not immediately apparent. Banks’ first impression of his compartment companion was a good one. Banks felt quite comfortable enough in the presence of his fellow Brit that he had no problem getting his head down to catch forty winks in their shared space.

Elena Costanza
Letty’s companion was Elena Costanza. Elena was a lively young thing—like one of those flapper girls. She was slim and bright-natured, not big-boned and scatty like Letty. Elena had a bronzed complexion giving her an exotic Mediterranean look but her accent, though not placeable, had a slight British twang to it. Elena unpacked her things as if the compartment was her own hotel room and lay herself to repose on the bottom bunk. Letty climbed to the top bunk for a nap. The beds weren’t particularly wide in Coach and Letty wasn’t particularly small, but not to worry, she had fallen from greater heights than this before and survived.

Rama Ho-Tet
Simon Percy was sharing his compartment with a burly gentleman named Rama Ho-Tet. The Egyptian national was tall and brooding, heavy-set with a broom moustache under his nose and a fez perched on his head. Ho-Tet was a man of few words; well pretty much no words at all actually. Percy tried to break the ice with a friendly smile and a courteous "Good Morning Sir!” Ho-Tet just nodded by way of reply and said nothing. Percy stood with his friendly smile still fixed in place as Ho-Tet climbed up to his bunk and rolled over. Maybe Ho-Tet was just a bit shy.

Kurt Groenig
Nicholas Cartwright enjoyed meeting new people and was a great judge of character. The performer in him, behind the jaded psyche and fetching eye-patch, proved a perpetual charmer. He had the measure of Kurt Kroenig within moments of their introduction. Groenig was a blue-eyed, blonde-haired Aryan in his late twenties. He seemed keen to please and displayed general good humour. The two conversed in a mix of broken English and German. Groenig made a half-joking comment about snoring. “Don’t worry” said Cartwright, “I have acquired an auxiliary vent above my nose” pointing to his eye-patch. The young German laughed to be polite. He actually had no idea what Cartwright was talking about. Groenig was too gracious for his own good. A mark is what Cartwright would refer to him as in his conjuring trade—easy pickings. Cartwright produced a pack of playing cards and fanned them out. “Pick a card. Any card” he said.

Danton Szorbic
Ludwig was sharing with Danton Szorbic, a short, rotund, balding man with bi-focal spectacles balanced on his button nose. Short and fat to be blunt. Despite his Slavic family name he was actually an Italian by birth. Szorbic gripped Ludwig’s hand tightly when they shook and traded greetings. Conversation between the two passed in a fluent level of English. There was no need to shout at each other as Englishmen tend to do when conversing with strangers from foreign shores. Despite the warmth, and not wanting to cause undue alarm, Ludwig decided to keep his scarf tightly wrapped around his shrivelling scars. Ludwig consulted his ticket to ascertain which bunk was his. Unfortunately he had been assigned the top bunk. “Er, entschuldigen Sie mein Herr” he said, slipping into German as he often did when embarrassed, “Would you mind giving me a boost to reach my bunk? Danke.”

The other passengers
Occupying the remaining compartments in our carriage were Count Henri Mathieu, a French National and his younger wife, the Countess Emmanuel, a Romanian, who were sharing. And La Dona del Garda and Lord Margrave who occupied single berths. We had only glimpsed them since boarding but no doubt would get to observe them more closely at dinner when all of the passengers in our carriage would be called together to the dining car.

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VIII THE SHORT VERSION

Wednesday 20th February 1923
Corruption of the Simulacrum
Three for dinner in the restaurant car
Attempted Murder on the Orient Express

MORE TO FOLLOW

VIII THE LONG VERSION

Wednesday 20th February 1923

Dinner at 7.30
Amile walked the gangway announcing in his soft French accent that the time was now seven o’clock and that dinner for passengers travelling in the Calais Coach would be served in the restaurant car in thirty minutes. Percy and Father Mika were already determined to miss dinner in favour of a very early night. Letty, not wishing to take dinner in the restaurant car, asked if she could receive service to her compartment instead. Amile, offered a mild protest that serving meals to compartments was highly unusual, nevertheless he assented to sending a waiter along with a menu for her.

