Read The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac for Free Online Page B

noticed that and made up his mind on the spur of the moment.
    Within yards of the café tables he hailed a taxi and she heard him say: ‘to the station’. The taxi drove off with the black car following. Shortly afterwards a second car shot away from the Embassy with two more men in it.
    Zia too left for the station—risky since it would be the third time she had shown herself in the proximity of Kren, but she was confident that she could never have been picked out among the package tourists at the airport. Though her orders had only been to watch and report, it was too tame to give the warning of Kren’s detention without also mentioning that he had escaped and that his journey to England was still possible.
    Both cars were parked outside the station, which meant that all four men were trying to spot Kren among the waiting passengers and what his destination was. Zia thought it a fair bet that he would have jumped on board the first train leaving for anywhere at all. There was one for Lille and one for Ostend. Ostend and the crossing to Dover seemed the more likely; but passing quickly from platform to platform Zia recognised the two men from the second car. Their air of purpose hurrying down the length of the Lille train gave them away. She had time to pass them closely and memorise their faces. Kren, she realised, had never had a chance to do so. They entered the train just before it pulled out.
    She could do no more and it was time to wire Budapest. She gave much thought to the wording of her telegram; if the KGB in satellite countries were already informed of the escape of Kren, so confirming suspicion, every telegram from Brussels could be examined for hidden meanings before it was delivered. She decided to pay her bill, travel over the frontier into France and wire from there. The delay would be less than a couple of hours.
    Zia got off the train at Valenciennes, having composed her message on the journey:
    NOT RETURNING TILL TOMORROW STOP MY RUDOLF HAS RUN AWAY AND I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS DO NOT TELL CHILDREN YET LOVE MARISHKA.
    Once that was sent she was suddenly aware of being tired and hungry. Opposite the station was an old-fashioned hotel which promised stolid, nineteenth-century welcome more appealing to a woman drained of energy than lounges and pillars, eyes, lifts and uniforms. She went in and was ushered by Madame and an aged porter to just the sort of room she expected, of unplanned comfort and with bathroom separated from bedroom by a red velvet curtain.
    She had every intention of leaving for Switzerland next day as if she had completed her short tour of the Ardennes; but when next day came and she was considering railway connections over excellent rolls and coffee she was vaguely aware that precipitate action had caused a problem. That situation was very familiar to her. The problem could usually be identified once it had been firmly placed under the microscope.
    Her passport of course! It would show that she had entered Belgium via Luxembourg on May 20th and left Belgium on May 21st, crossing the frontier a hundred and twenty miles away. What had she been doing meanwhile?
    Well, there was no evidence to prove that she had ever been in Brussels. So how about this? Stayed the night of the 20th at Namur, a reasonable stop-over if touring the Ardennes. Met a charming Frenchman who offered a lift in his car to Valenciennes. Stayed the weekend there before returning to Basle. You can check with the hotel.
    As an amateur she was pleased with this decision. She was foreseeing an unlikely but possible danger and planning like a true professional to meet it. The future appeared delightfully secure. She spent Sunday familiarising herself with Valenciennes and the restaurants where her charming Frenchman might have taken her. His imaginary company helped to arouse some interest in a boring town.
    The following morning, Monday, May 23rd, with time to waste before her train, she skimmed through