Le Train Bleu – 1st Stop: Paris

Possibly it was against the rules but, then again, this was a French railway station so perhaps it was compulsory. A well-dressed man was leaning through a train’s window kissing a statuesque woman on the platform. She with her hand touching his on the windowsill, her dress pressing against the side of the dark blue carriage. He shooting a little cuff from his tailored suit sleeve as he bent forward. Steam from the locomotive wasn’t the only thing rising. An audible “tsk, tsk” came from a straight-backed, very-much-a-lady passenger watching the couple while also keeping tabs on her matching Louis Vuitton luggage being hefted through the First Class carriage door by a porter. The couple and porter were viewed with distaste.

A month earlier Kent would’ve decided it was none of his business, ignored the smooch and followed the snooty passenger aboard. But that day, with a cold La Manche wind blowing down his neck and an even chillier client to answer to, it was his business.

Carrying two leather cases, the slimmer attached to his left wrist by a thin chain, he dodged around porters’ trolleys and strode towards the kissing couple. The man, his skin colour signalling his Congolese nationality, snapped his head back, almost clipping the top of window frame. Startled, the woman turned then smiled. “Jaloux?”

“Not jealous, busy.” A long whistle signalled departure. Climbing into the carriage, Kent left her and the wind behind. The Calais-Mediterranée Express – Le Train Bleu – was pulling out, first stop Paris then Marseille.

“Relax,” said the kisser, patting the space next to him in the single berth compartment.

Kent hesitated in the doorway, considering the most diplomatic way to decline. “You’ve got soot on your cuff.”

In the neighbouring compartment, he tossed the case with two changes of lightweight clothes, shaving kit, toothbrush and a Schrade stiletto switchblade inside a cotton sock onto a luggage rack. The satchel-style case stayed chained to his wrist.

 

Holding the case against his hip, he walked slowly down the First Class carriage’s corridor with windows to the left, compartments right. Only six were occupied, leaving two empty. None of the passengers had bothered to draw their blinds. He recognised the grand lady, she of the tsk-tsk. Squinting at a luggage tag dangling from a bag, he made out “Lady Featherstonehaugh: Cassis” just as the woman looked up from a small diary on her lap and glared at him. Next was a mother brushing her baby daughter’s hair followed by a nattily dressed man in his 40s distractedly toying with his hat, and finally a burly, red-headed man in a checked suit reading an airmail edition of The New York Times. A headline read: “Key to peace in the Congo”.

Peace? wondered Keen.

Albéric Tshombe was lounging in his compartment when Keen walked back in, slid the door shut and pulled down the blind.

“People may talk,” said Tshombe with a smirk.

Again, Keen stopped himself. If they’d listened to him in Kinshasa, it would’ve been chartered flights to Nice via London and then a private limo ride to Marseille. Instead, Tshombe’s claim he was afraid of flying meant the pair had sailed from Banana Point to Gibraltar then onto Southampton; hired a chauffeured car to London’s Hatton Garden followed, three days later, by a train ride from Victoria Station to Dover, the switch to a ferry and finally the boarding of Le Train Bleu with its blue and gold livery. A waste of time for anyone not charging his client by the day. He looked down at Tshombe. The smirk had been replaced by a puzzled look.

“How’re you going to take a leak with that case chained to you?”

“Carefully.” Keen took a seat.

“And carry it all the way to Marseille? My advice: clip it to something in your cabin and cover it up. That’s why I’m here – to give good advice.”

That did it. “You’re here because your cousin Mobutu Sese Seko is Army Chief of Staff in the Congo …”

“Now free from colonial oppression.”

“… and also free for Mobutu to slip diamonds from the mines out of the country …”

“For safe keeping during these unstable times at home.”

“’Marseille’ and ‘safe’ aren’t two words you often hear in the same sentence.”

“That’s my business. Yours is to guard the diamonds. That’s unless you’d like to return to being a mercenary.” The smirk snuck back.

