by Mark A Biggs
Despite my confidence concerning the Romanians, I didn’t want to chance my luck by waltzing around the Champs-Elysées. But Lady Olivia Suzanne Elizabeth Huggins couldn’t leave Paris without visiting the ‘Triangle d’Or, the Golden Triangle, the most luxurious place on the right bank. It’s the area made up of the Champs-Elysées, Avenue Montaigne, Ave George V and Rue Francois 1er. The shopping possibilities were overwhelming and poor Sebastian was run off his feet. Louis Vuitton, Dior, Chanel, Gucci, Pucci, Ferré, Givenchy, and Celine were some of the places we visited.
With the car now brimming with boxes and bags, the final item I needed was luggage, to transport it all.
‘Sebastian, darling,’ I said, ‘your taste has been impeccable. One more thing before you take me home.’
‘Madame?’
‘Luggage.’
‘Certainly Madame, you would be wanting gorgeous luggage?’
‘Absolutely, Sebastian.’
‘Can I suggest Luis Vuitton on the Champs-Elysées. I’m sorry Madame, I do know you asked to stay away from the Champs-Elysées, as much as possible.’
‘That’s quite all right Sebastian, Luis Vuitton sounds perfect.’
Fifteen minutes later, Sebastian was dropping me outside.
‘I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up. I won’t be long so try and park somewhere nearby.’
‘Certainly Madame.’
As he had promised there was a good selection of gorgeous luggage. I chose three suitcases – poor Inspector Axel, or Jean-Marc as he would be tomorrow, would find it difficult to carry any more. In addition, I purchased an elegant cane in case I needed the aid of a walking stick. The luxury sales associate arranged for my purchases to be taken to the front entrance ready to be collected by Sebastian whom I had called.
To my horror, when Sebastian arrived, he was escorted by the young man I kidnapped in the Ferrari. He was smiling as he approached.
‘Hello again Olivia,’ he said. ‘I see you have met my good friend Sebastian.’
‘Madame, I assure you,’ said Sebastian, ‘I have never met this man before in my life. He is carrying a gun.’
‘That’s quite all right, Sebastian.’
I turned to the Ferrari man and gave him a look of contempt.
‘What is it that you want?’
‘Brida Sztojka, with whom you had dinner on Tuesday night, sends her warm regards and wishes you well on the next part of your journey. I told her of your desire to ride in a Ferrari F40 and, provided you promise to stay in the passenger’s seat, it would be my pleasure to give you a ride back to your hotel, with a few detours, so you can take in the sights on your last day in Paris.’
‘Last day?’ I said, inquisitively.
‘Of course, Olivia. We both know that the Russians will be looking for you by tomorrow. So, this will be your last day in Paris. Please let me make it a memorable one for you.’
‘You promise to keep both hands on the steering wheel,’ I teased.
‘Goodness no, Olivia,’ he said, smiling. ‘That wouldn’t be memorable and I’m sure that’s not what you would want.’
In for a cent, in for a Euro. Why not?
It was dusk when the F40 dropped me at my hotel. It had been a wonderful ride and my driver had been delightful company. I had called the Inspector so that he knew I was off galivanting around the city and wouldn’t be worried. I told him to expect Sebastian, who would be delivering the days’ purchases. It took me the rest of the evening to transfer the shopping into the suitcases, ready for our trip to Rome. Our flight was booked for 10.00 in the morning.
‘What shall I call you tomorrow?’ Inspector Axel asked before bidding me goodnight, ‘Would you prefer Lady Olivia, Ma’am or Madame? Perhaps even Mademoiselle,’ he added with a teasing smile.
‘Mademoiselle.’ I sighed. ‘If only I could turn back time. No Inspector, it’s m’lady.’
‘Me lady,’ he repeated in a confused tone.
‘No, no Inspector, m’lady. It’s an old joke that Max and I share. It comes from a 1960s television series called Thunderbirds and a character called Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward.’
‘Of course! I know it. Olivia, you forget that it was my father, Jean Axel, who was French and he escaped to Britain in 1940. Perhaps, I should have been called Parker on my new passports and not Jean-Marc Lemery.’
