At Risk

4

On the other side of the river, a mile to the east, a Eurostar train from Paris was pulling in to the terminus at Waterloo station. Halfway along its length, a young woman stepped from the soporific warmth of a second-class carriage in to the bracing chill of the platform, and was borne on a hurrying crowd towards the terminus building. Electronic announcements echoed along the covered way, overlaying the rattle of baggage trolleys and the whirring of wheeled suitcases-sounds so familiar to the woman that she barely registered them. In the past couple of years she had made the journey to and from the Gare du Nord at least a dozen times.

She was wearing a parka jacket over jeans and Nike trainers. On her head, a brown corduroy Beatles cap from a stall on the Quai des Celestins, its peak pulled low over her face, and-despite the overcast day-a pair of aviator sunglasses. She looked somewhere in her early twenties, she was carrying a holdall and a large rucksack, and there was nothing to distinguish her from the other long-weekenders who spilled cheerfully from the train. A careful observer might have noted just how little of the woman was actually on display-the parka entirely disguised her figure, the cap completely covered her hair, the sunglasses obscured her eyes-and a very careful observer might have wondered at her unseasonally sunburnt hands, but on that Monday morning no one was paying a great deal of attention to the day’s second consignment of passengers. The non-EU passport-holders were submitted to the customary examinations at the gate, but the vast majority of passengers were nodded through.

At the Avis rent-a-car counter, the woman joined a four-strong queue, and if she was conscious of the CCTV camera mounted on the wall above her she gave no sign of it. Instead, opening the morning’s edition of the International Herald Tribune, she appeared to bury herself in a fashion article.

A sharp mobile phone beep from beneath the counter greeted her arrival at the front of the queue, and the assistant excused himself for a moment to read a text message. When he looked up again it was with an absent smile, as if he was trying to think up a snappy reply. He processed her with due courtesy, but he could tell from her cracked nails, poorly kept hands and choice of car-an economy hatchback-that she was not worthy of the full beam of his attention. Her driving licence and passport, in consequence, received no more than a glance; the photos appeared to tally-both were from the same photo-booth series and showed the usual blank, slightly startled features. In short, she was forgotten by the time she was out of sight.

Slinging her luggage on the passenger seat, the woman eased the black Vauxhall Astra into the stream of traffic crossing Waterloo Bridge. Accelerating into the underpass, she felt her heart race. Breathe, she told herself. Be cool.

Five minutes later, she pulled in to a parking bay. Taking the passport, driving licence and rental documents from her coat pocket, she zipped them into the holdall with her other passport, the one she had shown at the immigration desk. When she had done this she sat and waited for her hands to stop shaking from the delayed tension.

It was lunchtime, she realised. She should eat something. From the side pouch of the rucksack she took a baguette filled with Gruyère cheese, a bar of hazelnut chocolate, and a plastic bottle of mineral water. She forced herself to chew slowly.

Then, checking her mirror, she pulled out slowly into the traffic stream.