 

Kent had no intention of rejoining “Mad Mike” Hoare and his unit 4 Commando in the rainforest. Mobutu may be a cold-blooded little shit but he paid in US dollars and travel was always first class. With only minor disagreements, Tshombe and Kent had made it from Kinshasa’s scruffy alleys to the dull, understated streets of Hatton Garden to get a pro’s valuation of the diamonds. Knowing the chained satchel held £607,019 worth of gems focused the mind.

The tinkle of the attendant’s bell heralded lunch. An opportunity no-one missed.

A waiter, working his way down the dining car while ticking off a passenger list, reached Lady Featherstonehaugh, greeted her and pronounced her name phonetically. She responded with a snort. “It’s pronounced ‘Fan-shaw’.”

The waiter gave a brittle smile. Twenty years before, Gestapo officers had demanded he say their ranks correctly while serving them meals on the train. But even this Anglaise mal élevée was unlikely to pull out his fingernails.

The fashionably dressed man, no longer fiddling with his hat, let out a sound like an owl’s hoot and leant across the aisle towards Lady Featherstonehaugh’s table. “I say, the staff need a refresher course in simple English. This afternoon, one even called me Monsieur Lev-e-son-Gow-ers, just as it’s spelt. Any fool knows you say: ‘Louson-Gore’.”

Lady Featherstonehaugh covered her mouth with her hand, flapped her eyelashes and gave a giggle.

Kent had two thoughts: “Up wrong tree barking with that dandy, m’lady” and “Tournedos Béarnaise”. Tshombe ordered the Asperges à la sauce gribiche. They agreed to share a half bottle of Bordeaux.

Taking a sip, Kent wondered why the English on the Continent had to be as loud as the American’s suit. He noted the American was also having the steak, while the mother and child shared a plate of pallid chicken. He watched Tshombe slice into the first white asparagus spear before asking: “The girl at the station: a fond farewell or a final one?”

“I saw you sizing her up, almost literally, when she got on board with me at Victoria Station. I know that you know she and I met on Saturday night in the hotel bar. So, Mr Kent, let me explain again – your job is to watch the diamonds not watc…”

“And where is she now?”

“Heading home to Germany via Belgium. The Calais to Brussels express left just after ours.”

Kent relaxed. There appeared to be no immediate threat except indigestion from the too cool meal. After lunch, the passengers retired to the lounge car. The men smoked and avoided eye contact; the women watched the light fade.

 

The Gare de Lyon had its bustle on. Passengers and porters were scurrying, sometimes in the same direction. Leaning back in his compartment with cigarette smoke drifting out the window, Kent wondered why people became tense at airports and train stations. Anyone could see the station’s departures board indicated Le Train Bleu would leave on schedule. Ten minutes earlier, the two remaining First Class compartments had been taken by a stoop-shouldered, frail woman enveloped from head to immaculate shoe caps in mourning black who’d arrived in a wheelchair pushed by a grim, gaunt man kitted out in a dark suit that he wore like a uniform. Chauffeur, valet or military uniform, Kent couldn’t decide. The woman, a veil covering her face, had being gently decanted into her compartment before the manservant pushed the wheelchair towards the baggage car. A feu de joie of whistles sounded, guards’ flags flapped and the train – another late model steam locomotive – began to choof out of the Gare de Lyon into the Paris night.

And they were back. Back in the dining car. Fresh menus were sitting alongside spotless glasses, shining cutlery and starched napkins.

Lady Featherstonehaugh and Leveson-Gowers were sharing a table and sniggers, the latter presumably directed at their fellow passengers. The American had brushed his hair and was making notes in a black leather compendium. The mother and the now irritable child rushed through their meal. Kent assumed the wheelchair woman and her manservant were dining in their compartments with the blinds down.

Tshombe was 10 minutes late. He dropped into his chair, flicked his fingers at the waiter – who’d decided the Gestapo officers were better mannered than modern travellers – and ordered a bottle of Krug.

Kent waited until the champagne was poured to ask: “A celebration?”

“The Old Testament urges us to eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.”

Raising his glass, Kent smiled: “I’ll drink to that.”

[Dear reader: the story will continue ... well, depending on demand]

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Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN