cup of dark roast. And so far the aches were no match for a couple of tabs of ibuprofen. He checked his watch. Not quite eleven. Once he reached his destination he’d catch a couple of hours’ sleep, then prep for the border crossing.
The night before, in Reims, he’d sat in the crane’s control booth and watched until the rest of Hansen’s team emerged from Doucet’s warehouse and rallied back at their cars, with the mysterious Range Rover following, headlights off, at a discreet distance. The watchers themselves were being watched. But by whom? It was a question that would have to remain unanswered for the time being. Fisher watched from his perch until one of the team’s cars and the Range Rover disappeared east down the D980, then headed back toward Reims, returned to his hotel, slept for four hours, and got up and headed north.
He pulled into the Villerupt terminal just before noon and checked into a hostel using one of Emmanuel’s clean passports. No credit card was required. He paid cash for three days. Unless something went wrong, he would be staying only the afternoon.
At three o’ clock Fisher left the hostel and walked a half mile west to the Sixt office on place Jeanne d’Arc and rented a sun yellow Chevrolet Aveo using Louis Royer’s driver’s license and one of Emmanuel’s sanitized Master-Cards, then drove to a Lacoste outlet store and paid cash for three outfits: a red polo shirt over green trousers, a yellow polo over sky blue trousers, and khaki trousers with a long-sleeved navy blue button-down shirt. He completed the ensembles with a similarly mixed-and-matched trio of designer baseball caps and sunglasses. He used the changing room to don the red and green outfit, then stuffed the rest of the clothes in his rucksack and left.
Finally, he took the D16A northeast two miles to Russange, which straddled the border along with the Luxembourgian village of Esch-sur-Alzette, just two miles north up the D16/18. He found a local bike-rental shop, made the necessary arrangements, and then, following his guidebook, he found the Cafe Entrepot on rue Napoleon 1er and parked. Out his passenger window, a quarter mile to the northeast, he could see the France-Luxembourg border crossing.
He checked his watch. An hour had elapsed since he’d rented the Aveo, forty minutes since he’d made his purchases at the Lacoste store. If Hansen and his team were in close contact with home — which Fisher knew they would be — news of his purchases may have already reached them. Given his sudden appearance in Villerupt, not a stone’s throw from the Luxembourg border, they would have to assume he was running. Fisher doubted Hansen would want to waste the two-plus hours it would take to cover the 140 miles to Villerupt. And, with no TGV routes available, that left one option: charter plane. As the crow flies, it was an eighty-five-mile trip.
Fisher started his mental clock. Ninety minutes. No more.
On an impulse that he would soon wish he’d ignored, Fisher drove to the nearest airport, which in this case was an airstrip four miles southwest of Villerupt and just outside the village of Errouville. The runway was little more than a dirt tract hemmed in by farmers’ green fields.
Fisher parked beside one of the three outbuildings that seemed to serve as the strip’s terminal, hangar, and office. Four parking spaces down were a pair of SUVs, both Renault Koleoses: one in black, the other silver. He pushed through the door marked BUREAU. Sitting behind the counter was a paunchy woman with bright red hair.
In French, Fisher explained that he was expecting some friends later that afternoon, but he wasn’t sure what flight they were on. “Five of them,” he finished.
The woman checked her log, frowning and clicking her tongue as her finger traced the columns. “Nothing later this afternoon. We do have five coming in…” She trailed off, walked over to the radio set on a nearby desk, and had a rapid-fire exchange over the hand mic. She came back. “Three minutes. A charter from Verdun.”
Fisher’s heart lurched.
Fisher thanked the woman and walked out to his car. To the south he could hear the drone of an airplane engine. He turned and scanned the skies. Seconds later he could see it, a white sliver dropping altitude on its way into the airstrip. On a hunch, Fisher walked down to the parked Renault SUVs. In the back window of each was the familiar orange and silver Sixt logo.
He got into the Aveo, started the engine, and sped off.
He was back at the Cafe Entrepot in Russange thirty minutes later. Another check of the watch: twenty minutes to go. The sun was already arcing toward the western horizon.
He needed to keep Hansen and his team close, but not so close that they could impede his progress or, worse still, capture him — a task hard enough in its own right and made harder still by the nature of his pursuers: trained but largely untested. They were likely to make a lot of mistakes on which he could capitalize, but they were just as prone to mercuriality. An operator of his own caliber would react to situations, not predictably, but coolly, logically. Equanimity under fire was usually found only in seasoned operators. He would have to pay close attention to his own assumptions. Hansen and his team might zig when they should have zagged.
Fisher had chosen this section of the border because it was straddled by sister cities — Russange in France and Esch-sur-Alzette in Luxembourg. Except for lightly patrolled wilderness areas, urban confluences like this were usually the easiest to cross. Employees lived on one side, worked on the other; friends lived virtually within shouting distance, but were separated by a border; restaurants and taxi services shared customers; French doctors would refer patients to Luxembourgian dentists. Fluidity and proximity demanded indulgent border standards.
As luck had it, the weekend’s unique festivities would further help Fisher’s plan. The old Audun-le-Tiche station and rail line that once connected Russange and its environs to Esch-sur-Alzette had, despite the protests of nostalgic French and Luxembourg citizens alike, been slated for decommissioning. Carnivals at stations on both sides of the border were to begin at sunset with the departure of a nineteenth-century locomotive and three carriage cars from Audun-le-Tiche. The one-mile journey would take ten minutes; revelers of both nationalities could travel back and forth to the celebrations free of charge throughout the weekend, once an hour, on the hour. Those who chose to forgo the train could walk, drive, or bicycle. Of the forty thousand or so residents in the area, some five thousand were expected to attend the celebrations.
Ten minutes later, on schedule, the bike shop owner’s ten-year-old son pulled into the Cafe Entrepot’s parking lot and braked to a stop beside Fisher’s open window. Fisher gave him a five-euro tip and told him where to leave the bike.
The timing was mostly guesswork, more an art than a science: From touchdown at the Errouville airstrip to the Sixt office would be forty minutes. Hansen would immediately contact 3E with the make and model of Fisher’s rental, and the NSA’s potent electronic ears would begin scanning radio traffic for any mention of such a vehicle in the area. While hoping for a break, the team would begin scouring the area for the car, probably splitting up to first check Villerupt, and then Russange.
Fisher let five minutes pass, then drove a few blocks south to the McDonald’s on rue du Luxembourg. He made one circuit of the parking lot, during which he found a man sitting alone in his car, eating a Big Mac. His expression, Fisher felt, was sufficiently dour to suit his purposes. Time to make sure Hansen and his team were moving in the right direction. He pulled to a stop ten diagonal feet from the man’s rear bumper, then stepped on the accelerator. The crunch of bumpers echoed through the parking lot. Fisher grabbed his duffel bag and got out. The other man did the same and immediately began screaming in French, gesticulating wildly at his car. Fisher shouted back, waved the duffel bag menacingly, then suggested the man frequently enjoyed carnal knowledge of his own mother. The man’s face turned red. He charged Fisher. Fisher turned and ran into the McDonald’s, shoving people out of the way and shouting and generally wreaking havoc before darting out the side exit. Behind him the man began yelling, “Police! Police!”