The Corruption of the Simulacrum manifests

(i) Ludwig began his ablutions before dinner. He looked in the washroom mirror to see a reddened face staring back. He was covered in a rash of pimples. Feeling hot and itchy he soon discovered the rash had spread to his chest. He looked back to his image in the mirror. The one consolation was that the rash covered the facial scar of his vampire bite.

(ii) In her compartment Letty began to dress down for the evening. Exposing her bare arms she noticed her arms were covered in sores. Her immediate response was a compulsion to start picking at them, which caused the sores to bleed.

(iii) Cartwright woke from a snooze. He rolled over in his bunk and realised his shirt was wet. Opening his shirt he was horrified to see a hideous lesion on his chest leaking green mucus.

(iv) Percy sat in his compartment in alarm. He was pressing his hands to his stomach. Beneath his fingers he could feel his skin shift and crawl of its own accord.

(v) George Banks combed his hair and admired his god-like form in the mirror. As he raked the comb through his perfect locks he instinctively knew something was wrong. He reached up and pulled a large clump of hair from his head. He dipped his head forward to see in the mirror. A bald pate shined, like a monk’s tonsure. Banks quickly set to work with the comb to reduce the effect.

(vi) Father Mika was getting a sweat on. It was too warm for comfort in the compartment. But Jack Gatling didn’t look too bothered by it. Only Mika was perspiring profusely. He stripped to his increasingly sweat-soaked shirt and breeches—practically naked for Mika. “Are you feeling okay Helmut?” asked Gatling in his American drawl. “Ja. Ja. Just feeling a little flush is all” replied Mika.

(vii) “Momma mia!! What is the god-awful stench?” bellowed Martinelli in his booming sing-song voice. Pierre had fallen asleep. Woken up by his compartment companion’s loud complaining, Pierre was instantly struck by an offensive assault on his olfactory senses. “You smell like Il Diavolo himself” protested the fat Italian holding a handkerchief to his nose. The sulphurous reek seemed to be wafting up from the patchwork of fine lesions that covered Pierre’s body.

Knock, knock
There was a knock at Letty’s compartment door. “Who is it?” she called. “Service Madame” came the polite reply from the corridor. Letty opened the door and regarded the waiter with mandatory towel draped over his uniformed arm. He dipped his head in a courteous bow and offered her a menu card. Letty plucked the offered card, perused it quickly and announced, “I’ll have that, that, that and that; and two bottles of Dom Pérignon”. She returned the menu card. Her arm was bleeding and needed her attention to pick and peel at the loose skin—she had no time for polite conversation or please and thank you. “Of course Sir!” the waiter said. “Sir?!” repeated Letty, her voice agitated. “Oh. My apologies Madame. It was an easy and honest mistake” Thump!! Letty knocked the waiter onto his arse and slammed the compartment door.

Knock, knock
There was a knock at Letty’s compartment door. Letty flung the door open and demanded “What now?” Oh. It’s you,” she said to Ludwig, “What have you done to your face?” Ludwig forced his way into Letty’s compartment. “Quickly Mädchen. I cannot be seen like this. May I borrow some make up?” Letty and Ludwig showed each other their skin conditions. Ludwig produced a bandage and wrapped Letty’s arms. “Now. Leave them alone. It’ll never get better if you pick it, meine mutter used to say”. In return Letty powdered Ludwig’s face with a generous layer of foundation. Ludwig looked ridiculous, but at least now he didn’t look like he had syphilis.

Gone with the wind
Pierre rushed to see Father Mika, leaving an odorous trail of pungent brimstone in his wake. He hoped Mika could help him with the stinking lesions. He found Mika in his compartment, stripped to his shirt and glowing like a pig. His wiry white hair was matted with sweat and perspiration dripped from his brow. Pierre stank the compartment out on arrival. Jack Gatling rushed out like he was going to be sick. Mika, his skin burning up, was almost bowled over by the awful odour that accompanied Pierre into the compartment. “Please Helmut. Help me, mon ami. Is there something you can do?” Mika didn’t hesitate to act. He knew what must be done. “Ja, fear not mein Freund,” said Mika as he reached to open the window wide. Cool and refreshing air rushed in. Just as the wind gusted, Banks opened the compartment door and his comb-over was blown away.

