The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

  The voice asked him to wait a moment. If the call was traced it would be impossible to say who could have made it, as long as Bill remained unseen, that is. At the worst all they would have was a description. Unless they knew they were looking for Bill it would do them no good.

  ‘Come on, for fuck’s sake,’ Bill mumbled, willing Henri to get off his arse and go to the phone.

  ‘Oui?’ came Henri’s voice.

  ‘It’s me. We can’t meet,’ Bill said, and then before Henri had a chance to say anything or hang up, Bill continued urgently, ‘Listen to me carefully. You are being watched at this very moment by British military intelligence. Do you understand?’ Bill could imagine Henri’s shock as he digested this information, with all its horrendous implications. If he had a family, he didn’t any more. If he had a house, it was gone, as were all his possessions. If he wanted to escape he could never contact a friend, lover or family member ever again without running the risk of capture or even assassination. In one sudden bolt out of the blue, life, as he knew it, was over.

  Henri did not answer but Bill knew he was still on the end of the phone. He could hear him breathing.

  ‘Henri? Do you understand me?’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, sounding quite calm.

  ‘One of them is standing on the first corner as you turn right out of the café on your side of the road. He is six feet tall, early thirties, strong build, wearing a camel-coloured coat and dark trousers. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes . . . And you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Bill said.

  ‘Good luck to you,’ Henri said after a pause.

  ‘And you too.’

  The phone went dead. Bill replaced the receiver and carefully checked the receptionist was still in his seat. He then hurried back up the stairs, into his room where he closed the door. He went to the window and looked down on to the café. Henri walked out and stopped on the pavement. He calmly buttoned up his coat, turned to his right and walked down the street.

  Stratton, around the corner, was unaware that Henri had left the café. His cell-phone vibrated and he answered it. It was Brent warning him from inside the bookshop that Henri was foxtrot towards him and in fact approaching at that very moment. Stratton instinctively turned his back to the corner and kept the phone to his ear as if innocently pausing in the street to have a conversation. Hank had no idea what was going on and was looking around at the variety of architecture that surrounded him. Henri arrived at the corner and stopped, as if deciding which way to go. He casually glanced over at the man on the phone with his back to him, who matched the description Bill had given him. His eyes then flicked to the man beyond him who was looking up with apparent interest at the tops of the buildings across the street. Henri turned his back on them, crossed the road and headed away.

  Stratton turned to see Henri walking away. He hit a key on his phone. ‘He’s towards the Place de la Concorde. Did you see him with anyone?’

  Brent quickly explained about the waiter and that he had not seen anyone else, although he could not see inside the café from his location. Brent’s immediate concern was what Stratton wanted him to do next.

  ‘Standby,’ Stratton said and paused to think. Several questions presented themselves: what did the waiter want? Had Henri suspected he was being followed and cancelled the meeting? Was the stop at the café another anti-surveillance move? Could he now be on his way to the actual rendezvous?

  Stratton focused on Henri. If the Frenchman suspected he was being followed they had blown it anyway. If not, Stratton wanted to house him. The solution was a straightforward one at that point. ‘He’s heading west on Mondovi, which will bring him out on Rivoli, north-east corner of Place de la Concorde. Cover it,’ he said to Brent on the phone then disconnected. If Henri gave the slightest hint he knew he was being followed Stratton would pull off. Henri would walk them around all day otherwise.

  ‘Hank,’ he said and Hank gave him his full attention. Stratton indicated the only man walking away up the street across the junction. ‘That’s him,’ he said.

  ‘Henri?’ Hank asked, surprised.

  ‘Follow him. Stay well back. The road turns left at the end and leads to Rivoli, the main street. He can’t go anywhere else except inside a building. If he enters a building, carry on past and memorise the location. Don’t be obvious. Act natural. Wait for me on Rivoli. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ Hank said, a ripple of excitement passing through him.

