by Peter Riva
He took the mid-platform stairway that connected directly with the Metro and passed through the station quickly, going about his business. He bought an allez simple (one way, second class) for the Metro from the ticket window and went down the long corridor and stairs to the number four line, making sure he got the direction, Porte d’Orléans. The Paris Metro never tells you what compass direction the trains go, just what the end station is. You have to memorize not only the station you wanted to change at but also the name of the stations for the direction.
He got on the number four Metro just as the buzzer was sounding. This being rush hour at a major station, the pneumatic-powered barrier was beginning to move as he ran past and boarded the train as the doors opened. No one followed. At Chatelet, he changed, taking the long hike again to connect to the number one Metro going toward Chateau de Vincennes. At the Gare de Lyon, he got off again and climbed the stairs into one of Europe’s busiest stations. It was 7:12 a.m. He had to hurry.
While he had been waiting at the Zoologischer Garten station, he had used the Internet connection on his phone to get the schedule of the TGV, Train à Grand Vitesse (high-speed train), to Lausanne in Switzerland. Lausanne would have no intelligence connection to the package he was carrying, so he felt sure Lausanne couldn’t, wouldn’t be watched. He didn’t make a TGV reservation on his phone on the Internet in Berlin in case that gave them—whoever “them” were—time to react and catch up to him.
However, the TGV does require both a reservation and a ticket. No little mother nonsense with the fastest train service in Europe. The TGV is a welded-track super train reaching up to two hundred miles per hour. They are smooth, prompt, and efficient. They also allow customs and immigration officials to come on board to interview and check passengers if a border is to be crossed. Customs and Immigration were due to come on board in Frasne before Vallorbe on the French border with Switzerland.
He went to the TGV guichet, the special ticket office for the TGV, and asked for a reservation and ticket for the 7:24 TGV to Lausanne. “C’est complet monsieur.” It was full.
“Premiere classe?” He asked if first class was free.
“Ah, il en reste, c’est 234 Euro, s’il vous plait.” First was available, he paid her the money. Pero went to Track 16. The guard at the door of his carriage checked his seat reservation and ticket, and he boarded the train and walked to the dining car. He was hungry and, besides, he could look around, watching to see if anyone else would board in the three minutes left. No one he recognized did. There were no late sprinters either. The train left the station on time.
His phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. Taking it out, he looked at the screen. It was a cell call. He put it to his ear and pressed the green button. He heard static. He tried the 5-5-5.
“Hello? Is that you Pero?” The voice was Heep’s, tinny but clear enough. It was as if he was listening down a tin can and string walkie-talkie set from his childhood.
“Hi Heep. Everything okay?”
“I have news. Susanna says relax, the phone is secure. I am using hers. She knows these mathematical things, I think you can trust her, it’s her code.”
“Yes I do, absolutely. Go on.”
“Okay. The big news is that Mbuno’s wife is okay. Rinaldi found a ruptured bladder. It’s repaired, the whole thing stabilized and she’ll be fine but sore. They say rehab will start next week, and she’ll need a wheelchair for about four weeks, crutches after that. But she’ll be okay. Rinaldi took you at your word, well Ranjeet’s word, and used your money to fly in a team from London. They did the surgery. Now Mbuno’s hanging around, not sure what to do. He’s charming with the staff at the Aga Khan, but it won’t last. Amogh suggests you find him something to do, like scouting out some leopards or something. I know we have nothing on the cards there,” Heep meant in production planning for Mary’s new show that was months away, “but I did suggest that maybe you’ll want to send him to Langani to see if the dugong are accessible. What do you think?”
The dugong were Africa’s version of the manatee, but they were the real origin of the mermaid myth because, unlike the Manatee who has one rounded flat tail similar to the beaver, the one thousand pound dugong has a tail similar to a Dolphin. Pero told Heep it was a good idea but that he was still worried for Mbuno and Niamba’s safety using a code phrase of “your friends” meaning Tische’s thugs. They had him rattled.
