When his coffee came, he savored it. It was made sweet by the pained face of every passerby. ISIS had indeed won a massive victory, but it was nothing compared to what was in store.
Paying his bill, Tursunov struck out in search of a small grocery. He wanted to pick up some edibles for his overnight train ride.
When conducting operations, there was rarely anything the Tajik ever looked forward to. Traveling overnight to Nice was an exception.
While recuperating from plastic surgery in Pakistan, he had had very little to do. There was only local television and a small shelf with a handful of books.
One of those books was about overnight train travel by a British author named Andrew Martin.
Over the course of his life, Tursunov had taken many trains. He had even slept on some of them, but only by sitting upright in an uncomfortable seat. He had never known the luxury of a proper sleeping compartment. The book by Martin had opened his eyes to what he had been missing. So, while planning the operation, he had decided to make his escape from Paris via the overnight train to Nice.
The author had talked about duplicating a railway “dinner basket” for the ride, as a character in Agatha Christie’s The Mystery of the Blue Train had done for the journey. Having managed only one bite of his main course before the explosions had begun, Tursunov thought it a good idea.
At the grocery, he bought pasta salad, cheese, bread, smoked fish, some fruit, and bottled water. And while he would have enjoyed the old-fashioned romance of a picnic hamper, he satisfied himself with the plastic grocery bag provided by the shop.
It was a short walk to the station, and it proved to be everything the author had described. There were sparrows in the rafters and a complimentary piano in the large hall, which anyone could sit down and play.
A young man of university age began playing “La Marseillaise.” A day, or maybe even a few hours later, he might have roused some of his fellow countrymen to sing in a defiant show of patriotism. But as it stood, no one joined him. People were still in shock.
With a newspaper tucked under his arm, and wearing a business suit, the Tajik kept his head down as he walked to his platform. Neither the police nor the soldiers paid him much attention. They were looking for Muslim terrorists and knew one when they saw one. He didn’t fit the profile.
Climbing aboard the train, Tursunov found his compartment. It wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. He had paid extra in order to have it all to himself. The lower two bunks had been folded down and turned into beds.
White pillows in plastic wrappers sat atop thin, gray duvets that resembled sleeping bags. The walls were scuffed and the floor was dirty. A bathroom was at the end of the carriage, just after the vending machines. It was a far cry from the famed Orient Express.
After removing a few things, he put his suitcase on the luggage rack, sat down on one of the beds, and opened the paper.
At exactly 9:22, he felt a shudder beneath him as the enormous engine at the head of the platform came to life and the train began moving.
He watched through the window as the train left the station and made its way through the city.
Once the conductor had come by to check his ticket, he locked the door, unpacked his impromptu dinner basket, and assembled his meal.
The fish, unfortunately, was too salty, the pasta salad too oily, and the cheese entirely too strong. Had it not been for the fruit and bread, he would have been at the mercy of the vending machine.
After cleaning up his meal, he undressed, got into bed, and extinguished the light. The ride was smooth and quiet. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.
CHAPTER 66
The Tajik awoke and raised his window shade as the train was passing through the coastal village of Cassis. It was just as the British author had described — cascading with red bougainvillea.
After saying his prayers and doing a light round of exercises, he dressed and made a small meal of what remained of his palatable food. Then, he spent the next two hours watching the turquoise water and pastel-colored buildings of France’s decadent Riviera pass by his window.
At 8:37 a.m. the train came to a stop at the Gare de Nice-Ville. As Tursunov stepped off the train, he listened for the good-bye from the conductor. He remembered from reading the book in Lahore that it would be different here.
And indeed it was.
Instead of wishing departing passengers the typical Parisian “bonne journée,” have a good day, he wished them a beautiful “belle journée.”
The Tajik tipped his head politely as he passed the conductor and headed out in search of coffee and breakfast. He had exactly an hour and a half until his next train and he needed to make the most of it.
As he pulled his suitcase behind him, he noticed a heavy security presence here as well. Nice was no stranger to being attacked. After what had happened in Paris, he was not surprised to see the increase in vigilance.
Near the station, he found a small café. It was a warm, sunny morning and he sat on the terrace outside where he could have a cigarette while he waited for his food.
Removing one of the “burner” cell phones he had purchased for the operation, he powered it up and waited for it to get a signal.
Once it had, the message tone chimed. Tursunov checked his texts. There was just one.
Opening it, he saw a poor camera phone photo of a strip of grass. It was a code. The chemist had made it to the Nice train station. The Tajik powered off the phone.
Taking a drag on his cigarette, he watched the people as they passed. The mood in the South of France was better than it had been in Paris, but not much.
That was to be expected, he supposed. While the inhabitants along the Riviera despised the Parisians, they still shared a national identity as Frenchmen. As far as Tursunov was concerned, they could all go to hell.
After finishing his breakfast, he took his time smoking another cigarette. That was one of the few things he liked about the French. Even if you consumed only one coffee, the price entitled you to sit at the table all day if you chose.
When the allotted time had come, he paid his bill and rolled his suitcase back to the station.
The chemist had not been told that they would both be on the same train. The Tajik didn’t want him to know. He wanted to watch him from afar. He wanted to make sure he didn’t have any surveillance following him.
When he entered the station, it was even more crowded than it had been before. Seeing the lines at the ticket windows, he was glad he had purchased everything in advance in Paris. That was one of the other things he liked about the French. There was at least some semblance of organization in their rail system.
Because he had purchased the tickets himself and had delivered one set to Abdel, to be given to his nephew, he knew which train car the chemist would be in and exactly where he would be sitting.
Finding the platform for the train to Milan, he lingered where he knew the young man would board.
Ten minutes before departure, Younes El Fassi — the nephew of Abdel and son of Aziz the lion — arrived.
Tursunov watched and waited.
The only person to enter the car besides Younes was a woman with two children.
When the conductor gave the final call, the Tajik climbed aboard.
Stowing his suitcase, he made his way toward his seat. He was two rows back and on the other side of the aisle from Younes. He could see the young chemist, but the young chemist couldn’t see him.
As the train pulled out, he made himself comfortable and settled in for the almost five-hour ride to Milan.
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