PARIS
The best time to make a getaway was in the midst of chaos—when authorities didn’t know who, or what, they were looking for.
In the wake of the Tuileries bombings, Paris was in a panic. Emergency vehicles fought to get to and from the scene. The streets were in gridlock.
People were terrified about a second round of attacks. No one felt safe.
Joining the wave of guests fleeing the city, Tursunov dropped his room key at the front desk of Le Meurice and exited the hotel.
Out on the street, he had no need to pause. He had taken in the full spectacle from the balcony of his room. Whatever had caused the first bomber to detonate early was not worth worrying about. As far as he was concerned, the attack had been a success.
Cutting across the Pont de la Concorde, he walked to the Boulevard Saint-Germain and took a left.
Emergency vehicles continued to speed past, their klaxons blaring and lights flashing. Pulling his rolling suitcase behind him, he was careful to take detours in order to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Though this was extremely unlikely, it was good tradecraft.
At the Pont de Sully, in the shadow of the Arab World Institute building, he turned onto the Quai Saint Bernard. The walk from Le Meurice to the Gare d’Austerlitz took a little over a half hour.
The station took its name from a town in the Czech Republic where Napoleon had defeated a far superior force. There might have been some irony for him there if Paris wasn’t full of such monuments.
Checking his watch, he saw he had time to stop nearby for a coffee. The train wasn’t leaving until 9:22. The less time he spent inside the station, the better. It would only be filled with nervous police and anxious soldiers, suspicious of everything and everyone.
He kept walking until he found a café with an open terrace where he could also enjoy a cigarette. Taking a seat, he pulled out his Gauloises and called the waiter over.
He ordered un serré, lit his cigarette, then watched the faces of the people who passed by.
Their expressions were the same as he had seen up and down the Boulevard Saint-Germain—shock, sadness, terror. It was all Tursunov could do not to smile.
The French, always so quick to participate in bombing runs of Muslim lands, had been served a stern rebuke.
From his table, he could also see the TVs on inside. It reminded him of how he sat, just days ago, in the tiny café in Reggio di Calabria, watching the aftermath of the bombing in America.
All of the televisions were broadcasting video from the Tuileries. The dead and injured were there in full, high-definition glory for the world to see. The attack had been more than successful; it had been spectacular.
The message from ISIS had been delivered, loud and clear: You may advance upon us in Iraq, Libya, or Syria, but you will never, ever defeat us.
When his coffee came, he savored it. It was made sweet by the pained face of every passerby. ISIS had indeed won a massive victory, but it was nothing compared to what was in store.
Paying his bill, Tursunov struck out in search of a small grocery. He wanted to pick up some edibles for his overnight train ride.
When conducting operations, there was rarely anything the Tajik ever looked forward to. Traveling overnight to Nice was an exception.
While recuperating from plastic surgery in Pakistan, he had had very little to do. There was only local television and a small shelf with a handful of books.
One of those books was about overnight train travel by a British author named Andrew Martin.
Over the course of his life, Tursunov had taken many trains. He had even slept on some of them, but only by sitting upright in an uncomfortable seat. He had never known the luxury of a proper sleeping compartment. The book by Martin had opened his eyes to what he had been missing. So, while planning the operation, he had decided to make his escape from Paris via the overnight train to Nice.
The author had talked about duplicating a railway “dinner basket” for the ride, as a character in Agatha Christie’s The Mystery of the Blue Train had done for the journey. Having managed only one bite of his main course before the explosions had begun, Tursunov thought it a good idea.
At the grocery, he bought pasta salad, cheese, bread, smoked fish, some fruit, and bottled water. And while he would have enjoyed the old-fashioned romance of a picnic hamper, he satisfied himself with the plastic grocery bag provided by the shop.
It was a short walk to the station, and it proved to be everything the author had described. There were sparrows in the rafters and a complimentary piano in the large hall, which anyone could sit down and play.
A young man of university age began playing “La Marseillaise.” A day, or maybe even a few hours later, he might have roused some of his fellow countrymen to sing in a defiant show of patriotism. But as it stood, no one joined him. People were still in shock.
With a newspaper tucked under his arm, and wearing a business suit, the Tajik kept his head down as he walked to his platform. Neither the police nor the soldiers paid him much attention. They were looking for Muslim terrorists and knew one when they saw one. He didn’t fit the profile.
Climbing aboard the train, Tursunov found his compartment. It wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. He had paid extra in order to have it all to himself. The lower two bunks had been folded down and turned into beds.
White pillows in plastic wrappers sat atop thin, gray duvets that resembled sleeping bags. The walls were scuffed and the floor was dirty. A bathroom was at the end of the carriage, just after the vending machines. It was a far cry from the famed Orient Express.
After removing a few things, he put his suitcase on the luggage rack, sat down on one of the beds, and opened the paper.
At exactly 9:22, he felt a shudder beneath him as the enormous engine at the head of the platform came to life and the train began moving.
He watched through the window as the train left the station and made its way through the city.
Once the conductor had come by to check his ticket, he locked the door, unpacked his impromptu dinner basket, and assembled his meal.
The fish, unfortunately, was too salty, the pasta salad too oily, and the cheese entirely too strong. Had it not been for the fruit and bread, he would have been at the mercy of the vending machine.
After cleaning up his meal, he undressed, got into bed, and extinguished the light. The ride was smooth and quiet. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.
CHAPTER 66
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THURSDAY