Flight Path: A Wright & Tran Novel (19 page)

Jacob raised his hand to his mouth and coughed a couple of times, then patted himself on the chest twice with a closed fist, like he had just choked on his croissant. Reaching to take another sip of coffee, he saw the pillion passenger move their left hand from the waist of the rider to their own left thigh. Four fingers were extended. It was a fleeting movement and they gripped the rider again as the bike pulled away, turning left, towards the Moulin Rouge. He didn’t follow its path and merely continued to hold his gaze towards the crossing point. From the corner of his right eye he could see a stand of postcards that also supported a tight stack of tourist prints, made to look like Lautrec originals, but that were no doubt mass-produced in China. The shop that owned the stand had various signs above and to the sides of its doors, including the prolific
‘Tabac’
that in Paris seemed completely undeterred by the rest of Europe’s crackdown on smokers. Jacob twisted around in his seat to look more closely at one of the signs.

He stood and walked over to the waiter who was watching a repeat of a football game on a screen set high up in the corner of the room. After explaining he would be back momentarily, Jacob left the café and walked across the street. He saw, in the reflection of a passing car, the man behind the silver apple make to follow him then stop as he realised where Jacob was heading.

Inside the small newsagent and tobacconist’s Jacob selected ‘The Times’ from the stand of English newspapers that he had seen advertised. He bought it, a pen and pencil set and ‘The Bumper Book of Puzzles’ also in English, then returned to the café. Retaking his seat and moving his freshly arrived coffee to one side, he opened the paper at the crossword puzzle and sucked the end of his pen in quiet contemplation.

An hour later, with another croissant and yet another coffee under his belt, he paid the bill, received his change and made to leave. The waiter called him back and pointed to the table. Jacob, with an overly expressive gesture of thanks went back and picked up the paper and his puzzle book. Exiting the café he turned left, walked across to the wide, tree-lined median of the Boulevard de Clichy and headed towards the Blanche Métro station. Walking within ten metres of the silver apple he stifled a laugh at the way the man manoeuvred to keep the statue between them.

Jacob sauntered, allowing his tailing pair to sort themselves out. He noticed a strange and eclectic mix of adult shops off to the right side of the wide street, balanced by a procession of bars and clubs to the left. He thought it odd that there were four Irish bars within touching distance of each other. He wondered if they were the stereotypical plastic-Irish versions of that old pub in Dublin.

A few minutes later he stopped and looked up at the famous red windmill. Having never been in this part of Paris before, he was genuinely surprised that the whole building wasn’t bigger. The entrance foyer to the right was just the width of a normal townhouse, although the row of gilt-handled entrance doors to the left gave some clue that the home of the can-can was bigger inside than out. He decided that a closer look was warranted, not least because those gilt-handled doors were also full-height black glass that made perfect mirrors. As he pretended to gaze up at the billboard advertisement, with its real Lautrec inspired drawings, he saw a matt black Z800e Kawasaki motorbike turn up the next street to the right. In the reflection of the door furthest to his left, he saw the original silver apple man cross to a grey Citroën that had pulled up on the far side of the boulevard. As he got into the front of the car, a new man got out of the rear. Jacob committed his shape, size and clothes to memory, then turned and continued on his way.

Just across from the Moulin Rouge, set in an island in the middle of the boulevard, an ornate metal sign with the word ‘
Métropolitain
’ artistically depicted on it, arched over a flight of steps that disappeared below ground. There was a steady stream of people going down and a small knot of newly ascended people loitering at the top, getting their bearings. Jacob navigated his way around most, but stepped back to allow an elderly woman, and a much younger Asian woman, to gain the steps first.

