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Jeremy and I locate an empty corner of the near car, sit down, and Jeremy says, “In about a half hour, we’ll get to the Châtelet–Les Halles station. From there, a quick transfer and five minutes later we’ll be at Gare du Nord, catching a Eurostar to London.”
“Got everything planned out,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I wish.”
A number of Vietnamese women and their children huddled at the other end of the car. Outside the windows, the passing French countryside is a depressing mix of factories and government housing, the buildings all covered with graffiti. Even in French, the painted scrawls and marks look barbaric.
One after another, we quickly stop and restart at a number of stations: Noisiel, Noisy-Champs, Noisy-le-Grand–Mont d’Est.
“Tell me what Rashad said to you, when, and why you believe him,” I say.
“When?” he says. “At first I thought it was an accidental encounter…but later I realized Rashad is not one for accidents.”
“Where was this?” I ask. “In some slum outside Damascus? A mosque in Riyadh? Dinner in Soho?”
“No,” he says. “At the British Consulate on Second Avenue, in Manhattan. The United Nations were in town and the consulate was having a reception for the ambassador and about a hundred of his closest and dearest friends.”
“Including you?” Amy asks.
“No, not me,” Jeremy says. “At the time I was seeing a woman at the consulate, an agricultural attaché. Amanda Trevor.”
“Not much agriculture in Manhattan.”
“Please,” he says. “Let me go on.” He pauses, takes a breath. “As you can imagine, the reception was crowded. Very posh. I found a quiet spot near the windows, looking over Manhattan. And then there was a hand on my shoulder.”
“Rashad.”
“Quite,” Jeremy says. “I turn and I’m…shocked. I hadn’t seen him since that day in Saudi Arabia when both of our fathers were killed. And he just smiled and nodded to the lights out there, and said, ‘Someday soon, my friend, someday soon, the lights down there will be snuffed out. And I will be the one doing it.’”
“Quick question?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you take the bastard down to the consulate’s cellar and waterboard him right there, find out what he had planned?”
“I was sorely tempted to, but then he went back into the reception, and after a few inquiries I learned that Rashad was there as a guest of BAE Systems,” Jeremy says. “Couldn’t quite cause a diplomatic row over someone there as a guest, now could I?”
Our train briefly stops at Val de Fontenay, then resumes. More residents of Asian descent board the car. I say, “If I had to, I would have followed the son of a bitch back to his hotel room and then have the proverbialfrank and open exchange of views.”
“That was a thought,” Jeremy says. “Still, later, after the reception was really under way, I tried to locate him…but he was gone.”
“And you’ve been looking for him ever since.”
Jeremy doesn’t reply, which makes sense, since I already know the answer.
We make a quick transfer at Châtelet–Les Halles. As Jeremy predicted, five minutes later we’re at Gare du Nord, the huge transportation hub of Paris. It’s one of the largest train stations in the world and certainly fits the bill. We emerge into a mass of shops, wide hallways, and overhanging video displays. I stick close to Jeremy as he purposefully strolls through the chaos of all these people leaving trains and getting onto them.
It’s noisy from the PA systems, music, people talking loudly. Jeremy leans in and says, “Watch out for pickpockets—this is one of their favorite playgrounds.”
I reply by saying, “They should be watching out forme,” but then something catches my eye: two French gendarmes in body armor and black paratrooper boots, carrying FAMAS G2 automatic rifles. Seeing these officers slowly walking through the crowd reminds me that I’m currently violating probably half a dozen French gun-control laws with the SIG Sauer in my rear waistband, along with the handful of spare 9mm cartridges rattling around in my left jacket pocket next to a spare magazine.
“This way,” Jeremy says, and we step onto a crowded escalator beneath a large video display of a British flag, with signs pointing the way to the Eurostar. A sign to the right saysBIENVENUE DANS LE HALL LONDRESand its English translation:Welcome to the London Hall.
When we get off the escalator, a number of Eurostar automatic-ticket kiosks are set in a line, and as we stroll past them, I say, “I get the feeling we’re not getting on the Eurostar via the traditional method.”
He smiles. “Has anything these past few days been traditional?”
I understand Jeremy’s pleased look—he’s acting as my escort through Paris and then on to London—but I confess I’m also irritated by his cocky attitude, shepherding this seemingly helpless woman at his side. Okay, this woman is a former Army captain and currently a former field officer with the CIA, but it still ticks me off.