Table for Three
Only Cartwright, Banks and Ludwig made it to the restaurant car for dinner. Cartwright and Ludwig gawped at Banks. Cartwright’s one good eye squinted as if trying to focus, eventually he spoke up: “You look different George”. Ludwig didn’t escape unwanted attention either. His heavily made-up face looked like something a mortician would do to you when you were laid out in your coffin. At least the waiter did his professional best not to stare when he came to the table. How eccentric, rich passengers liked to present themselves at dinner was none of his business.

Attempted Murder on the Orient Express
After ordering the flambéed kebab skewers and a bottle of 1895 Rioja, the trio decanted water rom the crystal carafe on the table. As Ludwig and Cartwright drank, Banks had a sudden realisation. Nobody else had water on their table. Mineral water is always served from sealed bottles when brought to them by their waiters. “Wait. Don’t drink!” splurged Banks too late. “What was that Old Boy?” said Cartwright as he and Ludwig replaced their drained glasses on the table. Violent stomach cramps gripped the pair almost immediately. Waves of nausea overtook them and both Cartwright and Ludwig vomited across the table. Ludwig was the worst affected. He convulsed and dropped to the restaurant car floor. His muscles went into spasm. There was shock and revulsion among our fellow passengers. The Chef du Train hurried across to take charge of the situation. “Is there a Doctor on the train?” he called out loudly to nobody in particular. “Yes” said Banks, pointing at Ludwig who lay unconscious in a pool of his own vomit, “that’s him there!”

MORE TO FOLLOW

Wednesday 20th February 1923 continued…..

Dr Dhole
There was of course, another medical doctor on the train. The restaurant car was cleared and Dr Helmut Dhole sent for. Shortly, a sweaty old man with sopping white hair hustled onto the scene. He set down his leather Gladstone bag and checked for Ludwig’s vitals. Ludwig was barely alive. He had been poisoned and his organs were shutting down. Soon he would go into shock and die. Mika retrieved a syringe from his bag and a vial of atropine. “Let us hope, my friends, that this works” he said. He rubbed Ludwig’s arm with alcohol then injected the antidote. Ludwig’s breathing returned to normal. It was difficult to assess whether he was his normal colour as his face was plastered in woman’s make up. Mika was happy enough for Ludwig to be moved. Porters helped carry the unconscious patient to his berth.

There’s something in the water
Banks alerted Father Mika to the water on the table—the medium for the poison. Mika drew a medical kit from his Gladstone bag and added a sample of the water to a glass test tube. He spooned in some granulated sulphites and shook the tube to agitate the solution. “I need a flame. A match will do,” he said. The heated solution produced a blue-white trioxide crystal in the glass tube. “Ah,” mused Mika “Antimony poisoning. Very nasty business indeed.” Cartwright had to be supported to stand. He was coughing and wheezing but the nausea had passed. Evidently he was a luckier than Ludwig, as both of them had been poisoned. Passengers had been cleared from the carriage but staff remained to look on. Cartwright demanded of them: “Who put the water on our table?” Nobody knew.

Amile is a company man
In order to tend to Ludwig and watch over him, Father Mika asked Amile if he would agree to arrange for him to swap berths with Danton Szorbic. Surely this was not an unreasonable request. The Conductor however was having none of it. “Even under such circumstances, we do not play games of berth-swapping aboard the Orient Express. It’s the rules,” barked an unrepentant Amile. Not even the intervention of the charming George Banks could sway the Conductor to depart from company policy.

Evening plans
Ludwig slept. Danton Szorbic assured Mika that he would keep an eye on Ludwig during the night. Trusting to Szobic’s word, Father Mika retired to his own compartment. Percy, determined to get some sleep, retired for the evening too. Cartwright still somewhat unwell, also decided to call it a night, but when he returned to his compartment he startled Kurt Groenig who was obviously not expecting Cartwright to return so soon. Cartwright wanted to rest, but Groenig became anxious. “Problem?” Cartwright curtly asked. “Nein. Nein. No problem” said Groenig unconvincingly. Obviously there was a problem. Cartwright was in no mood for messing about and demanded Groenig confess to what was on his mind. It turned out that Groenig was expecting company. “I see” said Cartwright, putting on his jacket, “I’ll come back later then.”