When he descended he found himself in a circular ticket hall, similar to a London Tube station but different enough to be confusing. He didn’t have to fake an unfamiliarity with the Métro system. In the few times he’d been in Paris before, he’d never used it. Attempting to comprehend the ticket machines set into the white brick walls, he struggled to find a language button that would transform the instructions to English. Eventually he gave up and took his place in the queue for the ticket booth behind the Asian woman he had allowed to go down the steps before him. As he stood behind her he moved his puzzle book and the copy of ‘The Times’ to under his left arm. He patted the paper as if to ensure its safekeeping.

When the woman reached the ticket window, Jacob listened with pleasure to her melodically beautiful French. Peering over her shoulder he watched her place a €20 note on one side of a circular plate. The formidable looking lady behind the partition rotated the plate, took the note and in its place put a stack of white tickets. The plate spun again and the tickets were presented, ready to be taken. As the woman made to move away from the window one of the tickets fluttered down to the ground. Jacob nearly stooped to help her, but she had already knelt to the side and retrieved it, so he straightened back up. Stepping forward he bent his head so that his mouth was in front of the serrated plastic insert of the speech grill. The already stern looking ticket-lady adopted an even more severe countenance.

“Hi, can you help me please? I’d like to get to the Champs Élysées.”

Even Jacob knew that his pronunciation had managed to butcher the words. To his ears it had sounded more like
‘Sean’s duh lease ee’
and to the ticket-lady it obviously sounded like someone was attacking the heart of the Republic. She glared at him and Jacob got the distinct impression that had the plastic grill not been in place she may have reached through and punched him. As it was she just glared at him before saying something in French with the delivery of a barking dog.

Jacob tried again, “I’m sorry but I don’t speak French. Can you tell me how much it is and how I get there?”

The ticket-lady heaved her shoulders and gave an audible sigh before saying in heavily accented English, “One Euro eighty. Get off at Champs Élysées Clemenceau. There is a map on the wall.”

Jacob felt annoyed, but he remembered the barman’s advice on keeping a low profile. He put a €5 note on the turntable and in return received a single cardboard ticket, his change and another glare from the charming ticket-lady.

“Mercy buckets,” he muttered. ‘The French Tourist board called, they said you’ve missed your calling,’ he thought, but didn’t say as he walked over to the Métro map. A few minutes of looking at the coloured, numbered lines identified the station and how to reach it with only one change of train. He slowly traced the route with his finger, then retraced it to make sure. Finally he headed for the westbound Line-2.

The wide, double-sided space was much brighter than its London counterparts. It also had opposing direction trains running side-by-side which Jacob found an interesting twist on what he was used to. The eastbound train was just pulling away as he stepped onto the westbound platform. He looked about him, once more the interested tourist. Various international advertisements, similar in style to those on the London Tube decorated the walls, but beneath them, at irregular intervals, little outcrops of strangely shaped orange seats sprouted in groups of five. None of the relatively few passengers who stood waiting for the arrival of the next train used the seats. Jacob elected to stand as well. The information board suspended from the ceiling said the next train was due in three minutes. He clamped the puzzle book upright between his feet and unfurled his copy of ‘The Times’. On the third turn of a page he glimpsed the man who had replaced silver apple standing at the far end of the platform. The diner from the Palace Café was further along. Jacob thought these guys were amateurish, then stopped himself mid-thought. ‘That type of thinking is what caused the problems in Amsterdam. You switch on to these people or it all goes wrong again,’ he told himself. However, he did admit that they could have learned a few things form the masterful way Tien had managed to establish where he was going next.

ɸ

Tien had picked up her dropped ticket, heard Jacob ask for his destination and then had headed down to the eastbound Line-2. She needed to get distance between herself, him and his followers and would take no further part in the surveillance, but it had been nice to see he was doing okay.

The train she took had barely picked up speed before it decelerated less than a minute later. When the doors opened she got off, climbed the exit steps from Pigalle station and found herself only a few hundred metres east of her original starting point on the Boulevard de Clichy. She reached for her phone and dialled Kara, Sammi, Chaz and Toby. As each answered she pressed ‘add call’ and once all four were on the line, pressed ‘merge calls’. They were back to having linked communications.

