“Caesar salad and a rare steak.”
The maître d' retrieved the menus and was turning to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel.”
“Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.
“Should I do that for you?” suggested Christabel. “Then there'll be no need to interrupt your story.”
Duncan nodded his agreement, and the waiter handed the wine list over to Christabel. She opened the red leather cover with as much eagerness as if she was about to begin a bestselling novel.
“You may be surprised,” Duncan was saying, “that my book is set in Britain. Let me start by explaining that the timing for its publication is absolutely vital. As you know, a British and French consortium is currently building a tunnel between Folkestone and Sangatte, which is scheduled to be opened by Queen Elizabeth on May 6, 1994. In fact,
Chunnel
will be the title of my book.”
I was horrified. Another glass of champagne was placed in front of Christabel.
“The story begins in four separate locations, with four different sets of characters. Although they are all from diverse age groups, social backgrounds, and countries, they have one thing in common: they have all booked on the first passenger train to travel from London to Paris via the Channel tunnel.”
I felt a sudden pang of guilt and wondered if I should say something, but at this point a waiter returned with a bottle of white wine, the label of which Christabel studied intently. She nodded, and the sommelier extracted the cork and poured a little into her empty glass. A sip brought the smile back to her lips. The waiter then filled our glasses.
Duncan continued: “There will be an American familyâmother, father, two teenage childrenâon their first visit to England; a young English couple who have just gotten married that morning and are about to begin their honeymoon; a Greek self-made millionaire and his French wife, who booked their tickets a year before, but are now considering a divorce; and three students.”
Duncan paused as a Caesar salad was placed in front of
him and a second waiter presented me with a bowl of consommé. I glanced at the dish Christabel had chosen. A plate of thinly cut smoked gravlax with a blob of caviar in the center. She was happily squeezing half a lemon, protected by muslin, all over it.
“Now,” said Duncan, “in the first chapter it's important that the reader doesn't realize that the students are connected in any way, because that later becomes central to the plot. We pick up all four groups in the second chapter as they're preparing for the journey. The reader discovers their motivations for wanting to be on the train, and I build a little on the background of each of the characters involved.”
“What period of time will the plot cover?” I asked anxiously, between spoonfuls of consommé.
“Probably three days,” replied Duncan. “The day before the journey, the day of the journey, and the day after. But I'm still not certainâby the final draft it might all happen on the same day.”
Christabel grabbed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and refilled her glass before the wine waiter had a chance to assist her.
“Around chapter three,” continued Duncan, “we find the various groups arriving at Waterloo Station to board âle shuttle.' The Greek millionaire and his French wife will be shown to their first-class seats by a black crew member, while the others are directed to second class. Once they are all on board, some sort of ceremony to commemorate the inauguration of the tunnel will take place on the platform. Big band, fireworks, cutting of tape by royalty, etc. That should prove quite adequate to cover another chapter at least.”
While I was visualizing the scene and sipping my soupâthe restaurant may have been pretentious, but the food was excellentâthe wine waiter filled my glass and then Duncan's. I don't normally care for white wine, but I had to admit that this one was quite exceptional.
Duncan paused to eat, and I turned my attention to Christabel, who was being served a second dollop of caviar that appeared even bigger than the first.
“Chapter five,” said Duncan, “opens as the train moves out of the station. Now the real action begins. The American family are enjoying every moment. The young bride and groom make love in the rest room. The millionaire is having another row with his wife about her continual extravagance, and the three students have met up for the first time at the bar. By now you should begin to suspect that they're not ordinary students, and that they may have known each other before they got on the train.” Duncan smiled and continued with his salad. I frowned.
Christabel winked at me, to show she knew exactly what was going on. I felt guilty at being made a part of her conspiracy, and wanted to tell Duncan what she was up to.
“It's certainly a strong plot,” I ventured as the wine waiter filled our glasses for a third time and, having managed to empty the bottle, looked toward Madame. She nodded sweetly.
“Have you started on the research yet?” I asked.
“Yes. Research is going to be the key to this project, and I'm well into it already,” said Duncan. “I wrote to Sir Alastair Morton, the Chairman of Eurotunnel, on
Newsweek
letterhead, and his office sent me back a caseload of material. I can tell you the length of the rolling stock, the number of carriages, the diameter of the wheels, why the train can go faster on the French side than the British, even why it's necessary for them to have a different-gauge track on either side of the Channelâ”
The pop of a cork startled me, and the wine waiter began pouring from a second bottle. Should I tell him now?
“During chapter six the plot begins to unfold,” said Duncan, warming to his theme, as one of the waiters whipped away the empty plates and another brushed a few breadcrumbs off the tablecloth into a little silver scoop. “The trick is to keep the reader interested in all four groups at the same time.”
I nodded.
“Now we come to the point in the story when the reader discovers that the students are not really students, but terrorists who plan to hijack the train.”
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 himâbut 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 familyâhis name's Benâpulls 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 mineânot 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 quickly. Child in tears, family apologizes, explanation given by the guard over the train's intercom, which relieves any anxieties the passengers might have had. A few minutes later the train starts up again, and this time it does cross the halfway point.”
Three waiters removed our empty plates. Christabel touched the side of her lips with a napkin, and gave me a huge grin.
“So then what happens?” I asked, avoiding her eye.
“When the train stopped, the terrorists were afraid that there might be a rival group on board, with the same purpose as them. But as soon as they find out what has actually happened, they take advantage of the commotion caused by young Ben to get themselves into the cabin next to the driver's.”
“Would you care for anything from the dessert trolley, madame?” the maître d' asked Christabel. I looked on aghast as she was helped to what looked like a large spoonful of everything on offer.
“It's gripping, isn't it?” said Duncan, misunderstanding my expression for one of deep concern for those on the train. “But there's still more to come.”
“Monsieur?”
“I'm full, thank you,” I told the maître. “Perhaps a coffee later.”
“No, nothing, thank you,” said Duncan, trying not to lose his thread. “By the start of chapter nine the terrorists have got themselves into the driver's cabin. At gunpoint they force the
chef de train
and his co-driver to bring the engine to a halt for a second time. But what they don't realize is that they are now on French territory. The passengers are told by the loner over the train's intercom that this time it's not a false alarm, but the train has been taken over by whichever gang I settle on, and is going to be blown up in fifteen minutes. He tells them to get themselves off the train, into the tunnel, and as far away as they possibly can before the explosion.
Naturally, some of the passengers begin to panic. Several of them leap out into the dimly lit tunnel. Many are looking frantically for their husbands, wives, children, whatever, while others begin running toward the British or French side, according to their nationality.”
I became distracted when the maître d' began wheeling yet another trolley toward our table. He paused, bowed to Christabel, and then lit a small burner. He poured some brandy into a shallow copper-bottomed pan and set about preparing crêpes suzette.
“This is the point in the story, probably chapter ten, where the father of the American family decides to remain on the train,” said Duncan, becoming more excited than ever. “He tells the rest of his tribe to jump off and get the hell out of it. The only other passengers who stay on board are the millionaire, his wife, and the young newly married man. All will have strong personal reasons for wanting to remain behind, which will have been set up earlier in the plot.”
The maître d' struck a match and set light to the crêpes. A blue flame licked around the pan and shot into the air. He scooped his
pièce de résistance
onto a warm platter in one movement, and placed it in front of Christabel.