EURYSTHEUS Of Tiryns

October 1964 

Pau, France 

OBJECTIVE: Retrieve Package: 

Time: Early morning

The hotel room door closed quickly and quietly behind him.

His heart was racing, and he took two deep breaths to steady himself. The rush of adrenaline coursed through his body, making his right hand tremble slightly. He made a fist once and then twice; then he smiled to himself.

Not a smooth getaway, slightly too close for comfort. 

He then relaxed slightly and moved into the room; he was just going to take the package out from his inside pocket when something made him stop.

Not a sound, as hotels were never quiet, not properly. Even at dawn there was the background hum of plumbing, the distant clatter of breakfast service, and a lift whining somewhere in the building. Outside life had started; dogs barked, the clatter of shutters could be heard, and a moped roared around the corner of the hotel, obviously heading down Palace Royale. He had been given this room in the Hotel de France for a reason, but for now the view could wait.

Something was off.

He felt the change; something wasn't where it belonged.

He walked over to the night stand, where the complimentary bottle of Evian sat, he picked it up and placed it back down, exactly six inches to the left. 

‘Back where I left you.’

Someone had entered the room in the past two hours, not housekeeping, not at six in the morning.

There was no way anyone would even be aware yet that he had taken delivery of the book, the funny little leather-bound thing that was right now nestled in his breast pocket. When he had taken it from his contact, he couldn't believe what all the trouble had been for. The book had a cracked leather cover, and its pages were yellow and brittle with age.

‘Not my problem,’ he thought.

And as he turned towards the wardrobe, he added. ‘But getting out is’

The wardrobe held the next surprise; as he approached, he noticed the hair he had placed just under the top hinge had sagged. He had made sure it was tightly across the gap, so someone had searched the room. Carefully he opened the door, removed the battered suitcase and thumbed the combination locks; a sliver of brass fell as he did this, and he saw the small scratches on the locks. 

‘Shame,' he thought. ‘Amateurs these days, far too many spy films.’ 

Again he smiled; ‘nothing in there except my washing,’ 

But now he knew that he was under surveillance. Almost automatically his hand went to his right pocket, and he felt the comforting bulge of the knuckledusters. Not his favourite weapon, but in close combat any advantage was welcome.

He hurriedly packed his toiletries and the clothes he had bothered to hang up, and closed the case, he walked quickly to the window and looked out across the valley. Pau lay spread beneath him, rooftops catching the early sun, and the green ribbon of the Gave de Pau cutting through the distance. Beyond it all, the Pyrenees rose, snow-capped and indifferent to everything they had seen.

He grabbed the case and looked around the room one more before he headed for the door. It closed behind him, and the room was now empty.

Only the dressing-table mirror betrayed any sign that it was not.

Behind the glass, in a small room concealed within the cavity, a figure quietly picked up a telephone receiver.

“He has the package.”

There was a pause filled with static.

“He has left.”

“Yes.”

The line went dead, and the figure replaced the handset.

Unaware of this, the man stepped into the corridor and walked toward the lift without hurrying. He pressed the call button once, and waited patiently; anyone watching would just think he was a businessman headed for an early morning meeting. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and watched his reflection in the mirrored wall.

He looked tired,  stubble darkened his jaw and a thin line of dried blood traced the knuckle of his right hand where the courier had resisted, briefly, before understanding the futility of the gesture.

The lift descended.

At the lobby level, the doors opened to sunlight and the muted clink of cutlery. A couple sat near the windows, sharing coffee, oblivious to the fact that someone had died less than an hour earlier two streets away and all for the sake of an old leather book.

He took two steps forward.

The concierge looked up.

He saw it in the man’s eyes before the hand moved.

He turned rapidly as the suppressed pistol coughed behind him.

The sound was sharp but contained, like a book dropped hard against a table. Plaster exploded from the wall where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier. But he was already moving, the momentum carrying him through the glass door and out onto the pavement.

Someone screamed.

He didn’t look back.

He ran blindly.

Instead of taking the open, beautiful and easy path of the Boulevard des Pyrenees that led toward the funicular, he veered sideways into the back streets of the old town. He weaved through the shadow of Rue Henri IV and into the open expanse of the Place de La Libération, just as the morning market was setting up. There were wooden crates of cabbages and late chicory all around, blocking his progress, but giving him cover as well.

And then a sharp, deafening crack shattered the moment.

A bullet chipped the stone facade of the building just inches from his shoulder; it showered his coat in grey powder. He spun and dived behind a metal table outside a closed cafe.

Two heavyset men stepped out from the shadows of the square’s arched arcade. Their heavy footsteps echoed in the now quiet square. One held a silenced Walther PPK, and it was pointed at his chest. The other circled to the left, his hands free to ensure there would be no escape.

“You’re making a scene,” the operative without the gun said, his accent immediately identifiable as Spanish, and he added. “You should hand over the book you stole.”

“Unfortunately I can't comply with that request. Oh, your associates already did a terrible job of searching my room at the Hotel de France earlier. Do you boys always leave things in the wrong place on purpose?”

The operative with the gun lowered it a fraction, and his eyes narrowed in genuine confusion. “Search? What search? We have been waiting here since midnight; we knew you would take the indirect route.”

His smile vanished. They didn't make the search?

Then the realisation hit him: the people who intercepted him last night, the people in the hotel reception and the people who searched his hotel room. Was it possible that these were all different groups?

“Well,” he muttered to a passing pigeon, “that’s a bit awkward.” The pigeon cooed as if in agreement. 

Grabbing the tin serving tray from the table, he flung it at the gunman just as he lifted the gun back up. It glanced off his shoulder with a loud clang, and the gun discharged into the air. The gunman stumbled backwards, but the man didn't wait; he bolted, sprinting hard out of the square and headed straight down the Rue de La Foix.

As he ran, his lungs burnt in the biting morning air; the cobblestones were slippery beneath his feet. Behind him, the echoes of shouting voices grew louder, and in the distance the wailing of police sirens could be heard. It wasn't just the two men from the square; now three more operatives had joined the fray. They emerged from the alleyways near the Place Royale as he headed past it.

He didn't have time to wonder who they all were, just a quick glance at his watch and he knew he needed to sped up.

In front, finally, were the iron gates of the Upper Funicular Station, and they were closing as he approached. The glass-and-steel car was just about to depart; it was vibrating in readiness for the sharp descent down the cliff face to the train station below.

He pushed his body to its limits, leaping over a low stone wall, and he sprinted full tilt across the platform. He hit the gates shoulder-first, bursting through them just as the mechanical gears groaned to life.

The driver shouted and reached for the emergency brake, but he was grabbed by his blue uniform jacket and shoved unceremoniously out of the cabin door. He slammed the door shut just as one of the pursuers approached, he fumbled for the massive emergency brake, and he threw his weight against it, releasing it.

The funicular car vibrated; now it was unlocked from the brake, and it plummeted forwards down the thirty-degree incline faster than it had ever done before.

Inside the passenger compartment, the half-dozen early morning commuters all shrieked as one, and they frantically grabbed for the hand straps as the car jolted from one side to the other.

He smiled as he saw the attackers stranded at the top, although it looked like one was preparing to follow him. He opened the cabin door, straightened his tie and said, in calm but heavily accented French. “No need for alarm, ladies and gentlemen. I have never crashed a funicular yet.” And he smiled as only a Brit could.

An elderly French woman in a rather hairy coat clutched her rosary beads and stared at him with wild, panicked eyes. “Mon Dieu, Monsieur, and how many of these machines have you operated to make such a statement?”

“Just this one actually, but I’m a quick learner.” And one of the other women fainted.

A sudden, heavy thud rattled the roof of the car, and a shadow fell across the skylight. One of the operatives had decided to leap from the upper platform at the last second. They landed hard on the curved metal roof. It groaned in protest as the weight of boots thudded towards the front hatch.

He turned back to the old lady and handed her his battered suitcase, putting it into her trembling hands.

“Would you be a dear and hold this for me for a moment?” He said, steeling his nerves. “I really don't want to crease my spare shirts.” 

She gripped the case with both hands and smiled weakly at him. And resisting the urge to pat her head, he placed the knuckle dusters on his left hand and unlatched the emergency window, hauled himself up onto the sloping roof of the speeding car, and stepped into the freezing mountain air.

The operative was already waiting for him, and her coat was whipping about wildly in the wind. She lunged forward and caught him off guard, throwing a heavy punch which caught him squarely across his left eye, sending a blinding flash of pain through his vision.

Countering with a sharp jab to her stomach, instead of making her stumble, she merely slid backwards, the low morning sun glinting off the shiny set of knuckle dusters she was also wearing. 

Numb with adrenaline, he charged and hooked his leg behind her ankle and threw his weight forwards. The operative lost her balance on the wet steel and, with a startled yell, slid backwards off the roof of the cabin. She tumbled down the steep, grassy embankment of the Sentiers du Roy and came to a halt by the side of the tracks.

Suddenly the car lurched, and he was nearly thrown from the roof; he struggled back inside, his ribs protesting. The emergency brake must have activated, so he retrieved his suitcase from the stunned lady, nodded his head in thanks, and then he was gone. Seamlessly blending into the morning crowds at the train station.


To be continued......

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