27 PARIS

27

PARIS

THE GARE DE LYON IS LOCATED IN THE 12TH Arrondissement of Paris, a few streets to the east of the Seine. In front of the station is a large traffic circle, and beyond the circle, the intersection of two major avenues, the rue de Lyon and the boulevard Diderot. It was there, seated in a busy sidewalk café popular with travelers, that Paul Martineau waited. He finished the last of a thin glass of Côtes du Rhône, then signaled the waiter for a check. An interval of five minutes ensued before the bill appeared. He left money and a small tip, then set out toward the entrance of the station.

There were several police cars in the traffic circle and two pairs of paramilitary police standing guard at the entrance. Martineau fell in with a small cluster of people and went inside. He was nearly into the departure hall when he felt a tap at his shoulder. He turned around. It was one of the policemen who’d been watching the main entrance.

“May I see some identification, please?”

Martineau drew his French national identity card from his wallet and handed it to the policeman. The policeman stared into Martineau’s face for a long moment before looking down at the card.

“Where are you going?”

“Aix.”

“May I see your ticket, please?”

Martineau handed it over.

“It says here you’re supposed to return tomorrow.”

“I changed my reservation this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“I needed to return early.” Martineau decided to show a bit of irritation. “Listen, what’s this all about? Are all these questions really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, Monsieur Martineau. What brought you to Paris?”

Martineau answered: lunch with a colleague from Paris University, a meeting with a potential publisher.

“You’re a writer?”

“An archaeologist, actually, but I’m working on a book.”

The policeman handed back the identification card.

“Have a pleasant evening.”

“Thank you.”

Martineau turned and headed toward the terminal. He paused at the departure board, then climbed the stairs to Le Train Bleu, the famed restaurant overlooking the hall. The maître d’ met him at the door.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Actually, I’m meeting someone at the bar. I believe she’s already here.”

The maître d’ stepped aside. Martineau made his way to the bar, then to a table in a window overlooking the platforms. Seated there was an attractive woman in her forties with a streak of gray in her long, dark hair. She looked up as Martineau approached. He bent and kissed the side of her neck.

“Hello, Mimi.”

“Paul,” she whispered. “So lovely to see you again.”

28 PARIS

28

PARIS

TWO BLOCKS NORTH OF THE GARE DE LYON: THE rue Parrot. 6:53 P.M.

“Turn here,” the girl said. “Park the car.”

“There’s no place to leave it. The street’s parked up.”

“Trust me. We’ll find a space.”