  ‘If for some reason I or no one else hooks up with you on Rivoli we’ll meet back at the café where we had breakfast. You remember where that is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go,’ Stratton said, and Hank set off.

  ‘You’re just a tourist,’ Stratton added as Hank headed across the junction to put himself on the opposite sidewalk to Henri.

  Hank gave a thumbs-up without looking back, his eyes focused on Henri.

  Stratton watched them both for a moment. Henri was halfway to the corner.

  Stratton then set off along Cambon towards the café. As he walked he punched a number key on his cell-phone.

  ‘Brent. Hank has him on Mondovi. Call Clemens. He should be somewhere on the Place de la Concorde. Henri should be on Rivoli in less than a minute.’

  Bill had seen the man with Stratton head off after Henri and then watched Stratton walk directly below his window and enter the café. A few seconds later Stratton stepped out and continued on towards Rivoli. Stratton was probably checking on the faces in the café in case they ever came up again and was now off to join the pack following Henri. Bill picked up his coat and bag and left the room.

  Hank kept as far back from Henri as he dared; he was concerned about getting caught by one of his double-backs. This street, unlike all of the others they had been along so far, was practically deserted, probably because, except for a restaurant on the outside bend of the corner, it was purely residential. Hank was the only other person in the street and Henri would see him if he stopped and turned around. Hank decided if that happened he would simply keep on going and head into the restaurant.

  Just as Hank set firm his contingency plan, Henri crossed the road and headed directly for the restaurant. Hank slowed down, quickly formulating a new plan if Henri went inside. Henri stopped outside and faced the menu in the window, his back to Hank.

  Hank stopped. He didn’t want to pass Henri if he could avoid it. He had just a few seconds to think. He was outside an apartment block with a glass door that led into a lobby. Hank stepped into the doorway. If Henri doubled back, Hank would head into the lobby and up a flight of stairs he could see until Henri passed.

  Henri appeared to read the menu for a moment before continuing on towards Rue de Rivoli.

  Hank waited until Henri had passed out of sight beyond the corner before leaving the doorway; he walked up to the restaurant as if to inspect it himself while casually looking down the street. Henri was halfway to Rue de Rivoli. Hank set off after him.

  Henri raised something to his ear as he walked. It was a cellular phone.

  Stratton turned the corner of Rue Cambon on to Rivoli, passed the bookshop Brent had been inside, and made his way west under the ornate stone arches that covered the pavement on this stretch of road. It was densely populated with shoppers and tourists, who milled sluggishly, in tune with the heavy traffic that crammed the wide, four-lane Rivoli. He headed on towards Rue de Mondovi, where Henri was expected to exit from any moment, but there was a press of bodies filling the distance to that junction.

  Hank watched Henri reach the end of Mondovi and enter the multitudes on Rivoli as if passing through a wall like a ghost. Hank speeded up and stopped at the edge of the crowd. He scanned in all directions for a sign of Henri but there was none. Directly ahead of him, the other side of the broad sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of a subway entrance and steps dropping below street level. He looked around once more, this time hoping to see one of the team, again without luck. Stratton had told h
im to wait at the end of the street but Hank wondered if he knew about the subway. If Henri had gone down into it and no one had seen him Hank would be expected to check. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain. If Henri wasn’t there he would come back and wait as planned.

  Hank pushed through the cross traffic and headed down the steps.

  The density of people in the confined tunnel, shuffling in both directions, made it difficult for Hank to move any quicker than the flow. He twisted and sidestepped, pausing only to avoid full-on collisions. He reached a row of metal doors and pushed on through and down a sloping corridor, which suddenly opened out into a crowded hall. He stopped on the edge and looked around, eyes locking for a second on to anyone who resembled Henri before moving on.Then he saw him, slipping a ticket into a turnstile, removing it from a slot the other end and passing through.

