1. One Day in Paris
Pavel Weiss strode out of the Gare de l’Est, blinking in the bright May morning sunshine, unbuttoned his cashmere coat, and paused to take in the busy scene.
No matter how often he came to Paris – the sounds, the sights, the smells – it was always so exhilarating!
The great boulevards stretching into the distance, lined with shops and tall apartment blocks; cars, taxis, omnibuses rushing past, horns tooting; workers scurrying to their offices; cafés spilling over with customers sipping their cafés crèmes, maybe even an early Absinthe, perfect for people-watching.
Clutching his valise tight, he crossed the main street onto the Boulevard Strasbourg, heading for the Hôtel d’Algérie, the little pension he’d booked before he departed from Istanbul.
Was that really three nights ago? The sleeper train across Europe made it seem longer – forever stopping, shunting, reversing, waiting. Belgrade, Vienna, Strasbourg and on and on.
Back in Istanbul he’d dined at the Pera Palas Hotel – eating a wonderful sea bass in parchment – then boarded the train at Sirkeci Station at ten and taken refuge in his first-class compartment.
That dinner, with a pricey Gewürztraminer to accompany the fish, was an extravagance, he knew. A luxurious ritual for this monthly trip to Paris. Expensive, yes, but the twenty-four hours he would now spend here would beanything but pleasant. A rock-hard bed in a flea-bitten room, a meagre meal in a backstreet tavern, and a lot of worn shoe leather just to make sure he wasn’t being followed.
That thought spurred him to grab the rail of a passing trolleybus, as it slowed to take a turning, and leap aboard. Pushing his way into the crowd, squeezed together on the rear platform, he scanned the street for anyone trying to catch up with him.
Nothing unusual. No frustrated “watcher” stepping out of cover, wondering how they’d lost their prey.
Pavel smiled to himself as the trolleybus rattled along. His tradecraft was instinctive – ingrained. Well, of course, just as it should be.
He owed his life to the training he’d been given by the British all those years ago when war had broken out, turning Europe into a bloodbath. One he’d been lucky to escape with his life.
Still alert, he waited for the trolleybus to stop. Then – just as it pulled away again – he leapt off and slipped away down a side alley.
Just following his sense of direction, Pavel began to zig-zag his way back through the maze of narrow streets towards his pension.
Stopping every now and then to glance behind him – checking the reflection in a café window perhaps – just to be certain nobody was following.Just to be sure.
So exhausting, this constant surveillance. But not for much longer, he knew.
Pavel had been lured out of retir
