by Ian Andrew
“You walk and stand like an Alpha-Male, Jacob. You need to be a broken man-on-the-run. I can’t change your height or your build, but just like Attenborough did, you need to become subservient. Lower your head, hunch your shoulders, stoop and walk less confidently. You need to shuffle, be non-threatening. Speak quietly, avoid eye contact, but not furtively, more like you’re afraid.”
Jacob had felt like he was in an acting class rather than a quick introduction to fieldwork and said the same to Chaz.
“Yeah. You’re right, but your stage debut is going to be up close and personal with your audience, and there’s no second chances.”
Jacob dropped his shoulders and stooped his head, then made his way to the restaurant’s counter. The room paid heed to the description on the awning. It was certainly little, but it used its space to maximum effect. The raised counter at the far end was dressed in dark oak and hosted a number of what Jacob guessed were ‘specials of the evening’ boards. More boards, with elaborately chalked pictures of grapes and flagons surrounding crammed wine lists, were mounted on the low walls. Below these were benches that provided one half of the seating to the three tables that lined each side wall. On the room side of each table were two tall dining chairs. In the middle of the room, four round tables with six chairs at each completed the dining area. Interspersed throughout, tied to the backs of chairs, table legs and wall-mounted light holders were bunches of herbs and small sheafs of wheat and corn. On top of the already small counter were wicker baskets overflowing with vegetables and peppers. Behind the counter, filling the rear wall of the room in width and from just above counter height to ceiling, were shelves teeming with bottles, only a small number of which Jacob recognised. He thought that if he ever wanted to open a French-themed restaurant anywhere on the planet, then this place would be a great model. It reminded him of a pub he’d gone to in Dublin. It had looked like all the themed, plastic-Irish-pubs he’d ever been in, but it was the real thing.
There were only four other people in the place. Two couples, one elderly sitting at a table to the left and one young, sitting to the right. Jacob reached the counter just as a thick-set man, dressed casually in an open-necked, short-sleeved shirt, came out from a door set into a niche to the side of the bar. Jacob reckoned he was in his fifties, his hair was clipped to at least a Grade-3 cut, he was about Jacob’s height and both his broad forearms sported faded tattoos.
“Bonne soirée, que voudriez-vous?”
Jacob gave him a nervous smile, looked around self-consciously, leant forward and said quietly, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French. I was wonder-”
“Did you have an appointment time,” the man interrupted in flawless English.
“Umm, eh, yes. Nine. I was to be here at nine.”
“You are early.” The man turned, retrieving a glass and a bottle of red wine. He poured a generous amount and offered it to Jacob. Jacob shook his head to decline. The man stared at him and held the glass out. Jacob still didn’t reach for it. The man looked discretely towards the other diners, then back to the glass then pointedly at Jacob. Jacob nodded as if he had finally realised why he should take the glass. He reached out and with a distinct tremor in his hand, raised it to his lips.
The barman poured himself a glass, took a small sip then said, “Who arranged for you to come see me?”
“Eh,” Jacob hesitated, looking around the room again.
The man behind the counter reached out and touched him on the arm, forcing Jacob to look back to him.
“Who told you to come here?”
“Eh,” Jacob lowered his head, leaned into the bar once more and whispered, “Rik. Rik told me to come here.”
The man let go of his arm. “And what did he tell you to tell me?”
Jacob’s first thought was, ‘Oh fuck, that’s screwed it’. He had no communication system on him as they had decided it was far too risky. A physical search or a quick counter-bug scan would have revealed even the most discrete system and they couldn’t risk that. He was truly on his own with regard to the content of the conversation. He improvised with the continuation of the nervous and self-conscious fugitive. “I, uh, I don’t remember. I’m sorry, I’m uh… not too sure what…”
“His name. Rik told you his family name. You say, eh, surname in English. Rik told you it. What is it?”