“Heep, I think we need to move them.” Heep started to object, Pero cut him off, “Now, Heep, hear me out. Are those doctors still there? Let’s blow the money and transport Niamba to Europe, wherever the doctor says, keep them both in the same care. I am sure they can arrange an air ambulance for her, maybe with Ranjeet and Mbuno escorting them. Ranjeet has friends at the LSE,” Pero meant the London School of Economics where Ranjeet had studied, “and he can take precautions. I’ll try to call him later when I am clear. You understand?”
Heep responded, sounding worried, “It’s that serious? You think they would still go after Mbuno and Niamba?”
“I cannot take the chance. We,” he stressed the “we.” “We cannot take the chance, agreed?” Heep signed and agreed. “So, can you get that moving quickly? Tische will be watching the Nairobi connection and he’ll expect me to want to protect my friends there. Let’s give him that impression, no the assurance, that he has me frightened and at the same time move them from Kenya to a secure location—and then call Lewis and tell him he’s got to protect them there. The US Embassy can even post Marines, just protect them, okay?”
Again, Heep said he’d handle it but added, “If you fly Mbuno out of Nairobi, everyone will know.”
“Not if they use an air ambulance, a private flight … can you tell Ranjeet that? Tell him money no object.”
“You are running up quite a bill with the doctors …”
“I don’t care. One, we need to be seen as keeping them safe and two, we need to have them safe, and three, we might need to have Ranjeet and Mbuno nearby. I am beginning to think we may need them.”
Heep’s next sigh could be heard clearly, “Oh, shit, you’re that worried? Please tell me you’ll get rid of that package and make sure Tische knows you have given it away and we’re done.”
“Yes, Heep, that’s the plan, but this was all set up too carefully. Something, some plan, is being produced here—just like a rival film that now includes all of us whether we like it or not. Yes, I’ll run my delivery errand, but somehow if it gets complicated, I’d prefer to have Mbuno and maybe Ranjeet handy if only to help you and me figure things out. Between us we might prevail here.”
Heep said a reluctant okay and then got the conversation down to normal work, as much to avoid the tension of Pero’s plans as to ward off the uncertainty they were facing. Normalcy is de-stressing, “Now, the shoot today and tomorrow …” and for the next twenty minutes, as the TGV train rolled slowly out of Paris, they discussed production business. Thomas, standing in for Pero as the producer, was being efficient and Danny really got along with him, no problems. The police had called ten minutes after hotel wake-up calls that morning, at 6:10 and wanted to know where Mr. Baltazar was. As they had planned, Danny told them he was production planning for Paris, in Paris. No doubt, Mr. Tische would know by now. Pero realized that Heep forgot to wonder how the police knew he was gone. Heep pressed on, “Hey, Pero, you okay? How’s the cut?”
“Doing fine, not sore, and thanks for the pills.” The phone went dead. As cell phone conversations went, it was stable. When the TGV got up to speed leaving Paris, it had become sketchy and finally cut out. Pero guessed they were doing about a hundred and fifty miles per hour. It was just under three hours to Vallorbe. Thirty-five minutes less for Frasne. If he got off in Frasne, it would be suspicious. If he got off in Vallorbe, he’d be on the border and open to questions he didn’t want to answer—especially concerning his package. So he decided to wait and see how many got off in Frasne, if that would be his best bet. If there were a crowd of, say, touri
sts, he would mix in. If not, he’d stay on board until Vallorbe and take his chances. In any event, he was not going to Lausanne, which was too risky. The Swiss have excellent, hidden detectors. He didn’t fully trust his lead bag—or a body search—not to reveal all. The Swiss would arrest him and maybe charge him with theft of police property just to make his life complete.
Pero went back to his seat. It was in the second of the first-class carriages, nearest the dining car. The through traffic was continuous, people walking back and forth, lurching with the train swaying, grabbing onto others’ headrests, apologizing for tapping a passenger’s shoe. He was in a four-seat section, facing an empty seat with a woman diagonally opposite. She was facing the direction of travel. He settled in to doze and think, shutting his eyes.
