by Michael Bond
The rest was left to the imagination.
‘What if the airship returns to base?’ It was the Prefect of Police again.
‘The instructions are that it is to stay exactly where it is. Any movement will result in the immediate detonation of the device. So far we have managed to keep the press out of it, but it is only a matter of time before they start asking questions. The dirigible containing the heads of state of both France and England is at present stationary over the Golfe du Morbihan. I need hardly tell you of the possible repercussions if the threat is carried out.’
He turned to the map. ‘The implication of the last instruction is that Andreas is in a position where he can keep a constant eye on the airship. That would also accord with the use of a very high frequency radio device which ideally needs to be free of anything which would interfere with the path of the signal. Taking a semi-circular field radiating out from the airship, my guess is that it will be located somewhere in this area.’
He ran his finger round the lower half of the map from La Baule in the south-west to Auray in the north-east.
‘But that is an impossible task. We shall never search an area that size in time.’ It was someone else in the front row, who received a quick rebuff.
‘Impossible?’ Clearly it was not a word in the Barbouze’s vocabulary. ‘If we start saying things are impossible we might just as well all go home!
‘A unit of the 11th Parachute Division based at Tarbes is being flown in. When they arrive,’ he looked at his watch, ‘which will be in approximately two hours from now, they will be deployed on all roads leading into and out of the area and we shall then be in a position to seal it off at a moment’s notice.
‘A flotilla of French Navy power boats is on its way from St. Nazaire ready to carry out a search for survivors should the worst happen; a submarine will be joining them.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was impressed. Given the short time at his disposal the Barbouze had worked incredibly fast. He must be in a position to exercise considerable authority.
‘Mon Dieu!’ The Director had a sudden thought. He nudged Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If the airship is blown up,’ he whispered, ‘the oyster-beds of Locmariaquer will be devastated. The force of the explosion could well dislodge the baby ones from their tiles.’
‘The oyster-beds of Locmariaquer will be the least of the problems, Monsieur,’ said the man coldly. Long exposure to the North African sun had not impaired his hearing.
Conscious of a sudden chill in the atmosphere as heads turned in their direction, Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet.
‘May I ask a question? Why 8.30 this evening?’
‘Presumably because it will be getting dark by then. Andreas will not wish to lose sight of the airship in case we try moving it under cover of darkness.’
‘But the weather is good – there is a full moon. Why not nine o’clock or even midnight?’
There was a pause. ‘Monsieur, if you know of something, either you or your – associates …’ the stress was on the last word.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to reply when he felt a restraining touch on his arm and Mr. Pickering rose to his feet.
‘Monsieur, I must congratulate you on your analysis of the situation. I need hardly add that the resources of Her Majesty’s government are available should you require them.’
The pause this time was even longer. The reply when it came was directed at the other occupants of the room, but the eyes remained fixed on Mr. Pickering. ‘I understand we also have at our disposal a party of “nuns” who happen to be attending a seminar in Port St. Augustin at this time. Am I correct?’
Mr. Pickering returned the other’s stare with equanimity. ‘That is so, Monsieur.’ He fingered his right ear reflectively. ‘I think I can safely say they belong to the only order in the world who are able to claim anti-terrorist capability. I repeat, Monsieur, they are at your disposal should you have need of them.’
8
DEATH BY MISADVENTURE
‘In Angleterre,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘I know a man who saws Rolls-Royce cars in half.’
‘He must be one of two things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He must either have extremely strong nerves or be unforgivably foolish.’
‘He is neither,’ said Mr. Pickering. ‘He just happens to be very proficient with a hacksaw. He makes a good living out of welding an extra piece of bodywork in the middle and selling the “stretched” version to Arabs with large families and garages to match.’
The Director looked out of his depth. ‘I fail to see what that has to do with our present problem.’
‘The point I am trying to make,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘is that things are not always what they seem.
‘The Barbouze is a good man. I have a great deal of respect for him. I’m sure he is first rate at his job. But he is in command and he does not like me.’
‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I think it is not so much you he dislikes, it is the circumstances of your being here. It is a question of territories. I doubt if he likes anyone very much, particularly if he thinks they are getting in his way. He is probably a very tidy man with a mind to match.’
Mr. Pickering acknowledged the point. ‘I fully understand. I would feel exactly the same way if the positions were reversed. Nevertheless, be that as it may, I – or rather we, are here – albeit under sufferance, and if our direct involvement is an embarrassment, then we must go it alone. I, also, have my instructions.’ He turned to the Director.
‘I must apologise, Monsieur, if I have placed you in an awkward situation because of our withdrawal from the briefing, but it seemed to me there was nothing more to be learned, and there are likely to be too many voices raised, too many egos to be satisfied, for the kind of quiet thinking which needs to be done. I will make my peace with the Barbouze in due course – we understand each other and we have a common objective – but for the moment at least he will have his work cut out with all the others he has to deal with.’
He turned back to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You asked an interesting question just before we left.’
‘Why 8.30?’
‘Precisely. Why not, as you say, 9 p.m.? There is a natural tendency for people – even terrorists – to go for the round figure.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse weighed the matter carefully in his mind before replying. Other than through telephone calls and one brief meeting in Paris many years before, he scarcely knew Mr. Pickering. Yet his instinct told him he could be trusted. There was an element of mutual respect in their relationship which had been there right from the start. On the other hand, he shuddered to think what might happen if he withheld information’ from the proper quarters and things went wrong. At least it would earn him a place in history. Instinct won. The truth of the matter was he knew he could say things to Mr. Pickering and they would be accepted without his having to go into a lot of tedious explanations. The same certainly wouldn’t be true of those in the other room.
‘The circus starts at 9 p.m.,’ he said simply.
‘Ah!’ Mr. Pickering seemed pleased with the answer. ‘You think the two are connected?’
‘I didn’t until a few minutes ago. Now I am not so sure. There is something very wrong going on there.’ Quickly and succinctly he ran through the events to date. The Director remained unusually and commendably silent throughout, only registering faint disappointment when, for the sake of brevity, Monsieur Pamplemousse sped through those areas which he judged could have no possible bearing on the matter under discussion but which, in more ways than one, simply added flesh to the bare bones of his story.
As he got to the end Mr. Pickering felt in his pocket and withdrew a small black and white enprint size photograph. He handed it over without a comment.
It was very grainy and looked like a blow-up from a small section of a larger negative. It was a head and shoulders shot of a man. He wore a black Viva Zapata-style moustache and had black, curly hair. From the angle
of his head and the look on his face he appeared to be running away from something or someone. Around his neck there was a gold cross on a chain. Monsieur Pamplemousse placed his hand over the lower half of the picture. The eyes were as he remembered them.
‘It is the trapeze artist, Christoph.’
‘It is also the only known photograph in existence of Andreas,’ said Mr. Pickering. ‘It was taken during an incident in Frankfurt some years ago.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered it now. It had been circulated to police forces and immigration offices all over Europe at the time.
‘Mon Dieu!’ The Director jumped to his feet. ‘We must inform the authorities at once.’
‘The problem with authorities,’ said Mr. Pickering slowly, ‘is that by definition they tend to act authoritatively, consequently their behaviour pattern tends to be ponderous and is almost always predictable.’
‘But if what you say is true,’ exclaimed the Director, ‘if Christoph and Andreas are one and the same person can he not be arrested? Are you suggesting we should do nothing?’ Clearly his involvement in matters outside his normal experience was beginning to worry him.
‘No,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘I am not. What I am suggesting is that although Andreas may be without mercy, he is certainly not lacking in imagination. He will have planned the whole thing meticulously down to the very last detail over a long period of time and he will have covered every foreseeable eventuality. At the first sign of anything untoward happening he will pull the plugs on the operation without a second’s hesitation. If, due to a false move on our part, it is the wrong plug, that could spell disaster for everyone.
‘It is abundantly clear that we must discover his whereabouts before 8.30 this evening, and having found him strike before he has a chance to act.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘That gives us a little over six and a half hours.’
The Director picked up the photograph. ‘The man at the meeting was right. It is too big an area to cover in the time available. It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘The one clear advantage about looking for a needle in a haystack,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘is that the one is very different to the other. Besides, I think we can start by eliminating a good deal of the day. If 8.30 is zero hour and the circus starts at 9 p.m., or thereabouts, he must be within half an hour’s drive – probably a lot less if he has made allowances for traffic and changing into his costume for the opening parade – say, twenty minutes. That puts it within an area of not more than twelve to fifteen kilometres away. That, in turn, would also fit in with the theory that he needs to be within sight of the airship.’
‘Even so …’ The Director was obviously not entirely convinced. He probably felt his Légion d’Honneur was at stake.
‘Even so, it is a start.’ Mr. Pickering took a yellow Michelin map from his pocket and opened it up. ‘It eliminates the whole of the area north of the Vilaine estuary.
