The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [133]
Three dishes topped by domed silver salvers were placed in front of us. On a nod from the maître d’, all three domes were lifted in unison by the waiters. It would be churlish of me not to admit that the food looked quite magnificent. I turned to see what Christabel had selected: truffles with foie gras. They reminded me of a Mir6 painting, until she quickly smudged the canvas.
“What do you think the terrorists’ motive for hijacking the train should be?” Duncan asked.
This was surely the moment to tell him—but once again I funked it. I tried to remember what point in the story we had reached. “That would depend on whether you eventually wanted them to escape,” I suggested. “Which might prove quite difficult, if they’re stuck in the middle of a tunnel, with a police force waiting for them at either end.” The wine waiter presented Christabel with the bottle of Cheval Blanc she had chosen. After no more than a sniff of the cork she indicated that it was acceptable.
“I don’t think they should be interested in financial reward,” said Duncan. “They ought to be IRA, Islamic fundamentalists, Basque separatists, or whatever the latest terrorist group catching the headlines happens to be.”
I sipped the wine. It was like velvet. I had only tasted such a vintage once before, in the home of a friend who possessed a cellar of old wine put down with new money. It was a taste that had remained etched in my memory.
“In chapter seven I’ve come up against a block,” continued Duncan, intent on his theme. “One of the terrorists must somehow come into contact with the newly married couple, or at least with the bridegroom.” He paused. “I should have told you earlier that in the character building at the beginning of the book, one of the students turns out to be a loner, while the other two, a man and a woman, have been living together for some time.” He began digging into his steak. “It’s how I bring the loner and the bridegroom together that worries me. Any ideas?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said, “what with restaurant cars, snack bars, carriages, a corridor, not to mention a black crew member, railway staff, and rest rooms.”
“Yes, but it must appear natural,” Duncan said, sounding as if he were in deep thought.
My heart sank as I noticed Christabel’s empty plate being whisked away, despite the fact that Duncan and I had hardly begun our main courses.
“The chapter ends with the train suddenly coming to a halt about halfway through the tunnel,” said Duncan, staring into the distance.
“But how? And why?” I asked.
“That’s the whole point. It’s a false alarm. Quite innocent. The youngest child of the American family—his name’s Ben—pulls the communication cord while he’s sitting on the lavatory. It’s such a hi-tech lavatory that he mistakes it for the chain.”
I was considering if this was plausible when a breast of quail on fondant potatoes with a garnish of smoked bacon was placed in front of Christabel. She wasted no time in attacking the fowl.
Duncan paused to take a sip of wine. Now, I felt, I had to let him know, but before I had a chance to say anything he was off again. “Right,” he said. “Chapter eight. The train has come to a halt several miles inside the tunnel, but not quite halfway.”
“Is that significant?” I asked feebly.
“Sure is,” said Duncan. “The French and British have agreed the exact point inside the tunnel where French jurisdiction begins and British ends. As you’ll discover, this becomes relevant later in the plot.”
The waiter began moving round the table, refilling our glasses once again with claret. I placed a hand over mine—not because the wine wasn’t pure nectar, but simply because I didn’t wish to give Christabel the opportunity to order another bottle. She made no attempt to exercise the same restraint, but drank her wine in generous gulps, while toying with her quail. Duncan continued with his story.
“So, the holdup,” said Duncan, “turns out to be nothing more than a diversion, and it’s sorted out fairly