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Published: April 10th 2017
Wow, this story has it all: rule-breaking, police searches, secret codes, missed rendezvous, international computer security consultants, shady characters, back up plans, jumping trains in sunny resort towns, and even some paranoid delusions. Hitchcock, eat your heart out!!
(I am having to send this in code over the internet. None of the facts have been changed. But many have been so thoroughly disguised as to be virtually unrecognizable.) (In spite of this remarkable ability, I have no plans to run for high office. Amazing, no?)
And, just to make it commercial, it has brand placement, too!!
Picture this. A sunny Sunday in Nice. Two relatively innocent Canadians set off to meet up with friends in Cannes for lunch. At least, that’s what it appears! Marike’s instructions, carefully disguised in otherwise ordinary e-mails, are cryptic: “Head south from Cannes train station and look for the McDonald’s*.” They remark that the instructions do not include the code phrase, “You can’t miss it.” Clearly, trouble looms.
Prepared for anything, they find room for powerful sunblock in what appears to be an ordinary, although exceptionally pretty, purse. Susan agrees to carry it, just
to complete the illusion.
*(Note to McDonald’s: this blog is willing to be sponsored.)
Tickets are purchased for Cannes. The machine spits them out. No secret messages are noted on them. Perhaps on the next set, then.
Susan disappears down a long corridor to reconnoitre (a French word meaning “find the bathrooms.” Tim leans nonchalantly against a wall, his clever disguise of bearded tourist in straw hat and shorts baffling the facial recognition software while allowing him to blend in with the crowd. Mostly by not looking like anyone else in the crowd, none of whom would be caught dead wearing shorts and a straw hat indoors on a day when it is still a Riviera-cool 15 degrees outside. (Call the beard a bonus, just for style.)
The train arrives, pretty much on time. In their guise of mild-mannered Canadians, Susan and Tim let the rest of the passengers push them aside in a rush for seats so single-minded that the people trying to get off the train are almost trampled and, in one case, actually separated physically from their luggage. Just to put the icing on the
cultural cake, we apologize to anyone brushing by.
Tim, ever alert to the high ground, spots stairs. There is a second level. Perhaps there will be seats up there. BUT will there be a second exit. He confirms that there is. Pulses racing, they climb up, alert for the presence of agents of SMERSH, KAOS, Canada Revenue . . .
Nothing. It’s all quiet. Maybe too quiet. For one thing, only three of the 40 or so seats are occupied. Downstairs, everything is packed. Up here, it is nearly serene. All of our senses go on heightened alert, always keeping in mind that key phrase from our training: “When things seem to be going well, you’ve obviously overlooked something.”
They take seats on the north side, backs to the motion of the train. Tim eases the fully-loaded camera on his left hip. The tension is almost unbearable. The woman at the back of the car pretends to read her book and the other two act, a chubby man wearing a mock silk team jacket, and a dark-haired woman, act as if they were staring vacantly out the windows into the underground
Still deprogramming
Me, holding Susan in place, forcing her to drink Provençal rose until the impulse to shop passed. A humanitarian, that's what I am.station like ordinary passengers.
The train is due to leave at 1030. Suddenly, at 1033, it begins to move. Leaping forward like a heavily-drugged snail trying to avoid being today’s escargot, we race out of the station, the wind of our passage barely moving a discarded plastic snack wrapper. It is not from McDonald’s, whose clientele are clearly too classy to fail to clean up after themselves. (Did I mention I was looking for a sponsor? Well, just in case you missed it earlier.)
We brace, ready for action. Susan leans against me, I lean against her, prepared for offence, defence, or maybe a short nap. Anything can happen.
A cell phone rings. The chubby man answers it. He deliberately raises his voice so we can hear him – along with anyone else within 20 yards. Is he our contact? It seems that his “deaf” mother is calling him from England. A likely story.
Susan whispers that he sounds like Lister, the character from the British TV series Red Dwarf, who hails from Birmingham. Convincing and difficult even for the Russians to imitate. So is he MI5, MI6,
Cannes harbour control
Still standing after Susan prevented from shopping or MIssed by his mum? He tells his caller (“Mum”- is this the notorious “M” from James Bond?) that he spent last night celebrating a friend’s birthday on the friend’s boat in Nice. Further, he mentions that the friend is the same age as he, 47. Wordlessly, Susan and I agree to check 47 in the code book later when we are unobserved. Trade craft is everything in this business. One little slip, one deviation from routine and it could all be finished. Impossibly, the tension ratchets up another notch.