Jacob was about to continue the stammering obfuscation but stopped as he remembered the moment in the farmhouse, just before they’d discovered the computer room. He saw in his mind Chaz running his fingers over a license lying on top of the sideboard. Jacob reached for the red wine and took a long, slow sip. He concentrated on the memory.
“I need a name from you,” the barman said, moving his own glass to one side and folding his arms. He suddenly looked like a doorman that would provide security to the roughest of bars. Jacob slowly set his glass back down and willed the man to try and start something. He would so gladly rip him and the restaurant apart, but he also knew that wasn’t what he was here for.
“De Vries. His name is Rik de Vries.”
The big barman relaxed and unfolded his arms. “Good. Have you eaten?”
The question surprised Jacob, but he decided to tell the truth, “Umm, no.”
“Fine. Do you eat meat?”
Jacob nodded.
“I will get you some food. Go and sit in the corner table.”
“Thanks,” Jacob said and offered his hand, “I’m-”
The barman held his own hand up, index finger raised, and shook his head, “No. No. I don’t want to, or need to, know your name. I don’t wish to know where you come from either. You will be Pierre from Paris for tonight. You will eat and drink here and stay tonight and tomorrow. Then you will go. In the time you are here I wish to know as little about you as possible. Now go sit.”
As Jacob went to turn away and the barman went to go into the kitchen, the young couple approached the bar. She was attractive, in her mid to late twenties and was saying something in German to her partner who looked like he could have been a poster boy for a different time and place. He was tall, athletically built, had short blond hair, blue eyes and generally light colouring. The woman swapped to French and, as Jacob took his seat, he watched the blond man hand over a bunch of Euros which she used to pay the bill. Amidst a chorus of Merci and Au Revoir the barman returned to the kitchen and the couple turned to go. Jacob barely noticed the subtle movement as the man passed his hand under the lip of the counter top. He looked down at a menu as the young couple left the restaurant.
ɸ
“Kara?”
“Go ahead.”
“Dinger and Eloise are clear,” Chaz said from his increasingly cold and uncomfortable doorway.
“Okay. You all heard the copy from inside. He’s going to be there for a day. We need to find somewhere to stay.”
“Chaz raised himself on one elbow and peered down the street. “Kara?”
“Yes Chaz?”
“I’m looking directly at a Holiday Inn. It’s less than fifty yards away.”
Kara, from the confines of the observation position she and Toby had established to monitor the rear of the restaurant, said only, “Tien?”
“On it. Give me half an hour.”
Chapter 19
He had finished his meal and been taken to a well-furnished bedroom in a spacious apartment on the fourth floor above the restaurant. The room, and the adjoining bathroom, had windows, but they were covered by internal shutters secured by padlocks. Having been told to wait until the restaurant shut, he took his leather jacket off and lay down on the bed. At midnight there was a knock at the door. The barman and a smaller man, who carried a black brief case and wore round, thin-frame glasses that perched halfway down his nose, came in without waiting for an answer. Jacob sat up and swung his legs onto the floor.
“I need you to stand up and undress,” the barman said.
“What?” Jacob asked, much too aggressively for his cover story. He relaxed his s
tance as best he could.
“I need to search you. Before we give you the details of what will happen and what you must do. Empty your pockets and undress.”
“Oh. I see,” Jacob meekly nodded and did as he was asked. He concentrated on the discussions he, Kara, Tien, Sammi and Chaz had had when they were trying to figure out what the mindsets of these men would be like. They had no inclination to understand, or try to analyse what drove them to do the things they did, but they were interested in how they would react if they were forced to run. The best that they could come up with was that they were used to being incredibly careful. Hiding what they did from their families, their friends, society and the police was second nature to them. That meant security precautions and anything deemed a necessary measure wouldn’t be objected to. Searches, scans and intrusive questions would all be understood as serving the purpose of trying to protect them and the wider network they were part of. It was decided that the reaction should be one of meek compliance with all requests. That and the fact Jacob wouldn’t carry any covert surveillance or communication equipment would hopefully allow a chance to establish some trust. One-way trust, Jacob reminded himself as he stripped off the last of his clothes.