“He’s heading to Champs Élysées Clemenceau,” she said, her pronunciation flawless and the memory of Jacob murdering the language made her smile.

“Great. Thanks for doing that,” Kara said. “Just saves one of us having to ditch the bike gear yet.”

“No problem.”

“How’d it go?”

“Good. He saw me from the other side of the road and made it look smooth. I’m impressed considering he’s not really trained in any of this. Although his French needs a bit of work. I think the Académie Française would be mortified had they heard him. He has two tails in company.”

“Yeah we saw them going down the steps. One popped back up and then the Citroën left, so at least we know where they’re all headed. He’ll arrive before us, but so far he’s been sensible. I was pleased he realised he was being followed before we even got to him. His wave-off when he first saw us outside the café was neatly managed.”

“Yeah, he’s doing well,” Tien said, before adding, “Oh, one thing. He has a copy of ‘The Times’ with him.”

“Mmm, bit weird,” Toby said in reply. “It’s not the usual thing my brother would be reading. What’s with that?”

“Not sure, but he indicated it’s important. You’ll have to setup a drop for him.”

“Okay,” Kara said. “I’ll work on it.”

“Right, well I’m heading back to the hotel, I’ll see you all back there. Keep the line open.”

“Will do,” Kara said.

As Tien walked away, the to and fro chatter of Chaz, Sammi, Kara and Toby allowed her to mentally track the progress of both bikes into the city centre.

8
th
Arrondissement, Paris.

Jacob exited th
e
Métro and turned the collar of his leather jacket up to fend off the drizzling rain and cold wind. He stopped at the top of the steps, disorientated by his immediate surroundings. The imposing statue of General de Gaulle was to his right. The larger-than-life bronze looking as if it was about to step from its plinth and continue striding down to the Place de la Concorde. A pedestrian crossing, seemingly in the perfect place to assist the General should he need it, was to the quarter-right, but directly in front of Jacob, where he had expected to see the broad avenue of the Champs Élysées was a wall of white wood. It took him a few moments to realise he was looking at the rear of a long row of small cabins with gently pitching roofs.

He walked to the crossing and looked to the other side of the road. A similar line of wooden cabins stretched up and down the pavement. Despite the drizzle Jacob couldn’t help but smile. A huge Christmas market had been erected along both sides of the road. Each cabin and stall had lights, that weren’t doing themselves justice in the greyness of the day, but that Jacob didn’t doubt would look spectacular at night. In the distance, on the other side of the road, he could make out the brightly painted, big-top-like roof of an old-fashioned carousel. The smell of freshly baked donuts, the sharper tang of roasting chestnuts and the heavy aroma of Glühwein defied the drizzle and filled his nostrils. He breathed in deeply.

Jacob was a sucker for Christmas. He knew it was because Toby, being the elder brother by seven years, had done such a good job of not spoiling it for him. All the Christmases he could remember as a small child, his big brother had been there, helping him leave out carrots for reindeers and milk and mince pies for Santa. Toby had never once tried to ruin the magic of it, even when he was in his early teens and probably had better things to do. Jacob’s love for the season had been ingrained and Toby had played his part to perfection. A role he was getting to reprise with gusto now he was the father to a boy and two girls. Jacob, as the doting uncle, was always allowed to join in with the fun and it all served to reinforce his love of the season. He was slightly startled to realise it was only a month to the day away and knew he would struggle not to buy all manner of gifts in his walk through the fair. He decided that when the operation was over he was going to come straight back to Paris. As he set off towards the distant Arc de Triomphe he imagined, perhaps, maybe, the possibility of asking Tien if she’d like to come back with him.

The cabins ended when he reached the intersection of Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue. He also realised that the Métro station of the same name, and another he could see further ahead, were much closer to the main shopping area of the Champs Élysées. The charming ticket-lady had probably sent him to Clemenceau in the hope he would have a longer walk in the cold. As it was, Jacob considered that by showing him the Christmas Market, she had done him a favour.

He used the next pedestrian crossing to negotiate the ten lanes of traffic and walked until he came to the first chain store that he recognised the name of. A quick ten minutes in ‘The Gap’ and he had his first purchase. Or the first five, as he liked the style of T-shirt he found and bought one in each available colour. Taking a roundabout route through the shop he caught the man from the Citroën paying close attention to a rail of winter jackets. Jacob blithely ignored him and went to the counter.

Back out on the street, he checked his watch and saw it was just after eleven. He walked past the Disney Store, with effort, crossed over the Rue du Colisée and entered the next café he came to. Ordering more coffee and managing to point at a ham and cheese sandwich, he settled down at a corner table by the window and resumed his pondering of ‘The Times’ crossword. From the corner of his eye he saw two of his watchers move into oversight positions on the street outside. A third man, different to those he had seen before, but definitely part of the surveillance team, and so had to be the fourth follower Kara had indicated was out there, entered the café and sat at a table in the corner.

A half hour later and following a trip to the café’s toilet, Jacob resumed his meanderings, criss-crossing the ten lanes of traffic and pottering in and around various shops. The tails stayed constant, less than invisible but achieving their main goal which he was sure was to monitor his every move. Even after his quick nature break at the café, the new man, whom he had uninventively named ‘Four’ had gone into the facilities, no doubt to check Jacob hadn’t scrawled a message on the walls. The Flight Path organisation might well have been efficient at getting people out of countries, but it seemed they didn’t instinctively trust their cargo.

After another two hours, he had only added a pair of sandals and some swimming shorts to his haul of T-shirts. He was slowly realising a Parisian winter was not the best place to shop for warm-climate holiday clothes. He was also becoming anxious that unlike his obvious tails, he had only seen Kara and Toby when they’d pulled up on their bike next to the café and only glimpsed Sammi and Chaz on their bike turning up the street next to the Moulin Rouge. Time was running out and he needed to get a message to them.

By now he was two thirds of the way towards the Arc de Triomphe and was considering doubling back to one of the larger malls just off the avenue. He paused on the side of the kerb and waited for the Parisian version of a bin-lorry to trundle past. Once it was clear, he found himself staring directly at a Marks and Spencer storefront. Heading into it, arm in arm, with not a trace of motorcycle apparel anywhere, were Sammi and Chaz.

Jacob walked in and headed upstairs to the menswear section. Approaching the counter, he spoke to the attractive sales assistant who, according to the two badges she wore, was called Marielle and spoke English. He told her what he needed and she responded in beautifully accented tones, happily taking his previous shopping bags for safe keeping and pointing him towards the rear of the shop for the more summery items still on display. With just his much folded copy of the newspaper in his jacket pocket, Jacob set about fulfilling his shopping needs. He visited the fitting rooms a few times and when happy with an article, took it back to Marielle who placed it on a small, but growing pile. After less than an hour he had everything he needed including a couple of pairs of lightweight trousers, a few light shirts, one pair of beige cargo shorts, a full set of toiletries, a small suitcase and a backpack.

Looking about the racks for any final purchases, he noticed that ‘Four’ was positioned perfectly to cover the floor space and had a direct line of sight to the fitting rooms. He was quite impressed with this guy. He hadn’t even noticed him in the shop until then. About to return to the sales counter, Jacob was relieved to see Sammi and Chaz rising up on the escalator from the ground floor. Sammi, laden with Marks and Spencer shopping bags, was hanging on to Chaz’s arm like a grateful recipient of gifts.

“Oh honey,” she said in a remarkable rendition of a New York accent, pitched just too loud for conservative European tastes, “you are simply the best. The best.”

Chaz patted her arm and smiled.

Breaking from his grasp and pawing a rack of expensive looking knitwear, she added, “But seriously hon, we need to get you one of these here sweaters. Look, at that, would you believe it? It’s made from a goat. Oh! This would look soooo good on you. Your cheek bones will just explode.”

