Entering his exclusive cabin at the rear and secluded end of the Orient Express, Myron took off his jacket and hung it back up in the closet. He poured another crystal glass full of ice and water and lay on the cabin bed, his upper body propped up by two pillows. The mountains had slowed the train down considerably, but the view was amazing. Today however it was simply lost on poor Myron. He was as aware of the tear that trickled down his cheek as he was of his body’s reaction to the kidnapping earlier that day, and how it had combatted his alcohol filled veins by slowly ridding the body of the mind-slowing poison. He involuntarily rubbed the mysterious amulet once again across the skin of his chest and Myron’s subconscious soon drifted back to the surface, but this time he had no control over it at all.

Myron sat up at his console within the open plan office and looked around slowly. He could hear the tip-tapping of keyboards and the occasional murmur of distant conversations. He stopped working on his data-entry sheet and stood, aware that something was amiss but unable to put any context to it.

The fear had already started to rise in his mind, and now reason had no part to play in proceedings. For all intents and purposes Myron thought that this was real. A humongous surge of emotion seemed to be heading his way, but as yet he could only stare around the room. He was aware that faces were now looking at him blankly, as if he alone understood what was about to happen.

Just then, from the corner of the room, one of the receptionists entered the room screaming. Myron did not hesitate, the panic of the woman awaking something deep inside of him. He instantly ran over to the lift. Utterly ignoring her shouting and pointing to the Penthouse Suite,   Myron headed down, already knowing that Isobel had been taken.

As he ran out into the London streets, Myron heard the ripple of gunfire reverberate around the steep sided buildings. He ran, ducked and tried to hide behind cover as it continued. Myron felt the panic rise in his throat but tried to contain it, waiting until he thought it safe to proceed. Up ahead he caught sight of a hooded person being bundled into the back of a jeep and presumed it was Miss Fortuna. Myron took a deep breath and then bolted towards the next building.

The gunfire immediately rang out across the street again, but McGivney still sprinted, finally making it to the next point of cover. Chancing a quick look back the scene startled him. It looked like a warzone, with burning cars and ruined buildings. But there was something else, the bodies that littered the streets were not that of civilians but soldiers. Myron caught his breath and looked for the next building, knowing the gunner was behind him now, probably on or near the FortunaCS building.

As he began another dash toward safety two soldiers stepped out in front of him and waved him over. McGivney quickly changed his direction and headed instead toward them. Just before he reached them one of them pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Myron’s head. He let his legs crumble and his body hit the ground hard, hearing sounds of gunfire as he did so. Scrambling over the tarmac Myron headed to the nearby cover of a burning vehicle, noticing that nobody came after him.

This time when Myron looked back, he caught sight of the sniper. The mysterious figure had him clearly in his sights but did not fire. Then the truth dawned on him; there was help out there. He searched in his pockets for anything that might clear his mind, but only found a passport which was alien to him. The picture was his, but not the name; Leon Chamel.

Myron raised himself from the cold ground and headed onward, past the two downed soldiers, who looked more like mercenaries as he passed them. They had no insignia on their uniforms nor weapons. This sent a chill down his spine as it meant the enemy was unknown. The jeep up ahead had now vanished, but Myron knew the streets of London well. If they wanted to take her away, then they would have to pass him first.

The short cuts led Myron through various narrow passageways of the darkest parts of England’s historical capital. He passed through tightly cobbled streets lined with beggars and the forgotten corpses of the plague, darkened alleys where only horrific screams rang out, before finally he made it to the docks.

Before him lay thousands of tall ships, the sight equal to the English Armada before setting sail against the French in the 16th century. Myron hesitated. Up to now his fear had full control of his actions, his thoughts all reactive and behind those of his enemy. Now though, his proactive behaviour had commenced something wonderful to begin in his subconscious. Events were starting to change in his favour.

I know dreaming, he thought, but what exactly can I manipulate here? Myron looked around for clues of where Isobel was and caught sight of a cargo ship further up the port taking on heavy supplies. One was an oversized coffin. The ship was called the Mandrake.

Myron looked down at himself and realised that he was dressed in an 18th century Bow Street Runners uniform, where instead of a top hat his was rounded, like a bowler hat. In his hands was a walking stick, although the weight offered a different story. He took out his pocket watch and opened it, illustrating what he thought already was inside, a picture of Isobel. Boy, was he deranged, but it made him happy. It gave him reason to continue. Next, he took out papers from his overcoat pocket. It was a warrant for the arrest of the Captain of the Mandrake. His entire uniform and scenery were from throughout London’s history, but that did not deter him. He had a mission to fulfil.

He proceeded along the harbourside, noticing movements around him which stood out amongst those of the civilians. He was being followed, of that there was no doubt.

As he approached the boarding ramp to the Mandrake, Myron waved over a crew member and asked him where the captain was. The boy nodded and headed up the ramp, leaving Myron for now still standing on the port. McGivney rotated his eyes back around the harbour and noticed more unscrupulous figures come out of the shadows. Myron knew he had a whistle to request help, but for now refrained from using it.

Behind him Myron heard the boy’s voice and turned to be summoned up the gantry. A man of African descent stood at the top, wiping his hands on a cloth before extending his hand toward Myron.

‘I’m the captain,’ he offered. ‘I hear you’re looking for me.’

‘Yes,’ Myron smiled and shook the other man’s hands. Something was wrong. This man was no killer. He was no thief. ‘My name is…’

‘Mr Chamel,’ the captain smiled. ‘My friend’s call me Leon. Bit of a coincidence isn’t it?’ A thin smile crossed his lips.

‘I’m investigating the coffin,’ Myron began, his thoughts pinballing around his head for possible explanations to all of this. The rest of the crew came on deck. There were five in total, including the boy.

