27 PARIS
THE GARE DE LYON IS LOCATED IN THE 12TH Arrondissement of Paris, a few streets to the east of the Seine. In front of the station is a large traffic circle, and beyond the circle, the intersection of two major avenues, the rue de Lyon and the boulevard Diderot. It was there, seated in a busy sidewalk café popular with travelers, that Paul Martineau waited. He finished the last of a thin glass of Côtes du Rhône, then signaled the waiter for a check. An interval of five minutes ensued before the bill appeared. He left money and a small tip, then set out toward the entrance of the station.
There were several police cars in the traffic circle and two pairs of paramilitary police standing guard at the entrance. Martineau fell in with a small cluster of people and went inside. He was nearly into the departure hall when he felt a tap at his shoulder. He turned around. It was one of the policemen who’d been watching the main entrance.
“May I see some identification, please?”
Martineau drew his French national identity card from his wallet and handed it to the policeman. The policeman stared into Martineau’s face for a long moment before looking down at the card.
“Where are you going?”
“Aix.”
“May I see your ticket, please?”
Martineau handed it over.
“It says here you’re supposed to return tomorrow.”
“I changed my reservation this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“I needed to return early.” Martineau decided to show a bit of irritation. “Listen, what’s this all about? Are all these questions really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, Monsieur Martineau. What brought you to Paris?”
Martineau answered: lunch with a colleague from Paris University, a meeting with a potential publisher.
“You’re a writer?”
“An archaeologist, actually, but I’m working on a book.”
The policeman handed back the identification card.
“Have a pleasant evening.”
“Thank you.”
Martineau turned and headed toward the terminal. He paused at the departure board, then climbed the stairs to Le Train Bleu, the famed restaurant overlooking the hall. The maître d’ met him at the door.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Actually, I’m meeting someone at the bar. I believe she’s already here.”
The maître d’ stepped aside. Martineau made his way to the bar, then to a table in a window overlooking the platforms. Seated there was an attractive woman in her forties with a streak of gray in her long, dark hair. She looked up as Martineau approached. He bent and kissed the side of her neck.
“Hello, Mimi.”
“Paul,” she whispered. “So lovely to see you again.”
28 PARIS
TWO BLOCKS NORTH OF THE GARE DE LYON: THE rue Parrot. 6:53 P.M.
“Turn here,” the girl said. “Park the car.”
“There’s no place to leave it. The street’s parked up.”
“Trust me. We’ll find a space.”
Just then a car pulled away from the curb near the Hotel Lyon Bastille. Gabriel, taking no chances, went in nose first. The girl slipped the Tanfolgio into her handbag and swung the handbag over her shoulder.
“Open the trunk.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say. Look at the clock. We haven’t much time.”
Gabriel pulled the trunk-release lever, and the hatch opened with a dull thump. The girl snatched the key from the ignition and dropped it into the bag along with the gun and the satellite phone. Then she opened her door and climbed out. She walked back to the trunk and motioned for Gabriel to join her. He looked down. Inside was a large rectangular suitcase, black nylon, with wheels and a collapsible handle.
“Take it.”
“No.”
“If you don’t take it, your wife dies.”
“I’m not going to take a bomb into the Gare de Lyon.”
“You’re entering a train station. It’s best to look like a traveler. Take the bag.”
He reached down and looked for the zipper. Locked.
“Just take it.”
In the tool well was a chrome-plated tire iron.
“What are you doing? Do you want your wife to die?”
Two sharp blows, and the lock snapped open. He unzipped the main compartment: balls of packing paper. Next he tried the outer compartments. Empty.
“Are you satisfied? Look at the clock. Take the bag.”
Gabriel lifted the bag out and placed it on the pavement. The girl had already started walking away. He extended the handle of the bag and closed the trunk, then set out after her. At the corner of the rue de Lyon they turned left. The station, set on a slight promontory, loomed before them.
“I don’t have a ticket.”
“I have a ticket for you.”
“Where are we going? Berlin? Geneva? Amsterdam?”
“Just walk.”
As they neared the corner of the boulevard Diderot, Gabriel saw police officers patrolling the perimeter of the station on foot and blue emergency lights flickering in the traffic circle.
“They’ve been warned,” he said. “We’re walking straight into a security alert.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“I don’t have a passport.”
“You don’t need it.”
“What if we’re stopped?”
“I have it. If a policeman asks you for identification, just look at me, and I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re the reason we’ll be stopped.”
At the boulevard Diderot they waited for the light to change, then crossed the street amid a swarm of pedestrians. The bag felt too light. It didn’t sound right rolling over the pavement. They should have put clothing in it to weigh it down properly. What if he were stopped? What if the bag was searched and they found that it was filled with balls of paper? What if they looked inside Palestina’s bag and found the Tanfolgio? The Tanfolgio… He told himself to forget about the empty suitcase and the gun in the girl’s bag. Instead he focused on the sensation he’d had earlier that day, the feeling that the clue to his survival lay somewhere along the path he’d already traveled.
Standing at the entrance of the station were several police officers and two soldiers in camouflage with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They were randomly stopping passengers, checking IDs, looking in bags. The girl threaded her arm through Gabriel’s and made him walk faster. He could feel the eyes of the policemen on him, but no one stopped them as they went inside.
The station, its roof arched and soaring, opened before them. They paused for a moment at the head of an escalator that sunk downward into the Métro level of the station. Gabriel used the time to take his bearings. To his left was a kiosk of public telephones; behind him, the stairs that led up to the Le Train Bleu. On opposite ends of the platform were two Relay newsstands. A few feet to his right was a snack bar, above which hung the large black departure board. Just then it changed over. To Gabriel the clapping of the characters sounded obscenely like applause for Khaled’s perfectly played gambit. The clock read: 6:57.