  Hank hurried to the ticket windows and chose one that had just two people waiting in front of him. Money he told himself and dug into his pockets to find some notes. Ignorant of the cost of a ticket he chose the largest bill and clutched it, willing those ahead of him to hurry up. He checked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Henri heading down a tunnel the other side of the stiles. When he looked back there was no one between him and the ticket window. A man attempted to step in front of him but Hank barged him aside. The man spat something in French but Hank ignored him and faced the ticket person behind his window.

  ‘Uhh, anywhere. Your furthest journey,’ Hank said quickly.

  The man in the ticket office shrugged and responded tiredly in French but was not forthcoming with a ticket.

  ‘The end of the line, okay, buddy? I just wanna go for a ride.’

  The man shrugged again, this time with his mouth and jaw in a deformed expression that appeared to signal he was baffled.

  ‘Look, pal. Just give me a friggin’ ticket to anywhere, okay. Anywhere, for chrissake!’

  Hank looked back at the turnstiles and considered jumping them, but there were doors the other side that activated only with the use of a ticket - he wouldn’t get through. Then a woman in the line behind him explained something in French to the ticket officer, who shrugged again, rolled his eyes and punched several buttons. Two tickets popped out of the machine. Hank shoved his bill under the window, grabbed the tickets, and hurried to the turnstiles. The ticket person called out after him but Hank was too focused to think about his change.

  Hank put the ticket into the slot in the turnstile. It popped out the other side and he snatched it up and pushed through the doors.

  Hank hurried along the tunnel, threading past the people like a slalom, and came to a sudden stop where it divided into three more tunnels with signs advertising different destinations.

  ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed.

  He chose one, ran to its mouth and looked into it. Dozens of people were strung out along its length, the end disappearing in a bend. Hank felt frustration welling up in him. People pushed passed him to enter the tunnel. He was about to turn back to check another tunnel when he caught a flash of what looked like Henri at the far end. He wasn’t sure if it was the Frenchman, took a second to make a decision and went for it. He moved quickly along the tunnel, bashed into more than one person without apologising, and hurried on.

  He arrived at a flight of stairs and hurried down them. A short tunnel at the end led on to a crowded platform. He remained on the corner, standing on tiptoe to search the sea of heads. A train burst out of the tunnel beside him and the brakes screeched as it slowed to a stop. The doors opened and he saw Henri step into the centre doors of a crowded carriage.

  Hank pushed his way along the platform to the closest end of the same carriage and jumped in as the doors closed.

  The train started off and entered the tunnel.

  Hank craned his head to catch a glimpse of Henri, who was standing in the middle holding on to a rail, staring ahead. He looked calm and relaxed.

  Hank felt sweat trickling down his temples. A woman beside him watched him. He wiped the sweat away with the sleeve of his jacket and she looked away.

  Hank took stock of the situation and considered what he had actually achieved by this spontaneous piece of activity. It was quite probably a pointless exercise since he had no phone - not that it would work in the métro anyway - no map and he had no idea where he was, and once off the train couldn’t follow Henri by himself even if he had that equipment. The smart thing to do was to get off at the next stop and find his way back to the rendezvous point. He decided that was what he would do.

  He glanced through the glass door beside him that led through to the next carriage and to his surprise there was Clemens looking directly at him. Clemens gave him a quick smirk.

  Hank never thought he’d be pleased to see that ugly face. He looked in Henri’s direction then back at Clemens. Clemens nodded. The train suddenly popped out of the dark tunnel and into a brightly lit station. It came to a stop and the doors hissed open. Henri remained where he was. People got on and off, the doors closed and they moved off again. Hank checked Clemens was still in the other carriage.

  Hank settled down and made an effort to relax. He dropped his shoulders and rotated his head a little to ease the tension. The carriage between him and Henri was crowded and he didn’t feel exposed. The next move would be Clemens’s.

  The following stop a seat became vacant beside Hank and he took it. From where he was sitting he could just about see Henri’s legs, and Clemens’s.

