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Page 7.

3. Rick Buchan

The young American man appeared to be traveling alone through France, which in itself could be taken by any insightful observer as a sign of alarming possibilities.

From police reports later compiled from witnesses, he appeared to be haunted by pains and troubles deep and secret at the core of his soul. So thought his various fellow passengers in the cabin over the hundreds of kilometers and half dozen travel hours from Germany into the Īle-de-France, where he lost himself in the sprawl of glorious Paris.

Handsome but unshaven and dark-natured, he kept to himself—a sturdy young man of average height. He sat collapsed into a corner near the window, facing backward in the direction of north or northwest as cities of night poured by like a spilled and slowly passing river of stars. Traveling in Europe by night one has the impression of being near a beach on a vast sea, if only because the lights of cities and towns seem to hover and stand still in the cold distance while the train moves through arteries of time freighted with the tragedies of unending wars and conspiracies.

It was early summer, but a steady drizzle streaked the dusty windows without cleaning them. The cabin was well-lit and warm, as the coach rumbled and clattered through eternity.

The young man's fellow passengers included a trio of German school girls who got out at the border by Saarlouis; a French provincial couple in sturdy travel suits heading home to the city of Metz from a shopping trip in Homburg; then a quiet North African man wearing a dark blue suit, who kept to himself in a corner; and finally two French university students returning to their apartment in the Latin Quarter. Soon enough, Metropolitan police and Interpol would track them all down and interview them about the mysterious young American man.

His name, it would be established soon enough, was Rick Buchan, age twenty-five, a sergeant in the U.S. Army stationed at a major headquarters in Kaiserslautern—and a deserter on the run from various police and military agencies in the European Union. Though he appeared young, strong, and handsome, Buchan was reportedly talking to himself with a vacant, otherworldly gaze.

Though his observers had no idea he was wanted, they uniformly reported that he seemed in trouble of some sort—serious trouble. His face, reflected in the night time windows of the train, looked pale as if he were sick or in shock. He wore the standard American jeans, sheathing powerful thighs. The tail of some sort of outlandish purple T-shirt hung from under a thick gray pullover with crew neck, like those worn by sailors on stormy seas. Beside him on the seat rested a compact backpack, strategically placed as if to shield him from intrusive company. Only the Algerian man, who owned a restaurant in Nancy, sat on that side, jammed into the corner by the door. The other fellow travelers all sat on the bench opposite Buchan, feeling uncomfortable and glad to change cabins or get out.

The conductor, a M. Serlain from Verdun, stopped in twice to check tickets, and remembered the American passenger well enough. He said it appeared there was a vision of terror in the man's eyes, and a pained expression on his young face. Nobody asked questions, which would have been impolite. The American never made eye contact that any of the police interviewees could recall.

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