‘Touché, Inspector. From tomorrow, once we leave the hotel it’s m’lady. You may introduce me, when the need arises, as Lady Olivia, reserving my full title, Lady Olivia Suzanne Elizabeth Huggins for those more formal of moments.’
‘As you wish m’lady.’
* * *
The next morning a taxi arrived and drove us to Charles de Gaulle airport which was as busy as usual. We were booked on an Air France plane to Rome, flying business class for the two-hour, five-minute flight. Security at the air terminal was tight but nobody questioned our new identities or passports and, if I must say so myself, I looked very distinguished in my new outfit and carrying my elegant cane which upset the metal detectors.
By 9.40am we were seated aboard the plane and waiting to take off. In business class, a dedicated cabin crew member attends to you, offering pre-flight drinks while waiting for the other passengers to board.
‘Excuse me, Madame and Monsieur, would you like a drink before we take off? Champagne perhaps?’ asked the cabin crew member politely.
‘Water, I think,’ said Jean-Marc, now pretending to be my private secretary.
‘Yes, thank you, I will have the same,’ I added in the most aristocratic manner I could muster.
‘Sparkling?’
‘Indeed, yes, we will both have sparkling,’ I concluded.
A minute or so later, a member of the cabin crew, a man in his early thirties, returned.
‘Madame,’ he said, which attracted my attention and caused me to look in his direction. As I did so he held out the bottle of sparkling water for me to take.
Looking as annoyed as possible and in my most indignant voice, I chastised him. ‘Do I look like the kind of woman who would drink out of a bottle?’
He withdrew his hand immediately, adding, before scurrying away, scolded, ‘Certainly, not Madame.’
‘Why do I have a sneaking suspicion you are going to enjoy this,’ whispered Jean-Marc.
‘Me?’ I said, in a nonchalant manner.
The flight to Rome was uneventful until we started to land. The change in air pressure, as we descended, made my ears ache. I was in agony and the pain did not abate until we prepared to leave the plane. I felt disorientated, slightly deaf and my balance was unstable. Embarrassingly, it was the cabin crew member whom I had belittled, that organised a wheel chair and then insisted, with grace, on pushing me into the terminal.
‘Is there anything else I can do for Madame?’ he said as he prepared to leave me.
The wittiest and humblest answer I could muster was, ‘A bottle of water would be nice.’
He smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek before saying, ‘Au revoir.’
Jean-Marc and I remained in the terminal for an hour before I felt ready to stand. The pressure had still not equalised in my ears and I was unsteady. With his assistance and my trusty cane, I could walk. We had planned on catching a train into the city but now settled on a taxi. My excess baggage, which started as fun was proving to be an inconvenience. I could see some charitable donations coming up.
Our choice of hotel was based on its proximity to the Termini, which was where we would catch the number 64 bus, once I had recovered. We had taken two adjoining suites at the Metropole hotel on Via Principe Amedo and Jean-Marc had helped me into my room.
‘Inspector.’
‘It’s Jean-Marc, m’lady,’ he replied.
‘Jean-Marc,’ I said, contritely. ‘I won’t be able to fly. Wherever they send us in search of Max, I can’t fly. I’m so sorry.’
It was close to 4.30pm by the time I felt well enough to walk to the Termini and catch the bus. I had slun
g an inviting handbag over my shoulder with a plump enticing purse hiding inside. Although we didn’t hide the fact that we were travelling companions, we kept a discreet distance from each other as we waited for the bus to arrive. From the corner of my eye I saw a girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, hovering nearby. I felt sure that she was a pickpocket. Strangely, she appeared to be on her own. The bus arrived and Jean-Marc and I boarded using the middle door. I found a seat next to the door while Jean-Marc pressed himself into the space between the door and my seat. Within three stops the bus was almost full and people were pushed against one another. A scruffy man with his big belly sticking out, stood directly in front of me looking leeringly down at my handbag resting on my lap. Another man, standing next to the girl we’d seen at the Termini, had a shopping bag and was pushing against Jean-Marc. From where I was seated, I could see, as his bag brushed against Jean-Marc’s leg as a distraction, while the girl was attempting to put her hands in his pockets. Jean-Marc knew what was happening and stuffed his hand into the exposed space, sealing off her access. Smiling, he leaned over and spoke to me.
