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Page 44.

23. A Spy at the Gare

An East Asian man wearing a dark raincoat and dark hat stood in the Luxembourg City train station, the Gare, watching crowds of people swirl around him. He was in his mid to late twenties, with brown-rimmed eyeglasses still sprinkled with rain drops from outside. He stood watching the flashing announcements of arrivals and departures on the tabelles overhead.

His name was Shen, and he was a spy. On the surface a young history professor in the making, he carried a snub-nosed Beretta under his coat and was prepared to kill anyone who stood in his way. He was devoted to the cause, and willing to die for it, although with complex, qualifying layers and nuances. Beyond such things, he had a pleasant demeanor and a nice sense of humor. One day he would retire and teach history someplace, like in the newly tamed and fractured states of North America, or (he dreamed even more fervently) on a ranch amid kangaroos in Australia. For now, the pay was far better than an academic's salary, and the cause was right.

Built in the Moselle Baroque Revival style in the decade before World War I, the station suggested the outlines of a basilica. Its central hall had a rounded ceiling in recent years painted with playful comic strip sun, moon, and stars. In front was a tower with a dark metal knob on top, and over the main entrance, with its mythological figures in stone, was a large clear glass window of ogive shape. At the opposite end of the main hall, overlooking a small number of platforms and tracks, was a similar window—with a brooding stained glass view of the city, including the Petrusse bridge, the tall narrow roof-towers of the national cathedral, and the stockier tower of the old savings bank. (*Endnotes #2)

Shen was a man of the twenty-first century, caught in new global struggles no less dangerous or deadly than those of the past—just the players now were different. Somewhere in this station were his enemies, and he kept a wary eye out for them. He understood their danger and ruthlessness all too well.

Unobtrusively, he reached into his pocket and produced a tiny phone, which he raised to his lips. To the casual observer, he might have seemed to be picking at a shaving nick over his lip. He spoke very softly, barely moving his mouth—knowing that surveillance by the enemy was everywhere. "The train from Metz-Thionville is due in ten minutes. I will move along and observe. No bogeys in sight, but I am careful at all times."

He slid his hand back into his pocket, and sauntered among a crowd of well-dressed men and women toward the stairs leading underground, from where the passenger platforms could be accessed. He studied the train lines carefully. The Lorraine Region Train Express Régional (TER) Line 1 from Metz, leaving Thionville in France at mid-afternoon, had already crossed the border into Luxembourg, picking up CFL Line 80. At Bettembourg, it switched to CFL Line 60, which would shortly bring it into the main train station in Luxembourg.

Shen took the escalator down into the minor labyrinth of tunnels under the platforms. He must be sure of his targets, lest they hurry past him and be lost to him. If he missed them, it would be painful to report upstream, and his superiors would have to switch gears to find the two in the city. Shen walked down the echoing, tiled underground tunnel and climbed up the middle flight of stone stairs. The wide stairs took him up on the platform. The train from Bettembourg would arrive any time.

He carefully positioned himself at the center of the platform, with his back to the stairs leading down into the tunnel. Standing with his hands in his pockets, he tried to look as unobtrusive as possible. He felt the ground rumble as the sleek double-decker train rolled in, with a powerful diesel locomotive at its head. The loco was marked RTE—the French regional express on Lorraine's Line 1.

As the train drew to a halt, a woman's voice began sing-songing information. It was a charming tone, almost a whisper, and quite undecipherable unless you listened closely and were not mesmerized by the musicality of her Letzebuergesch, the national language. Its tonality lay somewhere between French, German, and Flemish to Shen's ear.

Passengers about to board waited impatiently on the platform, in knots, as the train doors opened. Passengers from points south—mostly France, with a few Luxembourg locals like university students and commuting workers—poured out.

Shen stiffened involuntarily—he had only seconds now. Where were they? He almost stood on tiptoes, anxiously scanning the onrushing travelers. He saw an older professional man in a blue scarf and long gray coat, trundling a brown briefcase. The man hurried, bent double, with a pained expression as if he were late for a meeting. Three tall, giggling, pretty teenage school girls in short skirts, colorful hose, and high-heeled boots passed, carrying armfuls of school books. A heavyset middle-aged woman in a headscarf, probably a grandmother, led two toddling little kids by the hands, scolding and fussing. A young professional woman, looking darkly elegant and insular, walked by with her purse slung over her shoulder and her hands in her jacket pockets. A punky-looking couple in their twenties walked arm-in-arm, the young man carrying a backpack, while the young woman affected a rock 'n rollish pout with short reddish-dyed hair cut raggedly short.

Wait.

As he gave them a glance that was a microsecond too long, the young woman's eyes met his. She glared at him. He had an impression of dark slash lipstick, a pale soft face, and very blue eyes swimming amid too much mascara. The young man, in whose arm hers was draped, looked tough. That must be the two. No other couple came from the train.

Shen raised his phone to his lips. "I made them. They're going down the stairs. They'll be in the main hall any second. She has dark, short hair and chocolate lipstick, blue eyes, a dark blue jacket. He is brown-haired, unshaven, with a rough look. Both are wearing jeans and under them boots. He has a backpack. She has only a small shoulder purse. I think she saw me. No idea what she thought." He rang off, and bounded down the now-empty stairs. In the tunnel, he saw them again—the man's lean, wiry shape, and the woman's softer, shapely figure. They disappeared, climbing the stairs to the main hall of the Gare. In minutes they'd emerge outside in the transit square of buses, trolleys, and taxis. That would put them in reach of the next person in Mr. Wan's chain of observation.

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