High-Speed Train to Paris
Dieter Schwarz
Flicka has no idea
how risky it is
to get her out of Switzerland.
Dieter stopped the SUV in a vacant lot behind a row of shops in Geneva.
In the rearview mirror, he could see Flicka sitting in the back seat, quieter than he had ever seen her. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, almost crunched into a fetal position.
He wrenched himself around in the seat. “Time to go.”
She nodded and uncurled herself, reaching for the SUV’s door handle.
Dieter stepped out of the car and jogged around the side before she finished closing the door. She stumbled sideways as gravel slid out from under her feet, and he grabbed her arm.
Another black SUV careened into the small lot.
Flicka stared at the enclosing buildings around them wildly, and her breath was instantly gasping.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “They’re Rogue Security.”
The SUV stopped beside him.
“Are you sure?” She stepped closer to him, ready to dodge behind his back as they had practiced many times and used more often than he cared to remember.
Dieter turned toward the vehicle and reached back, shielding Flicka and ready to fight. His other hand hovered near his waist where he had hidden a small handgun.
Aiden Grier, the ginger Scot who was everyone’s best friend and drinking companion but especially for people with interesting information, climbed out of the passenger side, didn’t look at either Dieter or Flicka, and walked toward the driver’s side door of the SUV that Dieter had driven.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dieter said. “You’ll ride in back again.”
He climbed into the shotgun seat, while Flicka clambered in the back. As soon as she had fastened the seat belt, her legs curled up again, and she buried her face between her knees.
Dieter wished to high Heaven that wrapping his arms around her would make her feel better, but he suspected for so many reasons that it would make the situation worse.
Magnus Jensen was driving. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Flicka, and his steel blue eyes slid toward Dieter for just a second before he jammed the SUV in reverse and sprayed gravel leaving the parking lot. “I didn’t even know that yard was back there.”
Dieter nodded. “During Oktoberfest, the couple who own the Greek restaurant on the corner turn it into a beer garden.”
“I’ll have to check that out.”
Magnus drove them to the train station, paused at the front while Dieter and Flicka climbed out, and drove away into the traffic.
The sun glared on the back windshield as Dieter turned Flicka to go into the railway station. He bought two tickets from a machine, feeding Swiss francs into the slot, and they walked directly to a high-speed, maglev train waiting at the track.
Because Switzerland had joined the Schengen agreement allowing free passage over borders with neighboring countries, they didn’t need passports, immigration visas, or rigorous customs inspections. All of those were good reasons that Dieter had chosen the train over an airport and a plane flight.
TheGare de Genève-Cornavinrailway station was one of the more beautiful in Europe, Dieter thought. Swiss sunlight—not glaring like in the south of France but not wan like the Scandinavian countries—poured through the glass panes that layered the walls and ceiling. Even the blond marble and light wood glowed like honey-colored sunshine.
He led Flicka to the first-class compartment and handed her into the row. Her small purse thumped on the floor when she sat down. He took the seat next to the aisle.
The seats were placed so there were two on one side of the aisle and one on the other, much like the wide, recliner-like seats in the first-class area of an airplane. He’d considered getting a compartment, but that might draw too much attention. Pierre’s Secret Service people might be looking for people purchasing compartments.
Flicka settled in the seat with her legs curled up again, and she hugged her knees to herself.