‘We’re taking it far from here,’ the captain replied. ‘It needs to be kept hidden.’

Myron felt the eyes of thousands behind him but knew the captain was correct. However, the enormity of the task did not elude him.

‘But there are only five of you?’ Myron questioned. ‘You won’t get far with that number of crew.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ the boy smiled from beside the captain. ‘Plus, with you we’d be six.’

Myron took out the warrant and handed it to the captain.

‘I have my orders.’

‘And I cannot let this coffin return to dry land,’ the captain told him.

‘You might not have choice,’ Myron told him. ‘Let me see it.’

‘As you wish,’ the captain nodded and took Myron toward the hold. They climbed down the wooden steps before McGivney caught sight of a guard next to the coffin.

‘Kirill?’ Myron questioned as a name instantly came to his lips. More memories surfaced in Myron’s mind. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just trying to help…apparently,’ Volkov muttered. ‘Careful what you’re searching for Myron. Remember what I told you.’

Myron looked at the coffin and then back at the captain. He nodded and began climbing back up onto the main deck.

‘Thought you wanted to know?’ the captain asked as they were again out in the open air.

‘Kirill is right,’ McGivney noted. ‘It’s not important. It’s not my mission.’

‘But the warrant?’ the captain reminded him.

‘More misdirection,’ Myron nodded. ‘I have only one mission, and she has very little time,’ he thought back to his pocket watch.

‘Unfortunately, you might me right my friend. I think your friends have something to say about Miss Fortuna.’

Myron turned to watch more men approach from out of the shadows, their uniforms strangely similar to that of those outside the FortunaCS building. ‘Dammit,’ Myron cursed before turning back to the crew. ‘You go, I’ll handle this.’

‘You won’t survive,’ the captain offered. ‘Not unless you embrace it.’

Myron did not understand the statement but turned and headed down the boarding plank toward the gang of men that now threatened the ship.

‘Stop!’ Myron heard his voice shout out to the approaching militia. ‘This ship is under the protection of the Metropolitan police.’

‘You have no authority here,’ one voice said.

Myron turned and saw Bessek, the modern-day Chief of Police standing silently next to him, although strangely not out of context with the surroundings. The policeman looked past Myron and toward the Mandrake, his goal.

‘Leave it sir,’ McGivney warned him, but the Chief of Police was not interested. Myron tried to view is face but it kept changing, almost as if his own subconscious still had to fill in the blanks.

‘Stand aside,’ the face-changing voice said and approached McGivney. Myron did not hesitate but unsheathed his sword from the walking stick, turned and slashed impossibly with ease through the thick wooden blank, allowing the Mandrake clear voyage from the waters.

The militia all stepped back involuntarily at the impossible action.

‘Thank you,’ the captain shouted from behind him. ‘Now, continue to embrace it. We’ll meet again one day my friend.’

Myron turned back to the militia and brought his sword to arms. The Chief of Police looked at him in puzzlement.

‘Do you know where she is sir?’ Myron simply asked as he kept his guard, expecting the militia to attack him at any second.

‘She?’ the policeman almost seemed lost in thought. ‘What?’

‘Miss Fortuna sir,’ Myron reminded him. ‘We’ve all been dupped.’

The Chief of Police looked Myron in the eyes and tried to read his thoughts.

‘You are far from home Mr McGivney,’ he whispered. ‘Yet you are ahead of me. I don’t trust you but you can see what I’m up against. Find new friends, trust in them and find her. And in the meantime…’ he continued as he pulled out a small bottle of potion from is pocket, before throwing it to the ground. A huge cloud of white bilious gas exploded onto the harbour, clouding everyone’s vision.

In the confusion, the policeman blew hard on his pocket whistle, alerting the nearby constables. Myron put away his sword and bolted toward the nearest alley, his vision impaired but the map in his head clear as day. There were clues on the map now, showing him the way to find Isobel.

Something ran though his veins now, a mixture of duty and emotion, but magnified by something completely alien to him.

Myron awoke suddenly, caressing the gem around his neck, the tears dried on his cheek. He stood slowly and approached the mirror.

I’ll embrace it, he considered. Even if I don’t know “what” it is. Myron thought back to his dream and the many faces of Leon Chamel. Picking up the smartphone he entered the name Chameleon and began a search through the FortunaCS own secure database. Several files surfaced and Myron instantly realised the impact of undertaking this identify.

He now had diplomatic immunity within many countries, but this came with a history of enemies waiting in the shadows to meet the Chameleon. No doubt the police would happily arrest Myron on sight, but for now he was ahead of them. He would also need the assistance of the police in the end.

Myron noted one entry within the files that stood out. A detective named Connors. He then raced through the FortunaCS staff lists to find another; Ishyan Stölles. One a policeman, one a bodyguard. Both could be relied on for assistance, but he still had to be careful. Myron now realised that Isobel had been kidnapped from her own penthouse suite and that left only one witness for now, her brother Sergio.

Surely, he could not have been part of this? Those last words Isobel spoke came back to him like a thunderbolt. Her brother had not been alone in the lift, and she had been compromised.

Myron checked the train’s destination, his own ticket and then the relevance to that of her family. Although nothing came up, Myron knew it was not a coincidence. Venice was the end of his ride, even if the train itself went to on to Istanbul afterwards, where the Volkov’s were heading to.

Myron remembered his new friends and shook the thoughts from his head. He had promised to meet them for drinks tonight. He would not let them down and now felt back in control of himself. Venice was his destination, everything else could wait.

Thinking back to all that had happened over the last few days, Myron also knew what had fuelled much of his actions. It had been obvious. He reached for the amulet and took it off.

Hopefully now the daydreaming would stop. It was powerful and almost addictive, but Myron did not want it to distract him from finding Isobel. Plus, he now needed the help of his friends.

And he knew just who to ask.