Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

by Michael Bond

  Now, as lesser mortals withdrew to watch from a safe distance, the party got ready to board the airship. The ground crew, their white overalls immaculately pressed for the occasion, took the strain on the mooring ropes, although with only the lightest of breezes blowing it was scarcely necessary. The windsock hung limply from its pole, as did the flags of France and Grande-Bretagne.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse could see Commander Winters and Capitaine Leflaix watching anxiously from their cabin window as more photographs were taken, this time of the two leaders posing in turn at the top of the aluminium steps. Capitaine Leflaix would not be pleased; they were facing outwards. No doubt both he and Commander Winters would be glad when they were airborne. At least their illustrious passengers were in for a better flight than he’d had to endure. Apart from a few wisps of strato-cumulus to the south the sky was totally blue. He almost envied them the experience.

  Not for the first time that morning, Monsieur Pamplemousse found his attention wandering. He had woken with a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach that all was not well. Pommes Frites, ever sensitive to his master’s moods, had obviously caught it too. From the moment they arrived at the airstrip he had been twitchy. When he caught sight of the balloon he became even more ill at ease, no doubt fearing another parting of the ways. Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and gave him a reassuring pat.

  He cast his eyes round the field as he did so. Security was as tight now as it had been lax a few days before. There were police and guards everywhere, their guns at the ready, walkie-talkies working overtime. A dozen familiar dark blue vans of the Sûreté Nationale were parked discreetly under the trees. As always, those behind the barred windows, having been kept in a state of enforced idleness for many hours, would be more than ready to wade in and take it out on those nearest to hand should anything untoward happen to mar the occasion.

  The crowd of sightseers had been carefully selected; representatives of local government in their best clothes; heads of fish and vegetable canneries mingled with their workers. Nurses in uniform stood alongside patients in wheelchairs; boilermakers from St. Nazaire hobnobbed with building workers. A group of ubiquitous nuns kept themselves slightly apart from the rest, as was their wont.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had a lot on his mind. Like Commander Winters and his crew, he couldn’t wait for the take-off so that he could get down to other matters. His suspicions about the contents of the envelope had been confirmed by a chemist in Nantes. The bottle contained the remains of some ethyl-chlorate; the white powder was calcium carbonate – common chalk; the flakes were tragacanth – commonly used as a binding agent. In short, all the necessary ingredients for manufacturing knock-out pills. The question was, had Christoph given one to Yasmin? And if he had, why?

  If she’d been given one before the performance it would almost certainly have brought on sleepiness. Had he perhaps miscalculated the dose? Perhaps he had been hoping it would take effect sooner than it did; that was the charitable explanation. But even so, the very fact of going to the trouble of making the pills in the first place suggested something more than a spur of the moment act.

  There was still a query hanging over the light-grey powder in the plastic bag.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was roused from his thoughts as the airship’s engines roared into life and the ground crew began removing the ballast bags. For a moment he had an uneasy feeling that Pommes Frites might take it into his head to indulge in another game of tug-of-war, but to his relief he seemed to have suddenly lost interest in the whole affair. He counted the bags; according to the handout there should be seven 10kg bags for each passenger. Fifty-six were removed. Complicated hand signals began between the cockpit and the ground-crew – they could have been selling stocks and shares in the Bourse for all the sense they made. A moment later, as the nose of the airship was released from its mooring, those manning the bow lines pulled the airship sideways towards a clear position ready for take-off.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own camera had been working overtime. There would be no shortage of pictures to accompany his article in Le Guide’s staff magazine; rather the reverse. Having filled the frame with a close-up of well-known faces peering out of the cabin windows, he quickly changed to a wide-angle lens.

  He was just in time. As the fans were rotated groundwards and the lines released, more power was applied to the engines. The naval contingent stood to attention, the band launched into ‘Anchors Away’, and a cheer went up from the assembled crowd as the dirigible rose into the air, nose down at first to ensure the lower tail fin didn’t make contact with the ground, then levelling out as it gained height. Slowly it executed a long and gentle turn before heading out across the sea towards the Golfe du Morbihan.

  As the spectators began to disperse, drifting back to their cars and autobuses, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the Director heading his way. He must have travelled with a good deal of luggage, for he was even more immaculately dressed than usual; the rosette of the Légion d’Honneur awarded for his services to haute cuisine was displayed in the lapel of his exquisitely tailored dark blue suit.

  ‘Congratulations, Aristide,’ the Director held out his hand. ‘I managed to feast my eyes on your handiwork and I must say it was impossible to fault. Taste buds will undoubtedly be titillated.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur. I see you were also successful with the Château d’Yquem.’

  The Director looked pleased. ‘I have my sources.’ Clearly they were not about to be revealed.

  ‘You tested the food personally, of course? It would be most unfortunate if it turned out to have been tampered with en route.’