We listen attentively, fixing our gaze out the window as if we were paying attention to the dazzling sun on the blue Mediterranean and the fantastic villas climbing the hills off to our right. Focussed like laser beams we are as the chubby man tells “Mum” he is heading back to Antibes, six stops now down the line. He asks her about her health. Four times. A coincidence? I think not! Then he bids her goodbye, and says he loves her – a likely story – and HANGS UP!
Oh, this guy is good. Really good. Clearly we are playing with the big boys
Sunset April 9
And so to bed . . . here.
At that exact moment, a man appears on the stairs behind the good son. He is tall, swarthy, young and also wearing a team jacket! This one is white, while the chubby son is clad in navy blue. He walks right past sonny boy and takes the seat in front of him, sitting with his back to the man in blue as if they had never met each other.
Watching white jacket, we are startled by the appearance of a man at the other end of the car. I kick myself for getting distracted. That’s the sort of rookie mistake that can get a guy killed. The newcomer is dressed as a ticket collector. He begins a long and loud argument with the woman sitting at that end of the carriage in which the word “non” and the phrase “venez avec moi” feature prominently. He acts almost exactly like a conductor trying to get a recalcitrant train jumper to pay up or go with him to meet the authorities. Ha! We have learned our lesson from white jacket and, keeping one ear open, we keep our eyes on the two jacketed agents. As the argument reaches its height, they both get up and slink down the stairs at their end of the car and we see them leave the train at the stop “Biot.” Biot is a stop short of Antibes, where chubby boy said he was going. Clearly, that was a bluff. An innocent bystander might have thought that he and his buddy in the white were sneaking off the train to avoid paying a fine. Good to know our allies have such perceptive operatives. We see them make it safely into the train station and breathe a gusty sigh of relief.
When the argument finally ends, the “ticket taker” – if I can call him that – reaches us, we casually hand him our tickets. Will this be the moment he tries to punch our tickets? Nonchalantly, he scans them with his little machine (DNA analysis? Fingerprint detection? What is his fiendish game?) and coolly thanks us – in FRENCH.
Obviously, he knows we are on to him. I smile back at him and he barely flinches. Yes, that smile, the one that says “I know your game, son. I’ve seen every James Bond movie. Let’s both act like professionals and maybe we can both walk away from this one.”
Without a backward glance, he moves on to the one person remaining on the upper deck with us, “the girl in the back row,” and quickly descends the stairs.
We can relax for a moment, but only for a moment, for we are arriving in the first Cannes station, Cannes Ville. There is a second, Cannes Bocca, which marks the end of the line. Literally, not figuratively, by the way. I’m not one of those writers who insists on milking every cliché (like that one). Our tickets are good to Cannes Bocca, so we decide to stay on to Cannes Bocca. Although Cannes Ville looks like an awfully big and modern station. Lots of people, tracks, machines, huge waiting area. There is a tremendous racket from the lower floor. It sounds exactly like the ticket taker and the woman with whom he was dealing earlier. He shouts, loudly. Then, silence.
Probably a trap for the unwary. The departure time comes and goes and still we sit. Suddenly the west end of the car is filled with gendarmerie. Their glances pass over us like ice water. I like ice water and I let them see it in my eyes. They depart as quickly as they come and, without warning, the train begins to move.
I admit I breathed a sigh of relief. I don’t know how many more of these close shaves I can take! I am filled with admiration for Susan who handles all of this without turning a hair. What hair spray does she use?
We hold tight for the short trip to Cannes Bocca. We arrive. It is right on the seashore. The beach begins three feet from the left hand platform and heads inexorably south to the sea. There is no McDonald’s here unless it is underwater. I am chagrined. What a day to be caught without our underwater rebreather. Will our mission fail because I was ill-prepared? How will I live down the ignominy? Briefly, I consider blaming Susan for everything. It’s a ploy that has worked for me before . . .
Fortunately, before I have to make the toughest decision of them all, Susan proposes an alternative course of action. Why don’t we, she says, go back to the other station. Wow. It sounds crazy. Just so crazy that it might work!! Just as well. I would have missed her but this game is for the hard-headed, not the soft-hearted.
Quick as a flash, we get off the train and take the underground passage to the station. And what a station is was! Cinderblock and smaller than my garage, it is closed on Sunday. There is one automatic ticket machine which refuses to work. Clever. Is the Taliban? ISIS? Putin’s personal hit squad.