Lost in his thoughts an odor snapped him back to reality. Without moving, eyes half closed, he just saw that the shoes were passing off to his right going toward the front of the train. Nothing remarkable about the shoes but the odor was unmistakable. It belonged to the man with the paper in the elevator of the Steigenberger, he was sure. Pero waited until he was twenty or thirty seconds past his seat. Next, a group of women with cameras and fanny packs ambled in the man’s same direction followed by the garde de train (train guard) asking to see the women’s tickets. The garde de train examined their papers and explained that there was no second class this side of the dining car or in the direction they were going. Pero knew the women could be lost, but aftershave man wasn’t. He was looking for Pero, he was sure. It all fit. The conversation with Langley, somehow Tische had already found out he was going to CERN. That was how the Berlin police knew to ask my whereabouts this morning. Tische already had his stooges on the trains to Geneva and Switzerland. They must have spotted Pero at the station ticket office. Damn TGV for needing an advance reservation. And suddenly another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He thought they didn’t need to watch the airport security, that would mean a quick computer check of the passenger manifest and that would do it. That and a metal detector being set off by either the lead bag or the plastic one. Damn.
Pero needed to figure out if the man thought Pero knew he was being watched. So Pero stood and walked away from the tourists, the ticket collector, and the aftershave man—toward the dining car.
Dining cars on TGVs have two sections, sitting or a standing bar. He stood. “Donnez-moi un coca, s’il vous plait.” He bought a Coke. He could use the caffeine and the sugar. In the reflection of the polished chrome surrounding the bar, he watched behind, checking for movement. He didn’t expect anything violent, but he wanted to know if the man came back this way. For almost an hour, he didn’t. As they were approaching Dijon, he suddenly appeared, Pero saw his reflection in the polished bar handrail. The man didn’t see Pero looking at him. But it was obvious that the man needed to keep Pero in view in case Pero alighted from the train, so he had to come looking. Not knowing Pero could see him in the chrome, he brushed on past—giving Pero a whiff of that odor—and went toward the dining table area. He took a seat facing Pero as far away as possible and started to study the menu all too attentively.
Pero had calculated his chances. He realized it was vital to find out if the man knew Pero had spotted him because any feint Pero wanted to do to throw him off his trail depended on knowing if the man thought Pero knew he was there. If the man thought Pero knew he was being tailed, he’d keep his distance and Pero had a chance. So, he wanted the man to suspect that Pero might know, but not be sure. Pero wanted Mr. Aftershave to keep his distance but not think his cover was totally blown, which would cause him to do something rash, like a swift knife attack. The man must suspect Pero was carrying the package. Why else would he be aboard? And Tische only wanted the package, what happened to Pero was irrelevant, at least that’s what Pero hoped—and feared. The Museum stabbing had taught him at least that much.
Surely, he thought, with aftershave that strong. He must know he’s blown. On the other hand, anyone who wears that much aftershave will have no sense of smell anyway, they might not think it is so obvious.
So Pero made a plan. He would strike up a conversation with the next person to stand next to him at the bar, offer to buy them a drink, and get their name. Suddenly, a woman stood next to him and, in very broken Franglais asked for a “Deux bottles of l’eau, please and, eh, and … Oh damn.”
“Can I help you?”
She looked at Pero. “Yes, please, I left my phrase computer packed in the suitcase, and I don’t want to rummage for it on the train. It’s so crowded, you know, and the porter charges three Euros for carrying each bag. Can you imagine? Almost five dollars for each bag! I remember when I was a girl—I came over here with my parents when I was six—the porters were happy with twenty-five cents!” And she went on and on. Smiling, he let her and, in a few moments, got her name—Margarete Tribbet from Connecticut. She was on a trip with her friends, two of them. Money wasn’t going very far. He seized the opportunity.
“Margarete, I am on a company expense account. I will never see the bill. Why don’t we just have lunch together? I mean you and all your friends,” he quickly added, she didn’t seem to be the type looking for a romantic encounter. “I’ll pay the bill, my treat, I’ll give the waiter over there the money. You can start without me, I have a quick call to make and no cell phones allowed in the dining car, you know.” She nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. We have about three hours to go before Lausanne, so it’ll be fun, you can tell me where you’ve been and where you’re going. I may have some suggestions.” She protested, but it didn’t take long to convince her. He suggested she go back to her friends and bring them here, into the dining car, and they would have an early lunch, late breakfast, “It’ll be an American brunch, but that’s our secret from the French, okay?” She nodded eagerly.