  ‘Monsieur!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows in mute reproof. He had done no such thing, of course. The food had arrived from Paris early that morning under police escort. It would have taken a braver man than he to have got within ten metres of it under the vigilant eyes of the men from Fauchon. Défense de toucher had been the by-word. Only the production of his Guide credentials and the fact that Trigaux had taken the opportunity of sending back his pictures in the same consignment had gained him permission to photograph it. They had been right, of course, but as the one responsible for placing the order in the first place, it had been somewhat galling.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shaded his eyes as he looked up at the sky. He reached for his binoculars. The airship seemed to have slowed down over the Baie de Quiberon, almost as though it were treading water.

  The Director followed the direction of his gaze. ‘No doubt they have slackened speed in order to facilitate pouring the champagne whilst overlooking the oyster-beds; a pleasing touch. We must add it to our press release. What was your final choice?’

  ‘A Gosset ’75, Monsieur.’

  ‘Ah, the ’75! A copybook vintage. A touch austere for some tastes, perhaps, but perfectly balanced. I wonder if they have any at the Hôtel du Port? We can have some over déjeuner. I have reserved a table. You look fatigued, Aristide. It will do you good.’

  Although he privately doubted if the cellar at the Hôtel du Port would live up to the Director’s expectations, Monsieur Pamplemousse was more than happy to fall in with the suggestion.

  Organising the meal on the airship had involved him in a non-stop round of telephone calls and other activities. It was only now, with his work virtually at an end, that he suddenly realised just how tired he felt.

  ‘Good! In that case, I suggest we make a move.’ The Director rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘If you follow me we will meet at the Hôtel. No doubt Pommes Frites will be joining us?’

  It was a redundant question. Ever alive to the nuances and undertones of conversations going on around him, Pommes Frites was already leading the way. Apart from the stop on the journey down, and the unexpected steak, the trip had not, gastronomically speaking, been a memorable one to date. There had been a lot of talk of food, but very little evidence of it. ‘All words and no action’ would have been his summing-up had he been stopped in the street by so
meone conducting a public opinion poll on the state of play to date. Not normally a fish lover (fish was indelibly associated in his mind with cats and therefore hardly worth considering) he had got to the stage when he would have settled for a bowl of moules à la marinière, had one come his way. The sight of all the food laid out in the balloon, so near and yet so far away, had been the last straw. Putting food on display and then not eating it was beyond his powers of comprehension.

  His disappointment was therefore all the more marked when, some half an hour later, having settled himself comfortably under a table, his taste buds working triple overtime as a result of listening to his master and the Director discussing at length and in savoury detail their forthcoming meal – its preparation, the sauces and other accompanying embellishments – there occurred yet another example of the strange behaviour patterns of human beings which, when they occurred, were hard to credit. The ordering of the food and then the abandonment of a meal before it even arrived was, in his opinion, a prime case in point.

  The first Pommes Frites knew of impending disaster was the arrival of a pair of trouser-clad legs at the side of the table and the sound of voices, but his senses told him the new arrival was the bearer of bad news. Had he looked out from under the table-cloth and seen the expression on his master’s face as he jumped to his feet his worst fears would have been confirmed.

  ‘Monsieur Pickering!’

  ‘Aristide!’

  ‘I have been looking for you since the day I arrived.’

  ‘On the contrary, you have been avoiding me like the plague.’ Mr. Pickering allowed himself a brief, if somewhat enigmatic smile, then immediately became serious again. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to come with me.’

  ‘Both of us?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Since it involves the airship, I think, yes.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Mr. Pickering turned to the Director. ‘I know of you, of course, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you personally, although …’ again there was a faint smile, ‘that is not entirely true. A matter of paramount importance has come up and we may well be glad of your advice.’

  Flattery got him everywhere. The Director was on his feet in a flash; the bib which a moment before had been tied around his neck in readiness for a plateau de fruits de mer abandoned along with his napkin.

  Pommes Frites heaved a deep sigh as he rose to his feet and followed the others out of the restaurant. He glanced around hopefully as they left, but history did not repeat itself. There were no unattended plates anywhere in sight.

  Crossing the road, they headed towards the Mairie, then turned down a side street towards the Gendarmerie.

  Mr. Pickering, having contented himself with generalities on the way, nodded to the duty officer at the desk and led them quickly up some stone stairs to a door on the first floor. Two guards standing in the corridor outside came to attention.

  ‘Excuse me, I shan’t keep you a moment.’ Mr. Pickering opened the door and disappeared into the room. There was a murmur of voices which stopped abruptly, then the door closed behind him.

  The Director drew Monsieur Pamplemousse to one side, out of earshot of the guards. ‘Who is this man Pickering?’ he hissed. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He helped me once when I was with the Sûreté, Monsieur. It concerned a matter affecting security and I was given his name and a London telephone number. He helped me again when I was involved with that girls’ finishing school near Evian. He is an expert on many things, but other than that I know little. As for what he wants …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal shrug.

  He could have hazarded a guess; the uneasy feeling he’d woken with that morning had returned in earnest, but he was saved the trouble. The door opened and Mr. Pickering beckoned them in.