  The train stopped several more times. At Bastille Henri stepped off. Hank followed and watched Henri move with the crowd towards the exit at the end of the platform. Clemens passed him and he tagged along behind. As he walked up a flight of stairs a man brushed passed without a look. It was Brent. Hank felt even more comfortable and settled into the rear of the surveillance snake. All he had to do was keep Brent or Clemens in his sights.

  Henri did not leave the métro station and instead led them through several tunnels to another platform, where a train had just arrived. Hank saw Brent step into a crowded carriage and so he chose the one behind where he could see him through the connecting doors. He couldn’t see Henri but that responsibility was no longer his.

  Two stops later, at Gare d’Austerlitz, Brent climbed off the train. Hank followed him along several tunnels and up an escalator that led out into daylight. Brent turned a corner several yards ahead of Hank. When he caught up to it a short corridor led to a row of swing doors across the far end. Hank pushed through and found himself in a cavernous hall crowded with people, small shops and rows of ticket counters. It was a mainline station and the platforms were beyond a long row of double doors the other side of the hall. Hank had lost sight of Brent and stopped to look around.

  A hand grabbed his arm. Hank jerked around to see Clemens.

  ‘Where’s Henri?’ Clemens asked quickly, eyes searching anxiously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hank said. ‘I haven’t seen him since we changed trains on the subway.’

  ‘He’s doubled back, the slippery bastard. This place is a fucking maze. What about Brent?’

  ‘I lost sight of him when he turned into here.’

  ‘There’s another platform level below. Through that way,’ Clemens said, pointing at an archway. ‘I’ll check the platforms on this level.’ And with that he moved off across the hall.

  ‘Clemens,’ Hank called after him, but Clemens didn’t hear or chose to ignore him and kept on going.

  Hank didn’t like this. It was all beginning to feel out of control. He wished Stratton would turn up and take charge. What was he supposed to do if he did see Henri? He had no form of communication. Clemens was wrong in sending him off by himself. Last time it made sense. Stratton had given him clear instructions. His gut instinct this time was to ignore Clemens. But then he would be in a negative position come the debriefing. If he went off alone this time at least he could blame Clemens. He headed in the direction Clemens had indicated and through the archway that led to a descendi
ng escalator. He skipped down it and into a grimy, grey, concrete hall with a low ceiling, much smaller than the main station and not nearly so crowded.The combination of supporting pillars throughout and various foyers offering such items as flowers, magazines and tourist paraphernalia gave it a labyrinth effect and obscured visibility of most of the hall. Hank made his way through it, checking in all directions. Then he caught sight of Henri heading up an escalator the other side of a row of ticket turnstiles.

  Hank looked back the way he had come, hoping to see the others, but he was disappointed. He searched for his tickets as he approached the stiles and pulled them out of his pocket. He had no idea which of them would work, if any.There were no doors on this barrier and he could jump over if he wanted to. He shoved one of the tickets into the machine and the turnstile sprung open.

  Hank pushed on through and headed for the escalator.

  It took him up on to a long, open-air platform with tracks on both sides and a handful of people hanging about. Dirty brick buildings occupied the centre and Hank walked to the corner of the nearest one and checked along both sides of the platform.

  Hank didn’t need to search for long. Henri was halfway along one of the platforms, standing near the edge in full view. Hank stepped back behind the building and looked towards the escalator, hoping to see Brent or Clemens appear.

  A train pulled into the station.When it stopped the doors automatically opened and Henri stepped inside. Several people emerged from the escalator but there were no familiar faces.

  It was decision time again. Hank didn’t feel comfortable at all about getting on the train this time. It could be going to Poland for all he knew.

  A door klaxon sounded. It was now or never. His instincts called out for him to stay put, but something else ordered his legs to get moving and jump on board as the doors closed.

  It was a double-decker carriage with only a handful of people aboard. There was no sign of Henri, but then he had climbed on the other end. Hank hoped some of the guys were on another part of the train but somehow he didn’t think that would turn out to be the case this time.