And there we are. Trapped in Cannes Bocca, miles from anywhere, no return ticket lawfully available. It is a situation that would have defeated a lesser man. I, however, immediately come up with a plan.
Summoning my considerable sang froid, we wait beside the open doors of the train that heads back to Cannes Ville until I can spot the “ticket taker” get on the train three cars down, then hurl ourselves into the last car with no more that's five minutes to spare. Tensely we wait until the doors close and we are plunged onwards to victory or death. I pass my time, a grimly amused smile playing about my chiselled countenance, by reading the progressive penalties to be assessed against passengers who do not possess a valid ticket. Fools, I snort. Don’t they know with whom they are dealing? They have no idea the depth of grovelling, pleading and apologizing I can unleash upon them if I am crossed! I could almost feel sorry for the poor souls.
Perhaps it was my reputation, or fear of Susan’s famed charm offensive that kept them at bay. Or perhaps the fact that a three minute ride is not enough time for them to make their way through three other cars, “validating” tickets.
Then, in the distance, it appears. Cannes Ville. Fixing a guilty expression carefully upon my face for the video surveillance cameras, I prepare for the worst. To defeat the retinal scans, I clip the sun lenses over my glasses and Susan puts on her “designer” sunglasses. We hold our breath as we make our way casually through station, hoping our countermeasures are good enough to beat their surveillance. It works!! I say a silent prayer of thanks for “Q” at “London Drugs”. You came through for us, buddy! I owe you one, you crazy tech-nut you!
Safely outside the station, we check Susan’s phone. Marijke says she will be 15 minutes late. Thanks to verbal instructions from Debbie, I know that is code for 30 minutes late. We head south towards the sea and, maybe, just maybe, if we get lucky, towards McDonald’s. (Can I recommend their espresso? Cheap and delicious. Sponsors still wanted.)
We reach the sea side. No sign of McDonald’s. We do find the Cannes film centre where the red carpet is run out every year: the “Auditorium Louis Lumieres”. No Mickey’s here. Lots of tacky tourist-y trappy crap but no McDo.
Then I spot the only film star we are likely to see on this trip. It’s Donald Duck. There he is, hanging out with some guy with a big camera, large as life. Well, much larger than life, actually. I mean, he’s a duck. They’re tiny. Barely come up past your ankle. This guy is almost as tall as I am.
What kind of game are they playing here? I decide to use his own presence against him. I text back to Marijke. “Can’t make the original rendezvous. Meet me just west of Donald Duck.” She doesn’t reply. Anything could have happened.
I turn to update Susan and, there, at last the plot is fully revealed!! Across the street, larger than life (well, bigger than Donald, anyway) is, ohmyGOD, a CHRISTIAN DIOR outlet!!!!! Susan spots it, her eyes glaze over, and the old brainwashing kicks in. Before I can do a thing about it, her hand is straying towards her credit cards. My heart skips a beat and our bank account is suddenly in terrible jeopardy! Her shopping genes have kicked in! I have to snap her out of it before someone gets hurt! But how? For the love of God, there are children here!!!
At that exact moment, there is a tap on my shoulder and I am seized in a rough embrace! It is Marijke. Thank the Lord! She sees Susan, sees the store and comprehends the situation in a flash.
“Too bad it’s closed on Sunday,” she says. At those words, a change comes over Susan’s face and there she is! Back to herself again. That, I tell myself, was far too close.
Stay tuned to this station for another episode of “Tim and Susan on the Riviera”, or “Paranoid Delusionals: Finding Adventure Where No One Else Would.”
Still looking for a sponsor, McDonald’s. Nothing? Not even a coupon for some free fries? Sheesh.
Oh, and the international security consultant? Marijke’s husband, Simon. Who lives in the south of France and works for a company whose global headquarters are in, of all places, Burnaby, B.C.
We had a lovely lunch with Marijke, Simon, and their son, Frankie, a lovely walk around the tiny old town of Cannes, and a much less eventful trip back on the train. Where we actually did have our tickets punched by the ticket collector as I had foolishly neglected to validate them. I cleverly explained this to him in English, rather than trying my French. I figured I had a better chance of getting away with having otherwise valid tickets, completely paid for, on the correct train, if he believed I was a stupid, English-speaking, tourist, rather than a dishonest one. Score one for me!
Some pictures behind this fantasy, attached. Also one of sunset from our balcony. I try not to let reality interfere too much with my fun, but sometimes it looks good.
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