A girl’s night in
Letty was having a girlie night with Elena Costanza. They remained in their compartment. By the time they’d finished the second bottle of bubbly, Letty had regaled Elena with numerous tales of her war experience. Letty had been a nurse and ambulance driver. Hints to her more flirtatious and sometimes compromising moments got the girls giggling. Letty was careful not to tell Elena any stories of her esoteric experiences. For her part, Elena was coy about telling Letty anything at all about her own background. Elena Costanza, for now at least, remained an enigma.

Evening Drinks
Cartwright entered the salon car where he found Pierre and Banks in conversation. Pierre was stinking the place up. He’d made an attempt to perfume himself, but the attempt proved ultimately futile. Banks had a tumbler of whisky in front of him. Every now and again he dabbed his fingers into the drink and applied them to his nose. Banks winked at Cartwright. “Drink monsieur?” asked the tender from the bar. “Er. I’ll have a whisky please,” replied Cartwright.

A very British nightcap—denied
Pierre was drawing looks from other passengers across the car, who fanned at the air or attempted to cover their noses. Banks told Pierre to take no notice. This will all resolve itself soon. They turned to the sound of conversation at the bar. Percy, unable to sleep, had come to the salon car to order a nightcap. “Dammit man. What do you mean you’ve never hear of Horlicks?” The bartender tried to maintain his composure, “Pardon monsieur. I do not know of this Horlicks. May I offer monsieur a Glenmorangie perhaps?”

So it was that George Banks with his comb-over, Nicholas Cartwright with his eye-patch, Pierre Boudin-Noir with his leather facemask and farmyard fragrence, and Simon Percy with his Horlicks-substitute-on-the-rocks sat to while away the late hour. Percy held his stomach to stop the skin crawling. A protuberance looked like it was trying to burst its way out of his innards. Banks stared in startled awe—and his hair dropped out.

Sombre discussion
The conversation turned to serious matters. Where is Makryat? Where is the Simulacrum? We suspected Mehmet Makryat to be our would-be murderer. We suspected also that Makryat was capable of disguising himself by supernatural means. He could be disguised as anyone. Banks tried to put a positive skew on things. “Listen” he said, “If Makryat is so desperate to act against us, but is reduced to such surreptitious methods as he employed tonight, it tells me we’ve got him rattled. Make no mistake. We are a threat to him.” Everyone nodded as if they actually believed what was said. And then something caught Banks’ eye. Across the salon car he spied the American, Jack Gatling, watching them intently and scribbling with a pencil in a small notepad.

Murder in Islington
Cartwright noticed something too. A three day old English newspaper rested on the side and had no obvious owner. Cartwright retrieved it to see if there was any interesting news back home. An article grabbed his attention. An Islington murder. Banks, a Saville Row tailor, doesn’t personally know the victim, but recognised him by name.


Discretion required
For the second time this evening, Nicholas Cartwright attempted to retire to his compartment. He rapped quietly on the door. The bolt was drawn back and Kurt Groenig opened the door to admit him. As Cartwright tried to push his way in, a young lady, still fastening her dress, pushed her way out. She gave Cartwright a wry smile before entering her own compartment next door. Groenig looked flushed. “I can rely on your discretion in this matter, yes?”
Cartwright gazed at him, “Your visitor was the Countess?”
“Yes, “ replied Groenig matter-of-factly.
“And what of the Count?” asked Cartwright.
“Oh. He was asleep next door the whole time.”

Border Checks
Cartwright stepped in to his compartment and was about to shut the door when he noticed Amile in the corridor checking that all windows were fastened. The Express was approaching the Turkish-Greek border. The train would need to be temporarily sealed and the passenger list and passports checked by Customs. All passengers surrendered their passports to the Conductor on boarding at Constantinople so that the Conductor can take care of everything at each border we cross. Maybe it would be worth getting a look at that collection of passports.


End of Rotation