CHAPTER ONE
The Journey Begins
The wonderful views of snow-topped mountains passed unnoticed as the train sped away
from Syria towards Istanbul. As the Belgian detective M. Hercule Poirot drank his coffee, he
watched the only other person in the restaurant carriage - a tall, thin young lady, perhaps twenty-eight years old. From the way that she ate her breakfast, she seemed to be an experienced and
confident traveller. He admired her pale face, tidy dark hair and cool grey eyes. A good-looking
woman, he thought, but perhaps a little too cold and efficient to be described as pretty.
Soon a tall, thin man entered the restaurant carriage. He was between forty and fifty, with