3. A change of plan by Dave Rigby

“A weapon! I’m certain he had a weapon in his pocket. But Monsieur Bonsergent arrived at that very moment and I swear he saved my life.” The bookbinder looked the part, pince-nez balanced on his nose, moustache neatly trimmed. His hands shook uncontrollably – not the kind of thing you can fake. I calmed him down and asked about the man who’d taken the plans.

The Creightons had given me an update over breakfast in the Hotel Dieppe that morning, had told me about the bookbinder and I’d crossed the city to the Marais as quickly as possible – but too late.

The thief was maybe half an hour ahead of me, American, dangerous if the bookbinder’s suspicions were right, the plans stolen to order, no doubt.  I had no time to waste. Get into the enemy’s head, think like him, work out his next steps. American!

“Orly airport enquiries, quick as you can. Hello – times of flights to the US today please. Only the 15:00 to New York. Thanks.” I’d have to get my skates on.

The heat was oppressive. My taxi driver shouted through his open window – an expletive-filled tirade against the world in general and the stationary traffic in particular. I waved a ten dollar bill in front of him – an internationally recognised incentive that seldom fails. Mounting the pavement, he turned sharp left down another one way street – the wrong way. Notre Dame disappeared from view, Bastille, over the river at Austerlitz, Montparnasse, then south to Orly.

The idea dropped into my head as we approached the airport. Why not cut the Creightons out of the deal? I knew everything they knew, even down to Vanderbilt’s contact details. And they could hardly go to the police!

But all that was dependent on getting my hands on the prototype plans and I was working just on a hunch. What if, at this very moment, the thief was sitting in a posh Parisian hotel exchanging merchandise for money?

No room for self-doubt.

The taxi screeched to a halt in an ambulance-only space. A quick word and another ten dollars, before I raced to the departures desk. Just in time. Check-in would start in ten minutes. I scanned the details in my notebook. The bookbinder might have been terrified but he’d a good eye for detail. The Yank was in his 40s, about my height, not overweight, thick-framed spectacles, trilby, black briefcase.

Seated at a small table adjacent to the refreshment kiosk, armed with a steady supply of espressos, a pack of Gitane and a copy of Le Monde, I kept my eyes on the passengers at the New York check-in desk. 

Never let your concentration drop.

Even when they prepared to close the desk, I was still alert. I had this feeling and suddenly he was there, just as the bookbinder had described him, cool as a cucumber.

My plan worked a treat. Just before he reached the desk, I cut across his approach, stumbled, held onto him for support, expressed sincere apologies – effect of medication and all that – then walked to the exit, the envelope secure in my jacket pocket. An amateur would have gone for the brief case. My taxi driver appeared from nowhere.

“Gare de Lyon!” Another ten dollars.

On the express, I had a first class compartment to myself and a chance to study the plans. Even with my magnifying glass this was difficult, but at least it was clear each page was stamped in the way Vanderbilt had described to the Creightons. The meal in the dining car was excellent, the steak as rare as can be, a very palatable Burgandy and some calm reflection on my circumstances. In some ways what I’d done was rash and foolish, but my civil service pension was still a number of years away. The delivery fee was a tidy sum, even allowing for the fact that Vanderbilt had already paid half of it to the Creightons. I relaxed as we sped towards the Mediterranean.

After a bleary-eyed, early morning arrival in Marseilles, I took a taxi to the docks and purchased a ticket for Algiers. Over a bowl of coffee and a croissant I planned my next steps.

Always keep half an eye open.

It was definitely him. Somehow the Yank had tracked me here. I needed to make a phone call.

“Jean-Jacques? Yes your old ami Alain. I’m in town, Algiers quay, but I’ve a spot of bother. You’re free now? Excellent.”