‘If this wasn’t so serious it would be funny. They don’t care that we know that they are trying to steal from us. I push her away and she comes back again for another go. It’s like chasing flies away at a picnic. That man,’ he said, while looking to the person leering over me, ‘he’s making no secret that he wants your handbag. I feel sorry for the locals who must endure this every day. The three of them are working together, I think it’s time we produced the card Brida Sztojka gave us at the Eiffel Tower.’
I opened the catch on my handbag, reached in and removed the card with the emblem emblazoned on it. I held it up so that the leering man could see. From the expression on his face, I could tell that he immediately recognised it.
He reached down and took it gently from my hand, saying, ‘Have you put your phone number on the back?’
I didn’t speak but instead nodded affirmation. At the next stop, all three got off. Through the bus window, we watched them huddle together in conversation, except that now they were four. One of them had escaped our notice – the three stooges had been the real diversion.
Never underestimate your opponent.
We had both done just that.
Ordinarily I would have alighted the bus near Vatican City, walked leisurely back to our hotel and enjoyed the famous sights along the way. But today, with my balance not fully recovered, we returned to the hotel to rest and await the phone call. It was exactly 6.30pm when my mobile phone rang.
‘Olivia?’ the voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You had dinner with my cousin Rita?’
The phone went silent while he waited for my reply.
‘No, her name was Brida! We had dinner on the Champs-Elysées.’
The man at the other end of the phone laughed.
‘We are testing each other, Olivia. My name is Sandor and it wasn’t the Champs-Elysées, it was the Eiffel Tower. Enough of this silliness. I will send my driver for you and the Inspector. Don’t worry, you are in no danger. Not from me, at least.’
‘Do you have the news we seek?’ I asked.
‘Enough to make it worthwhile coming to dinner,’ he said, chuckled and then added, ‘other than my great company that is. I must apologise in advance but I’m sure you will understand; please bring no weapons. A car is waiting for you downstairs and, again, another apology for having you followed to your hotel. Don’t worry, we are not going to blindfold you or anything silly like that. You will find it’s a most pleasant drive to my humble home.’
We were driven into the stunning countryside of Lazion and the village of Sutri some 50km north of Rome, to a secluded villa. It was still daylight when we arrived at Sandor’s humble abode which was surrounded by a magnificent garden, dotted with olive trees and roses. According to the driver the grounds covered over two hectares.
Sandor proved as charming a host as he had been on the phone. He told us that Claudia was known for her passion for cruising the Adriatic coast and the Greek Islands on the super yacht of her lover, the Mafia boss. An associate of his, who lived on the Island of Corfu, had told Sandor that the yacht was being prepared for use. He was trying to find out when the yacht was to sail, its destination and who the passengers would be. He told us that snooping on the Russians was a dangerous game but that his friend would be at the Old Corfu Fortress at 9.30am on Sunday 24th April and then again on Monday 25th. If we wanted to talk to him we would find him there. Sandor was firm in telling us that he could give no guarantees that Claudia would be on board.
This was the only lead we have. What choice – take it or leave it!
The challenge that now faced us was reaching Corfu without flying and the solution was obvious: a cruise ship leaving Venice on Saturday, in two days’ time, for an eight-day voyage taking in Corfu, Santorini, Mykonos, Dubrovnik, Split and then back to Venice. The only remaining berths were inside cabins on E deck, not quite how Lady Olivia Suzanne Elizabeth Huggins had envisaged traveling.
At the same time as securing our sea passage, Jean-Marc booked first class tickets on a high-speed train leaving Rome on Saturday morning for Venice. We had hoped to travel on Friday but decided on an additional day’s rest for me. This meant that we had little room for error.