He called the headwaiter over and handed him two hundred Euros. He explained that the woman, Margarete—she said hello, and he did that little French head bow—and his friends would be having lunch on him. “Vous pouvez les servir avec ça et garder le reste pour vous. D’accord?” Take their order with this money and keep the balance for you. The waiter was very happy, his smile said so. The menu for three might run to just over a hundred Euros. It was still breakfast or snack time. White tablecloths would not be used on this train that would arrive before lunch in Lausanne. Pero hoped Margarete enjoyed her brunch. She looked happy enough. “See you shortly Margarete, go get your friends, grab a table. It’s all arranged and paid for!”
Margarete was beaming, almost giggly, “Thank you, it’s so kind. Can I bring the maps, so you can show me things to see? That all right?”
“It’s fine, off you go before the place fills up and you can’t get a table.”
As she ambled down the car toward second class, he timed, in his head as he looked innocently at the half-finished drink in front of him, when she would be about next to the aftershave man. He looked up, stared after her, and called out, loud enough, “Margarete, don’t be long, the place will fill up soon.” She gave Pero a quizzical look, waved, and walked off more quickly. Pero saw what he needed to.
When the man looked up at her, she was standing just past his table. As Pero called out, he ducked and turned to avoid Pero seeing him.
A man who thinks you know who he is will hide. The man who is sure will stare you down. Pero thought, the man who thinks you have no idea won’t move and will avoid your eyes, since sudden ducking and hiding it gives him away. Now he knew what he knew and vice versa. The man wasn’t sure Pero knew it was him, but he suspected Pero might. The doubt in Mr. Aftershave’s head was perfect for Pero’s plan.
Calmly, Pero went back to his seat and dozed off. He set his mental alarm for ten minutes before Frasne, twenty minutes past Dole. His thoughts as he fell asleep? Who was this stinker? The gray cells in the brain sent their wake-up call. Out of his reverie, he looked at his watch. In ten minutes, they would pull into Frasne. He had a game of chicken to try.
&nb
sp; TGVs don’t stop very well and they have poor acceleration compared to normal trains. They are designed for few stops and high speed, not local traffic. The TGV line to Lausanne is one of the slowest because of the number of stops, as well as the twisty pass over the Jura and down to Lake Leman, also known as Lake Geneva. So, to minimize delays, the short stops in smaller towns, to take on Customs and Immigration officials, were limited to under thirty seconds.
In Frasne, as the wheels stopped, Pero suddenly got up, went to the door, and as soon as it opened, got off. He looked left up the train. Nothing. He heard the door closing warning whistle and the beep behind him. Nothing. Pero stayed still at the open door, level with the platform. Just as the doors began to close, the man stepped out, level with Pero but one car away. The doors closed. But not Pero’s door. It jammed, oscillating open, shutting, open, confused by his small bag blocking the doorjamb. Too late, Mr. Aftershave’s door was sealed, fully shut, so he ran at Pero. As Pero’s door recycled open, he stepped back inside, lifting his bag out of the way, and it shut solid. The man’s hands banged on the glass as the train began to move. Pero watched through the departing window as the man pulled out a phone.
Pero went and joined Margarete and her friends in the dining car. He ordered and paid for champagne. They had a party. When the French Immigration people came around, all their American passports were seen together, no problem, no suspicion. About twenty minutes later, as they train approached Vallorbe, he excused himself, went back to first class, grabbed his bag and, when it stopped, stepped off the TGV.
Vallorbe, in France, is a mostly a way station for important trains, the boarding point for officials going in either direction. Pero watched the Swiss immigration and custom’s officers get on board, ready to check papers as the train would pass that invisible Swiss border, just ten minutes down the line, winding through the snow-covered valleys.
