Dark Station Wagon

By Richard Hardenburg

British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey

With Dr. Marino’s name officially cleared, our goal was simple: leave Istanbul and put both physical and strategic distance between ourselves and Helga Dittmer. 

“Your passport, sir,” said Agent Demir, handing it to Dr. Marino. “I apologize for the unpleasant hours, but it was my job.” His smile was polite, restrained. Professional. Unreadable.

Outside, a dark station wagon waited, engine humming. The driver, composed and precise, wore a communications earpiece. Agent Demir said it would take us to the hospital.  He took the front seat; Dr. Marino and I sat in the back. Agent Demir spoke briefly in Turkish over the radio, then said, “I am alerting the agents we’re on our way.”

The car threaded swiftly through narrow streets. Blue lights sliced the evening air. My eyes were forward, but my mind cataloged every detail—the positioning of officers, the likely routes, the subtle rhythms of the city at night. Every element mattered.  For the first time, that very night, I wondered if we'd already lost the game and did not know it yet.

The hospital district was a fortress. Heavily armed officers held corners, a canine unit prowled the grounds, and a SWAT truck waited beside a communications van. Every detail screamed caution; no mistakes were permitted.

As the car halted, three SWAT officers appeared with mechanical precision, opening the doors. We moved through the emergency access, where armed personnel lined the walls.

“Williams is in a special ward reserved for VIPs,” Agent Demir said. “No precaution is enough for Helga.”

The sterile corridors amplified every sound—the hum of lights, the echo of boots. Steve’s condition reminded me how precarious life can be. One misstep, one invisible hand, and it ends.

We passed masked officers and reached an elevator flanked by two more.

“This will take us to Williams,” Agent Demir said.

At the ward, we complied with security checks. Weapons, keys, and badges were placed in trays; belts were undone.  After passing through a metal detector, signatures were recorded, and blue lanyards were issued, bearing a bolded Z for "Visitor" in Turkish, I presume.  

The ward was calm, decorated with photographs of flowers and open fields. Agent Demir led us to a private room.

A doctor in a white coat greeted us. “Hello, my name is Dr. Arslan.”

Steve sat up in bed, a faint joy lighting his face. “Fellows!” he said weakly. We embraced him.

“Please, don’t excite him,” said Dr. Arslan. “We still need a few tests.”

“Steve, how are you feeling?” Dr. Marino asked.

“Alive,” he said. That was as good as it got for now.

Agent Demir addressed him with measured precision. “Williams, I’m Agent Demir, Turkish Intelligence. Do you recall anything—anything that might help us?”

“I’m sorry… no,” Steve whispered. “Just a warm hand on my forehead… then darkness.”

Dr. Arslan indicated the puncture on the back of his neck. “A tiny needle, which could have been mistaken for a mosquito bite. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

Vitals stable. MRI showed no damage. Bloodwork revealed no irregular metabolites.

Agent Demir pressed. What could someone want from Steve?

Then the PA announced:

“Code Black, Emergency Room. Code Black, Emergency Room. Code Black.”

“Helga!” Agent Demir said sharply. The name carried a chill - not fear exactly, but the recognition of a mind that moved three steps ahead of everyone else.

We exchanged glances. Facing Helga was never routine. The idea that despite all these security precautions and deployment, Helga still managed to infiltrate the hospital was inconceivable.

Agent Demir paused at the doorway, hand raised, listening to his radio, he responded.

“Acknowledged." And turning to us, he said.  "A small package was found in the Emergency Room. The tactical team, with an explosives expert, is examining it.”

“Code Clear, Emergency Room. Code Clear.”

“They are bringing the package here!” He announced. The room held its breath. Every second stretched taut.

An officer entered, placing a small package in Agent Demir’s hands.  Wrapped in brown waxed paper, it bore the inscription “Steve Williams.” Agent Demir opened it carefully.

“A book?” he said. Turning to Steve, he added, “It is for you.” He extended the package to him. I recognized it instantly: Col James Williams’ war diary.

“My dad’s diary?” Steve said, surprised. “He served in the Canadian Armed Militia during the Great Second War. This is his war diary.”

A small envelope slipped free. Agent Demir looked at it and handed it to me.

“Anything missing from your father’s diary?” he asked.

“No…” Steve muttered, curiosity flicking across his tired face. “Wait… the lily petals are missing!”

“Dr. Marino, what do you make of this?” I asked.

“Intriguing, fascinating!  The pages of Col James Williams’ war diary are chemically processed cellulose, but the flower retains its cellular structure. That difference is critical.”

I leaned closer. “Are you suggesting the flower's possible exposure to the same neutron source Col James Williams encountered could retain information of value, and that’s why it became the target of a sophisticated operation?”

Dr. Marino nodded. “Exactly. The flower may have acted as a biological sponge for the neutron source, revealing characteristics of the particle accelerator or isotopic mix used. Whoever orchestrated this was seeking information encoded within the very biology of the flower. Strategically, it is priceless.”

Steve added, “Mr. Leonov, during my visa interview at the Russian Embassy in Ottawa, requested I bring my father’s diary to Moscow. I complied.”

Agent Demir glanced at me. “And the envelope?”

I paused, turning the note over in my hands, and read aloud. “Hello Richard, I hope Steve Williams’ health is improving. Perhaps one day you can write my story. Until then, Helga.”

I turned the note over, tracing the ink. A part of me wanted to burn it, but the rest was compelled to understand the precise, chilling intent behind every word. I caught Agent Demir's eye and saw the same unsettling recognition: we were close to a masterpiece, terrifying in its purity.

In that quiet room, reality unveiled itself. We were no longer simply observing the plot; we had just officially become part of it.