The Return

11

There were two good vantage points and two possible trains.

The first wasn’t due until 12:37, but even so he had taken up his position at about 11:00. It was important that he should get the right seat: at one of the window tables on the veranda. He had scouted it out a few days beforehand: The view over the square in front of the station was excellent, especially the area between the taxi rank and the newsstand. It was at the center of his field of vision, and all newly arrived passengers were bound to end up there sooner or later.

Unless they took the prohibited route over the railroad tracks, of course; but why would he do that? His house was in this direction; there was no reason for him to head northward; so if he intended to come straight home, he would pass by here. Sooner or later, as already stated. Most likely round about a quarter to one.

An hour and a half from now.

What he would do next was an open question; but the probability was that he would take a cab for the remaining ten miles or so. That was of minor significance. The main thing was that he came.

Then everything would work out, no doubt. Somehow or other.

He ordered lunch—cold cuts with salad; bread, butter and cheese. But he hardly touched the food during the two hours he sat there. Instead he smoked about fifteen cigarettes, occasionally turning the pages of the book he had propped up to the right of his plate—without reading more than the occasional line here and there and without having the slightest idea of the content. If this was camouflage, it was a poor effort. Anybody taking a closer look at him would doubtless have noticed that something fishy was going on. He was well aware of that, but there was no risk.

Who on earth would want to take a closer look at him?

Nobody, he had decided; and that was, of course, a perfectly correct conclusion to reach. Between eleven and two, some 200 to 250 customers would have lunch at the railroad restaurant. Most of them were regulars; but there would be a large number of chance diners, making it highly unlikely that anybody would pay any attention to this ordinary-looking man in corduroy trousers and grayish green pullover by the window, minding his own business.

Especially if you bore the time factor in mind. He couldn’t help smiling to himself at the thought. If everything went to plan, an awful lot of time would pass. Months. With any luck, years. Masses of time. Ideally what was going to happen would never be discovered.

Needless to say, that would be the optimal solution—nothing ever seeing the light of day—but he realized that it would be stupid to bank on that. It was better and smarter to be prepared for all eventualities. Better to sit here quietly and do nothing to draw attention to himself. An unknown diner among a lot of unknown diners. Noticed by nobody, forgotten by everybody.

At about twelve, when the place was at its busiest, some of the customers tried to take the seat opposite him at the little table, but he turned them away. Explained politely that unfortunately it was reserved, he was waiting for a friend.

Later, during the critical moments around a quarter to one, he became tense. That was inevitable. When he saw the first of the newly alighted passengers, he moved his chair closer to the window and ignored everything else. It was essential to concentrate hard: Identifying him might well be the weakest link in the whole chain. A long time had passed, and who could tell how much he might have changed during all those years? Obviously, in no circumstances must he miss him.

He must not let him pass unnoticed.

When he did eventually see him, he was emerging from the café on the other side of the square an hour and a half later. It was obvious there was no need to have worried.

Of course, it was him. That was immediately clear when he was still thirty yards away—the same energetic, wiry little figure; slightly hunched, perhaps, but not much. His hair thinner and paler in color. Receding at the temples. Movements a bit stiffer.

A bit grayer, a bit older.

But definitely him.

He left his table and went out into the street. The man was standing at the taxi rank. Just as expected. Number three in the line, searching for something in his pockets. Cigarettes, money, could be anything.

Nothing to do but wait, then. Wait, go and sit in the car, then follow him. There was no hurry. He knew where the cab would take him.

Knew that everything was going to happen according to plan.

For one brief moment he felt slightly dizzy as blood rushed to his head, but he soon regained control of himself.

The taxi pulled away. Drove round the square, and as it passed him outside the café, he could see the familiar profile through the back window less than six feet away, and he knew at that moment that there would be no problem.

No problem at all.