The search was quick and efficient. As an experienced personnel-searcher himself, although never having conducted one with a naked prisoner, Jacob was aware that the barman had been trained by someone at some time. He first searched Jacob’s jacket, removing four envelopes from the inside pockets. Each contained forty-five €500 notes and the barman took the money out, counted it, held up sixteen of the notes to show the small man, and laid them on top of the bedside cabinet. He returned the rest of the money to the envelopes and put them on the bed. Next he examined the remainder of Jacob’s possessions that totalled an empty wallet, save for a few hundred Euros, a watch, a black plastic comb, one cotton handkerchief and finally, a money belt that Jacob had worn under his shirt. In it were another four separate bundles of notes that looked to total a substantial amount, but the barman didn’t count it. He merely laid the money on the bed and turned the belt inside out, running his fingers over each seam and join.
Moving onto the rest of Jacob’s clothes he rolled the fabric of each garment, checking for any hidden wires or transmission devices and was as thorough in his examination of Jacob’s shoes. He was equally efficient and completely unabashed when he donned latex gloves and conducted a full body cavity search, beginning with Jacob’s mouth, before moving on to his nose, ears, armpits, navel and finally asking him to bend over. Jacob said nothing and complied with all instructions.
“You can get dressed again,” the barman said, removing the gloves and rolling them into a ball. He walked to the bathroom and dumped them into a small bin. Returning, he asked, “You have no telephone?”
Jacob felt his pulse quicken. Chaz had suggested that if he was a man on the run, he’d have been advised to ditch anything that could trace him. But they had no real idea if that was what would be expected. He tried to answer as calmly as he could. “I was told not to carry anything that could identify me.”
“Yes, I know that,” the barman answered. “I’m not stupid. I was making sure you have not been. You are sure you have not bought a replacement so you can phone home and put us all in jeopardy?”
“No. Of course not.” Jacob allowed a trace of annoyance into his voice. “Rik made me leave it and all my bankcards and other papers.”
The barman stared hard at him, then relaxed. “Good. Tomorrow, you can sleep as long as you like, but you will have to go out for breakfast because the restaurant is not open in the mornings. I do not care if you take all day to look about Paris, but you have to be back here by five at the latest. You will meet some others who will take you the next part of the way. Do you have any questions for me?”
“No,” Jacob said, “Just thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You have paid Rik and now you have paid me.” He picked up the sixteen notes he had laid aside, and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “This is just a job.” He gave a shrug that Jacob thought was like the restaurant downstairs; so stereotypically French as to be almost comedic. “One last thing,” the barman continued, “before you go out tomorrow, you must come and knock on the door of Apartment Two, downstairs. You must let me know when you are leaving so that I am aware. Yes?”
“Yes,” Jacob said.
The barman gave a curt nod of his head and left the room.
The small man placed the briefcase on the bed, flicked the catches and removed a compact digital camera. “Now lad, sit yourself down over there, with your back to the wall,” he said in a broad Yorkshire accent that landed on Jacob’s ears like a punch. He stared at him and the man gestured to a chair that sat next to the window. “No need to look so surprised, we’re not all bloody French, but don’t be asking questions. Just get yourself over there, sit down and stare straight ahead. No smiling, just a neutral expression please, there’s a good lad.”
Jacob finished dressing and did as he was asked but as the small man went to take the photo, Jacob turned his head and shied away. “Hang on, hang on. What’s this all for?”
The small man lowered the camera and sighed. “Look, you can recognise my accent and I can recognise yours. I don’t need details, but you’ve fled England and come to us via Rik. That means he got you out by sea and across to Holland. That’s how he operates. We all know that lad. You didn’t need a passport because he picked you up, and landed you, in his own boat far away from prying eyes. You still didn’t need a passport when he got you into France. Normally it’s because of our bloody idiotic European brethren and the stupid Schengen Agreement, but now, after these here recent terrorist attacks, I imagine he’ll have used some pretty unconventional methods to get you in to the city.” He paused and Jacob nodded his agreement.