* * *
The hotel concierge organised for our luggage to be taken to the railway station and we made our way across an hour before the train was due to leave. Standing in the middle of the station, I waited and looking up at the arrival and departures board, the platform number for our train finally appeared.
‘At last,’ I said to Jean-Marc, relieved.
Our next task was to find the platform and the man with our bags but, as I turned to leave, I spotted, in the middle of the station, an abandoned suitcase.
‘Oh no,’ I said worriedly to Jean-Marc pointing. ‘They will close the railway station. An abandoned suitcase. They will think it’s a bomb, even though it’s obvious that it’s not. Well we can’t let that happen!’
While I was complaining, two policemen joined by two army offices appeared and were now standing, looking at the bag.
‘At any second, they will radio in and the evacuations would start,’ I said. ‘Come on.’ Grabbing Jean-Marc by the arm, I marched him across to the police and soldiers.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I started calling as we approached and, pointed my walking cane towards the suitcase while saying, ‘It’s mine.’
Standing with the police and soldiers, I continued talking without taking a breath. ‘Go on Jean-Marc, open the bag and show them it’s mine!’
I tapped him with my cane as I spoke.
Before they had a chance to object or even comprehend what was happening, Jean-Marc was kneeling and popping open the catches on the case. I held my breath, but luckily it didn’t explode. He, with some trepidation, lifted the lid.
‘Go on,’ I persisted, ‘find something with my name on it.’
Speaking with an elevated voice, while giving him another light tap with my cane, I said loudly, ‘Lady Olivia from England.’
He cautiously began sifting through the luggage: boxer shorts, men’s shirts, and ties. From its contents, it was obviously a man’s case and not a woman’s.
‘I’m sorry Lady Olivia,’ apologised Jean-Marc, ‘but it would appear, m’lady, that this is not your case after all. Standing, he turned towards me. ‘I did caution m’lady, that although this looked like one of your pieces of luggage, I had organised the hotel concierge to have your things waiting for you on the platform.’
‘Yes, indeed, that’s clearly not my luggage,’ I responded indignantly. ‘What are you waiting for Jean-Marc, we will miss our train. Don’t dilly dally, young man.’
I prodded him again with my cane and we left the police and soldiers with the both open mouths and suitcase and headed for the platform.
‘Take my arm, Jean-Marc,’ I ranted as we disappeared into the distance, ‘you
know I’m a little unsteady on my feet this morning.’
‘Yes, m’lady!’
The high-speed trains in Europe are wonderful and first class is a delight. We had comfortable leather chairs and were separated by a writing table. Even better, we had the carriage to ourselves. As in the plane, a steward offered us a glass of champagne but we settled on juice. A TV monitor displayed the news; it had no sound but showed English subtitles. Below it was a digital readout of our current speed. This was going to be a relaxing three hour and forty-five minutes’ ride to Venice and I settled back into my chair for the trip.
I dozed off and on, and in between, would steal a look at the TV.
We were perhaps forty minutes into the journey when I noticed, with a shock, the news headline.
Bomb Explosion at Rome Railway Station.
‘Inspector, Inspector!’ I called urgently.
‘Lady Olivia, you must practise. I am Jean-Marc,’ he replied with a yawn, having been woken from a slumber by my calling his name.
‘Yes, from now on I promise but, Jean-Marc,’ I said unhurriedly, ‘turn around and look at the TV headlines. A bomb has exploded at the Rome railway station. Do you think it was that suitcase?’
Before he had a chance to answer, our photographs, taken from CCTV footage, were being blasted all over the screen and with it a caption reading.
Nationwide search for suspected train station bombers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dubrovnik
Claudia
The guard had been spot-on and, not long after pulling out of the gate, there was Max, on the scooter, marooned by the side of the road. Seeing the approaching Rolls Royce, he stuck out his thumb and pretended to be hitchhiking.
‘Get in,’ I ordered, after we had pulled over. ‘How on Earth did you outfox me in the UK? You’re a bumbling buffoon. It was Olivia, for sure. Behind every good man is a better woman.’