“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 maitre 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 maitre 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?
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 Metro 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.
“Do you see that girl using the first telephone on this side of the kiosk?”
“Which girl?”
“Blue jeans, gray sweater, maybe French, maybe Arab, like me.”
“I see her.”
“When the clock on the departure board turns to six fifty-eight, she’s going to hang up. You and I will walk over and take her place. She’ll pause for a moment to give us time to get there.”
“What if someone else gets there first?”
“The girl and I will take care of it. You’re going to dial a number. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget the number. If you do, I won’t tell it to you again, and your wife will die. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Give me the fucking number.”
She recited it, then gave him a few coins as the clock turned to 6:58. The girl vacated her place. Gabriel walked over, lifted the receiver and fed coins through the slot. He dialed the number deliberately, fearful that if he made a mistake the first time he would not be able to summon the number correctly again. Somewhere a telephone began to ring. One ring, a second, a third…
“There’s no answer.”
“Be patient. Someone will pick up.”
“It’s rung six times. No one’s answering.”
“Are you sure you dialed the proper number? Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe your wife is about to die because you-”
“Shut your mouth,” Gabriel snapped.
The telephone had stopped ringing.