  The room was small but crowded. Heads turned as they entered, then swivelled back towards a man at the far end. He was standing in front of a blackboard to which a large-scale map of the area was pinned.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse settled himself on a chair between Mr. Pickering and the Director, then concentrated his attention on what was going on. Without even seeing the faces of those already present he could have pin-pointed their rank and status. Just in front of him were two representatives of government; from the cut of their clothes he guessed they were products of one of the élite Grandes Ecoles, members of les Grands Corps de l’Etat.

  In the first row he picked out the local Prefect of Police. There was an army major alongside him. Behind them came a sprinkling of British – he’d seen them grouped under the Union Jack at the launch – they were probably from the Paris Embassy. The third row were mainly military. All the occupants of the room had one thing in common; they all looked tense.

  ‘Messieurs, for the benefit of those who have just joined us I will repeat what I have just told you.’

  The speaker was short and stocky, but without an ounce of fat. He had to be a Barbouze – a member of the Special Police. His face was tanned and leathery. His hair was crew-cut; his eyes light blue and totally expressionless. Not a good man to cross, or to be interrogated by, particularly in a closed room. Monsieur Pamplemousse had met his sort before. After the Algerian army revolt in November 1964 had been ruthlessly stamped on by de Gaulle, some of them had started to show their faces in Paris.

  When he spoke it was with an economy of words. It was hard to tell whether he was put out at being interrupted or not.

  ‘At eleven ten hours this morning a message was received by telephone at this station.

  ‘I will not bother to read it to you again in full. In essence it said that a bomb is hidden on board the airship. It enumerated certain demands – the release of six Iranian terrorists at present being held in France, plus a considerable sum of money. Unless these demands are met in full by 8.30 this evening the bomb will be detonated. There is no way of communicating with the sender of the message other than by public broadcast, and there was no suggestion that he would be in touch a second time. The message was signed Andreas.’

  ‘Could it be a hoax?’ It was the Prefect of Police speaking.

  ‘It could be, but we have reason to believe not. Until we know otherwise we have to treat it as being serious. Deadly serious.’ He nodded towards a colleague in the front row. The second man rose to his feet.

  ‘As I am sure most of you will recall, Andreas is a known terrorist who was active up until a few years ago when the pace got too hot for him and he literally vanished from the scene. We believe the message to be genuine because whoever telephoned used a code name which was established at the height of his activities so that both sides always knew whom they were talking to. He is a loner and utterly ruthless. He has never failed to carry out any threats he has ever made.’ Again there was a nod and the ball was passed to a third man.

  ‘If it is Andreas, we are not dealing with a time fuse and old-fashioned explosive situation. We are probably dealing with a sophisticated device triggered off by radio. He is a one-time associate of a Jordanian named Abu Ibrahim – a garage mechanic who turned his talents to designing high-tech detonating devices. Ibrahim has since died of cancer, but it was he who manufactured the suitcase bomb which was found on the El Al plane in 1983. That had a double detonating mechanism and used a plastic explosive called Semtex H. At the time it was established that he had made five such suitcases. Only three were ever located, so somewhere in the world there are still two more.’

  ‘The type of explosive is immaterial.’ The Barbouze showed the first flicker of impatience. ‘The important question is does it exist, and if so, what do we do about it?’ The second man broke in. ‘The whole airship was gone over with a fine-tooth comb this morning. Sniffer-dogs, X-ray equipment, the lot. I would stake my reputation that it was clean.’

  ‘My point,’ said his colleague, ‘is that Semtex H is virtually invisible by X-ray. And if it was hidden amongst any of the mechanical parts of the wiring of the dirigible the same could be said about the de
tonating apparatus.’

  ‘Then we cannot afford to take the risk. If it is Andreas he will be deadly serious. He is too old a hand to play at practical jokes. Besides, his reputation will be at stake. He is a professional and he is well paid for his work.’

  ‘What are the possibilities of the demands being met?’

  ‘None whatsoever. Both parties are agreed on that.’

  ‘We are, of course, making “arrangements”, but purely as a precautionary measure in case there is a last-minute change of heart.’

  ‘Our Leaderene would never permit it.’ One of the British contingent spoke for the first time. ‘It would be against all her principles.’

  ‘What are the chances of mounting a rescue attempt? A boarding party by means of a helicopter?’

  ‘Zero.’

  The questions started coming thick and fast and were answered with equal speed.

  ‘Commander Winters and Capitaine Leflaix are carrying out a minute search of all the possible areas inside the airship – the ones that are accessible to them that is – but the chances of their finding anything are small.’

  ‘How long can the airship stay up?’

  One of the British party rose. ‘Long enough. It has loiter facilities.’

  ‘And if the bomb goes off?’

  ‘That depends on where it is. The differential pressure between the inside of the fabric and the outside is quite small. The fabric is laminated polyester and the airship can remain airborne for a long time with a hole in it something like the size of a saucer, but if it has a large tear, that’s a different matter. If the bomb is hidden somewhere on the gondola …’