He must have fallen asleep, somewhere along the travel back to Istanbul.  His hand was wrapped around his fiancée's, hidden under his jacket.  It wasn't much, but it was enough, and he was hoping soon, soon they would be able to go home, to Boston. Before that, they would see Turgut again, and that would be the end of their sinister adventures.  He prayed, in his heart of hearts, that it was over.

His dream was heavy. Dank. There was the smells of death, books and broken stones, and there was, time and time again, the feeling of utter helplessness.  He couldn't describe that scene to himself. He never could.  The only consolation he had was the strong, fine hand with the short, square fingernails he was holding, and the knowledge that he would open his eyes to a willful face with eyes surprisingly tender.

It would not be so.

It's with a start that Paul wakes, and he scrambles to find a hand which is no longer there.  He sits up jerkily in his airplane seat? Chair? It's a faux-leather armchair that is much more comfortable than any coach seat he has ever sat on.

"Helen?"

Another moment, and he registers that this is night, and he is in a house he has never seen before.  His hands fish in his pockets for garlic cloves and a crucifix.  Immediately afterwards, he reaches for his suitcase, and clings to it almost maniacally.

Alarm... doesn't quite cut it.

>.< Paul, er, Smith (or something, since his last name isn't given in canon), a twenty-seven year old graduate student in history, from Elizabeth Kostova's wonderful Historian.  He's taken immediately after he and Helen have been expulsed from Bulgaria.  He's -- very jumpy, so we apologize for this in advance.