“The thing is, we need to get you out of France now and it’s all a bit screwed up at the minute.”
Jacob gave him his best confused frown.
The small man stifled another sigh. “Look, what’s your first name?”
“Umm, I thought you didn’t need to know it?”
“No, our thug of a Frenchy barman who thinks he’s running the ‘ello ‘ello Café, doesn’t need to know it, because he’s the first and most inconsequential step on the Path. But I’m going to need it. I have to get you a passport and other travel documents and we want you to answer promptly when someone calls your name. We’ll invent surnames but your first name stays the same. Understand?”
Jacob nodded slowly.
“Well?”
“Oh, yeah, Jacob. It’s Jacob.”
“Great. Well, Jacob, if you’d decided to do a runner a couple of weeks ago, then we’d have taken you on a small round trip through some pretty European states. It was easy. There were no border controls and the more countries we moved through, the more complicated it got for any police that might have been trying to follow you. Finally, when we were happy any police were long lost and when we had produced a good passport, we’d have spirited you away to where no one is going to find you. But, this damn state of emergency has complicated things. Big time.”
“So what’s going to happen to me?” Jacob asked, trying desperately to control his temper and make his voice sound pathetic. He realised this man wasn’t concerned with, or sympathetic to, the deaths of so many people in the recent terrorist attacks that had left Paris reeling. It was just an inconvenience to him.
“Oh don’t worry lad. We’ll still get you out. Your one of us and we look after our own,” he said with an air of pride and joviality.
Jacob’s control slipped and a furious rage surged through him. This piece of crap was happy to belong to a bunch of paedophiles and rapists, like it was some elite club. He was basking in their ability to protect each other. Knowing his flush of anger would be visible, Jacob half turned in the seat and put his head in his hands. He concentrated on lowering his voice and again speaking in a semi-whine, “But you’re saying it�
��s all going to be more difficult. I might get caught?”
“No. No. Nothing like that. It just means we have to be more direct. Less time to do what we’d normally do and bloody typical of foreigners, that means it gets more expensive. Happen you have to pay more for express service.”
“I don’t understand,” Jacob said, feeling the redness leave his face. He turned back to the smaller man, reverting to his bewildered on-the-run persona again. “I just need to get away. I need to go somewhere they can’t find me. It wasn’t my fault. She was meant t-”
It was the small man’s turn to hold his hand up and indicate Jacob should say no more. “Shush now Jacob. I don’t need to know what happened. It’s safer I don’t. But, yes, we’ll get you far, far away.”
Jacob looked crestfallen, “I’m going to be so alone. What will I do?”
The small man sighed again. “Here, don’t be silly. We wouldn’t let that happen. If we did that you’d be wandering around like a lost soul. People would notice. Police would notice. So stop worrying. We’re sending you somewhere that’s outside the extradition treaties with good old Blighty, but everyone speaks English and there are lots of western faces. Relax.”
Jacob knew he had to balance his bewildered act with the need to get information, but without raising the small man’s suspicions. He wished he could cry on demand; the tears would have been a good convincer. Instead he just focussed on keeping his voice like a whine.
“But I’ll still be alone. I won’t know what to d-”
“Here now, stop it, I said,” the small man interrupted him. There was a frustration and an edge of sternness to his voice, “I told you, we wouldn’t do that. You’ll be met at the airport by another British guy who lives out there now. He’s a Londoner, but I suppose we can’t hold that against him. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this. He meets all the new arrivals and makes sure they get settled in. You’ll stay with him for a few months until you’re comfortable. Nice secure house that you’ll be safe in. Happen that’s why they call it a safe house,” he said and gave a broad grin. “He’ll help you arrange bank accounts and find a place to stay eventually. So stop it. No more feeling sorry for yourself.”