Flight Path: A Wright & Tran Novel (17 page)

He had finishe
d
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 stance 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.”

Jacob made a show of wiping his eyes, though there were no tears. He sniffed and with a slightly less whining pitch said, “Oh. I didn’t realise. That’s really good of you.”

The small man laughed with an unusually deep baritone sound that didn’t fit his body size at all. “Not me Jacob. Not me at all.” He raised a finger and waggled it strangely in the direction of the roof.

“Upstairs?” Jacob asked, properly confused.

The man gave another deep laugh. “No. Not upstairs. The higher-ups. The men who first established the Flight Path. That’s who to thank.”

“Oh, of course,” Jacob said.

“Aw dear, you’re such an open book,” the small man said and Jacob stiffened, wondering where this was going. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, have you?”

Jacob shook his head.

“The Flight Path. It’s what you’re a part of now. It was first setup in the Seventies. Like the underground railway during the war when the resistance used to smuggle all those allied pilots out of occupied France. We’re just the same, only better, because we have way more police chasing us than they ever did.” He gave another incongruous laugh.

It was all Jacob could do not to reach out and snap the small man’s neck. The previous surge of anger was nothing compared to what he felt now. How anyone could compare the heroics of the Dutch, Belgian and French resistance to a bunch of criminal scum that helped other scum escape justice was beyond him. He bit his lip and clenched his fists, fighting to calm himself. The small man didn’t miss the physical reactions, but totally misinterpreted them.

“Now, now, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. The whole point of us, is that no one knows about us. There are rumours sometimes in the chat rooms, but mostly we go under the radar. On a couple of occasions, when we were helping celebrities get away, they almost revealed the extent of it, but we managed to cover it back up.” He stepped forward and patted Jacob on the shoulder, “Now come on. I need to get some photos taken so we can get you nice new passports and identities.”

Jacob swallowed hard and struggled to suppress his intense anger. He swallowed again and concentrated on making his voice sound sad and broken, “Yeah, but I’m not being sent home like those pilots were. I can’t ever go home, can I?”