Chaz responded with a non-committal grunt.

“You have just got to go and try that on. I absolutely insist.”

Chaz made a show of looking at his watch.

“Oh honey, don’t give me that old, ‘we don’t have time’. Go and try it on. You’ll look drop-dead gorgeous.”

Chaz dithered next to the knitwear.

Jacob strolled over to the sales counter and saw that Marielle had a fixed expression on her face. He rolled his eyes, then glanced sideways at Sammi. Marielle broke into a grin and shied away so as not to be seen by her new customers.

“Marielle,” he said leaning on the counter, “you’ve been great. I’m nearly finished, just one last thing. Do you think I could try on another pair of shorts?”

“Why certainly. Which do you wish for?”

“They were down on the end, quite bright.”

“But yes, a good choice,” she lied smoothly, for Jacob knew they were anything but. He imagined that particular pair were still on the rack in mid-winter for a reason. He surmised they’d still be there next mid-winter too.

Marielle handed him a single article token for the fitting room and Jacob set off, picking up the fluorescent pink cargo shorts on his way past.

A few minutes later he came back out, hung the offending items back on the rack and returned to the counter.

“No, Monsieur?” Marielle asked.

“No, Marielle. Sadly too small for me,” he said patting his tummy.

She giggled as she prepared his bill.

Once out on the street, with all his purchases packed into the suit case and backpack, Jacob headed for the George V Métro station, only a couple of hundred metres away. Prior to descending back underground he decided to stop into a final café and treat himself to some decadent looking pastries. Once more he took a seat next to the window.

He retrieved his copy of ‘The Times’ from his pocket, turned to the back pages and read the sports news. When he had finished his coffee and a second chocolate eclair, he paid his bill and walked straight to one of the numerous waste bins affixed to the pavement of the Champs Élysées. Jacob understood why modern cities had replaced ornate bins with clear plastic bags attached to simple metal hoops. The obvious advantage for security over style made sense. In this case, it was exactly what he needed. Even better he thought, as his act of dropping his copy of ‘The Times’ into it was done in clear view of Citroën man, watching from an adjacent bench.

Jacob looked up in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe, shielding his eyes from the drizzle that was beginning to grow heavier. He looked from the arch to the entrance of the Métro. To anyone watching him, it looked like he was contemplating more sightseeing against the potential of not getting any wetter. In the end, the tourist lost out and he walked to the station entrance. As he was about to descend the steps he turned a full circle to look one last time at the broad majesty of the Champs Élysées.

ɸ

Chaz and Sammi continued their amble around the menswear department and both watched the fourth member of the French surveillance team go into the fitting room area after Jacob had left. He didn’t even bother to take a garment in with him as an attempt to cover his real intentions.

Before he had reappeared Sammi had already opened the side pocket of the pink shorts and removed a single page of ‘The Times’. She folded it and put it in her bag. Then she and Chaz went to the counter and spoke to Marielle about the benefits of a plain cream Cashmere sweater. By the time they had finished, the French man had departed.

“Kara, we’ve got it,” Chaz said as he and Sammi exited the store and headed back to the underground carpark in the Rue de Berri.

“What is it?” Kara said from her vantage point in the motorcycle parking bay on the corner of Rue Quentin-Bauchart.

“Appears our Jacob has being doing the Times Crossword. What’s more he seems to have completed it, but it reads like gibberish and I haven’t got a clue what it says.”

“Okay, get back to the hotel. Jacob’s just gone into the Métro but gave the signal that he was heading back to his start location. His little band of followers have gone with him but I don’t think we need to expose ourselves. We’ll pick him up back in Montmartre. Sammi, you get back to the van and set up a watch on the restaurant again. The rest of us will try and figure out the crossword puzzle.”

“You mean we’re going to give it straight to Tien,” Sammi said as she was getting back into her leathers.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” Kara said.