New York, they say, is built on granite, the solid base for all those skyscrapers.  Los Angeles is built on the San Andreas Fault.  But the cities of Old Europe are mostly built on… well, previous cities.

Paris was the site of quarries in ancient Roman times.  Over time, stone dug from the quarries was used to build the city, over and over, until we have today’s metropolis.  But beneath where the Trocadero, Montmartre and la Louvre sit today, there is an inter-connected  maze of tunnels, chambers and natural limestone caves.  Three hundred kilometers of tunnels that have been mapped.  No-one knows how many kilometers lie undiscovered.

Since 1955 it has been illegal to use the tunnels because of security reasons, except for some very restricted tourist tours.  Unauthorized explorers risk the wrath of the cataflics, the tunnel police.

This is the true story of a 2004 incident.

***

“Henri, you need to lay off all those patisseries.  You’re almost too fat to fit through the grill.”

Henri slid the last meter into the drain and grinned at his companion.  “What can I do?  Every time I have sex with your wife, she give me a pastry.”  The squad’s laughter echoed around the concrete pipe.

“What?  You’re eating my pastries?” cried Jean, in mock anger.

“Okay, okay.  Settle down,” grinned Pascal.  “We’re not just here to have fun.  Equipment check.  And make sure your spare flashlights are working.”  As the squad checked their equipment, Sergeant Pascal Dupont studied the vinyl-coated map.  As the only full-time member of the cataflics, it was his role in this morning’s exercise to train the rescue squad.  The squad were all members of the Police Sports Association, volunteers with pot-holing experience who would rescue cataphiles trapped underground.

“Alright, listen up.  We have a trapped civilian somewhere here,” he circled a gloved finger on the map.  “They won’t let me break a cadet’s leg, so we are going to have to pretend there’s a person there.  I’ve left a rucksack in there somewhere that is playing the part of a body.  There’s some uncharted passages around there, so keep a sharp lookout.”  He tossed the map at Henri.  “You can be on point, the rest of you take a corner each of the stretcher, I’ll bring up the rear.”  He shrugged at Jean.  “Sorry, but your wife has probably made him too tired to carry the stretcher.”

“No, it is all that fat he is carrying,” joked Jean.  Henri grabbed his stomach in both hands and bounced it up and down, grinning.

Twenty meters along the drain they climbed over a low wall and into a square tunnel carved into the limestone.  The beams from the lamps  strapped to their helmets danced and bounced as they trotted, hunched over, down the slope.  At each intersection Henri would stop and mark their progress with a china pencil on the plastic map.

An hour later they were two kilometers into the labyrinth.  Henri stopped the squad at a wide intersection.  Four tunnels led away from their entrance in.  Henri marked the tunnel they had just come from with chalk.  He took the powerful handheld lamp and shone it in turn along each branch.

“We’re in the middle of the search area now.  Normally I’d call out and listen for a reply, but I’m sure that the Sergeant’s rucksack is unconscious, so we’ll take that as read.”  Sergeant Dupont nodded.  “We’ll leave the gear here and search a hundred meters along each tunnel, then return.  These two aren’t on the map, so we’ll all keep together and watch your step.”

The first tunnel produced no rucksack, so they returned.  Henri marked a cross over the top with his chalk.

They trudged along the next, a tunnel so low that they had to double over.  Twenty meters on the tunnel turned sharply to the right.  Beyond the corner the tunnel rose to a more comfortable two meters.

Henri waited for them all to reach him before he turned to Dupont and asked, “What do you make of that?”

His lamp played over a large tarpaulin that completely blocked the tunnel.  Stuck to it was a printed sign.

CONSTRUCTION WORK.

DANGER! KEEP OUT

Dupont frowned.  “No-one has registered anything with us about any building or repair here.  Let’s take a look.”

Henri pulled the tarpaulin aside.  He had just enough time to register some sort of TV screen before a dog’s barking filled the tunnel.  Startled, Henri threw the tarpaulin back and jumped backwards into his companions.  They laughed, more in relief than in amusement.

Henri grinned ruefully and pulled the tarpaulin aside again.  The dog continued to bark, but remained out of sight.

They edged in.  The TV sat on a rough desk.  It showed the squad at the tarpaulin.  Dupont pointed up at the camera set in the ceiling.  There was a VCR behind the screen.

“Motion activated,” said Henri.  He traced the wires back.  They led to a tape recorder set into a crevice.  He switched it off.  The barking ceased.  “Someone doesn’t want any visitors.”

Warily they moved on.  After a couple of minutes they found themselves in a natural-looking cavern.  Around half the cave were carved several tiers of seats, amphitheatre-style.  Dupont walked to the front of the cave.  There was a large square of material hanging from the ceiling.  He turned to Henri and shrugged.  Henri walked up the tiers.  In the centre was a film projector.  He wasn’t any judge, but it looked expensive.  It was certainly large.  Alongside were canisters of film.

He held one up for Dupont to see.  “It’s a cinema.”  He read the yellowing label.  “La Bete Humaine.”

“Porn?” asked Dupont.  There was a chuckle from the others.

“No.  This was a classic, back in the forties, I think.  It was a film noir.  Gangsters and all that.”

“The human beast.  Sounds like porn to me.”

“Hey, boss!”  Jean emerged from an opening in the side.  “They’ve got a kitchen here.  And a bar.  This is a proper underground Ritz.”

Dupont had moved over to the end of the seats.  He lifted a phone up.  “Electricity.  Phones.  A bloody restaurant?  They are taking the mickey.  Okay, everyone, fall back.  We’ll report this back to HQ and maybe the power or phone companies can tell us who pays for all this.  And put the whiskey back.”

***

Three days later Dupont, along with phone and power officials, made their way back to the underground cinema.  All of the equipment, power cables and phone lines had disappeared.  In the middle of the cavern lay a sheet of paper.  Dupont picked it up.

There, typed, were the words, ‘Do not try to find us.’  He somehow knew it would be pointless, anyway.

References: http://www.guardian.co.uk/international/story/0,,1299444,00.html