The Night at The JW Marriott: Plot Thickens

 

Hello Lilla, Rachel,

You may or may not decide to publish this installment describing the extraordinary events that unfolded last night. I lost my connecting Aeroflot flight to Moscow this morning, but I have been reassured by the local authorities and the airline that I will be able to depart for Russia on the next available flight, as soon as the present matter is resolved.

If the editorial board decides to make omissions to this report, I would understand.

Best,

Richard

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By Richard Hardenburg

British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey

Nothing could have prepared me for the extraordinary events of international consequence that unfolded before me on the night of November 3rd at the JW Marriott Istanbul Bosphorus.

After my arrival from the airport, Steve, Dr. Marino, and I arranged to dine together at the hotel restaurant, which overlooks the Bosphorus — that dark, restless strait where Europe and Asia exchange their secrets. At half past six, we were seated by the window, the city lights trembling upon the water like a constellation in motion.

“Professor Ruderburg and Dr. Tanaka are already in Moscow,” Dr. Marino assured us, lifting his glass. “They arrived today. Important Russian scientists are participating. The Russians are concerned about our physical readiness.”

We laughed at that, laughter more of relief than amusement, just as a waitress approached our table.

“Are the gentlemen ready to place their orders?” she asked politely.

Dinner was as fine as the view, lamb medallions, sea bass, and delicate Turkish wines. Yet I must dedicate the remainder of this report not to the cuisine, but to the conversation that followed.

“Steve,” I began, “did your father ever talk much about the December 7th, 1942 incident?”

“Many times,” he said. “And the story was always the same. I remember as a child, he would tell it, and afterward he’d grow quiet, withdrawn, almost haunted.”

As he spoke, the waitress returned to ask whether we would like anything from the bar. I ordered a local beer, Efes, I believe, and my companions followed suit.

“I believe your father opened a diner near Highway 7 and Shaughnessy, close to Hero’s Park,” said Dr. Marino. “Great food! I’ve been there.”

We all nodded, murmuring our agreement.

“Was your father in sound health?” I asked, as the waiter set down our beers.

“He was,” Steve replied. “However, as a veteran, he would have regular checkups, and in his later years — as technology advanced, they found a possible reason for his constant headaches and brief lapses of confusion.” He paused, then added, “I thought it was his age, but no. Medical tests conducted at the Ottawa Militia Nuclear Medicine and Research Hospital found a protein in his plasma that had only been detected before in patients exposed to neutron bombardment.”

“Do you have access to those medical reports?” interrupted Dr. Marino.

“No,” Steve said quietly. “The actual report is classified - a militia secret. He never spoke much about this finding, and never noted anything in his diary. In fact, he stopped taking notes a few months after the war ended,” he concluded, placing his hand on the left side of his chest, over the inner jacket pocket.

“Fascinating,” Dr. Marino murmured, setting down his glass. “In February 1959, in the northern Ural Mountains, a young group of Soviet hikers led by Igor Dyatlov met a terrifying end. Their injuries were… unaccountable. Inquiries and autopsies concluded that the damage could not have been caused by human hands. Some hinted that the Almasty, the Russian Sasquatchus anonymus, might have been responsible.” He leaned forward slightly. “Radiation was found at the site.”

A faint hum seemed to rise from the restaurant floor, as if the building itself had drawn a breath.

“Excuse me, sirs,” said our waitress politely. “The bar will close soon. Would you like to order any additional drinks?”

We declined; we had to rise early to catch our flight to Moscow.

“I’ll charge your rooms,” she said with a smile. “Good night.”

We said our goodbyes and headed to our quarters, promising to meet before dawn, at five-thirty in the morning, to depart for the airport by the hotel shuttle bus.

As I entered my room, my mind lingered on Steve’s remarkable story. Yet his tone gave me the impression he was holding something back. “Whatever it is, it will unveil itself,” I thought, and went to bed.

As I drifted toward sleep, the faint sounds of the city seemed distant and unreal. Then came a frantic pounding at my door.

“Richard! Richard!”

It was Dr. Marino.

I opened the door to find him pale and shaking, his face completely transfigured by horror.

“It… it’s Steve!” he stammered. “I think he’s dead!”

With an exclamation of “Good Lord!” I seized Dr. Marino by the arm and ran with him down the corridor toward Steve’s room, shouting, “Help! Help! Police! Someone call a doctor!”

Editor’s Note:

After careful consideration, and law expert consultation, the Editorial Board of the British Salmoa Times has decided to publish Mr. Hardenburg's exact journalist excerpt, which in our opinion will help protect his persona. Mr. Hardenburg's family has been notified prior to this publication.