‘What’s the matter, Aristide? You look troubled.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. There was still an element about the whole thing that troubled him. ‘Is there any reason for this Andreas to go back to the circus? The girl is gone. Presumably he got rid of her because she knew too much and he felt she was about to betray him. If his plan works out and he gets what he wants, he can disappear again. There is nothing to keep him there.’
‘If things don’t go right,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘if something goes violently wrong, his chances of getting away unchallenged will be zero – the whole area will be alive with police and troops. His best bet will be to carry on with his everyday life as though nothing had happened – at least until the first shock-waves die down. As far as he knows there is nothing to link him with the affair. The one person who could have blown his cover is gone. Once the circus moves on and is safely out of Brittany, then he can make himself scarce and we shall be back where we started.
‘It has taken a long time to catch up with Mr. Andreas. The present little problem aside, it would be a great misfortune if he slipped through our hands yet again.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at him curiously. Beneath the laid-back manner there was an unexpectedly steely character. In his way, Mr. Pickering would be as tough a nut to crack as the Barbouze.
‘If it is of any help,’ he said, ‘I may have some photos of Christoph.’ Opening up his case he withdrew the large manila envelope that had arrived with the food that morning, removed a thick batch of glossy black and white enlargements, and spread them out across the table. They were even better than he’d expected. Trigaux had done his stuff as usual. The pictures taken inside the circus tent positively sparkled with life. Apart from a slight graininess, the tight shots of the figure at the top of the trapeze could almost have been taken in a studio.
‘Magnificent!’ Mr. Pickering’s usual aplomb suffered a temporary lapse.
‘I trust this is a private arrangement, Pamplemousse,’ broke in the Director as he caught sight of Le Guide’s logo on the outside of the envelope. ‘Otherwise we could have trouble with Madame Grante if she is still on the warpath.’
‘I have no idea who Madame Grante might be when she’s at home,’ said Mr. Pickering mildly, ‘but there are plenty of people who would give their eye-teeth to get their hands on these.’
‘In that case we must take them next door at once.’ The Director tried to reassert his authority. ‘After that, I suggest we wash our hands of the whole affair and leave matters to the powers that be. That is what they are there for.’
Mr. Pickering lowered the photographs and began riffling through the remainder on the table. ‘I think that would be a great pity, Monsieur le Directeur. What do you think, Aristide?’
‘Mr. Pickering is right, Monsieur. For what it is worth, I will see that copies of the photograph are made available. But as for the rest, I doubt if the Barbouze will involve us in his plans. He is interested in facts, not theories. He cannot afford to take chances and play a hunch, whereas we can. Time is not on anyone’s side but at least it is worth a try. The worst that can happen is that we are proved wrong.’
‘Too many cooks spoil the broth,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘and the next room is, full of chefs.’
‘Trop de cuisinières gâtent la sauce.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse ventured a translation in case the Director had missed the point, but he needn’t have bothered. The culinary allusion had gone home; the parallel was irresistible and capitulation was at hand.
‘When did you take these other photographs?’ asked Mr. Pickering. He pointed to a series of shots taken from the first reel of film.
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment. So much had happened since he’d arrived in Port St. Augustin he had almost lost track of time. ‘The ones of my car were taken the day I arrived. On the Tuesday.’
‘Ah, yes, I heard all about that.’ Mr. Pickering looked embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid one of our chaps forgot to “céder le passage”. Some of your intersections are unbelievably large and complex by our standards. He couldn’t stop for fear of their breaking cover.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what story had been concocted by Mr. Pickering’s ‘chaps’ to cover their escapade. By no stretch of the imagination could the intersection where the accident had taken place have been described as complex – but before he had a chance to enquire further he felt the Director leaning over his shoulder.
‘What’s this, Pamplemousse? Is that your car lying in the ditch? I trust you have filled in your P81 in triplicate and despatched it to Madame Grante. You know how she is about delay in these matters.’
‘Madame Grante again. She sounds even more redoubtable than Andreas. They would make a good pair.’ Mr. Pickering sounded distracted. ‘It was really these ones of the outside of the circus I was interested in.’
‘They were taken on the Wednesday morning. I went along to see if I could get some tickets for the evening performance. I finished off a reel of film so that I could reload before I went up in the airship.
Why do you ask?’
Mr. Pickering held up one of the pictures. ‘I don’t remember seeing a menhir the evening I was there.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a closer look. There it was, just as he remembered it that first morning; a large, top-heavy, misshapen, light-grey piece of stone, standing up like a sore thumb. Yasmin’s BMW was parked to the right of it, the blue hire-van further away to the left.
Mr. Pickering was right. The menhir hadn’t been there that same evening. He’d sensed at the time that there had been an element missing, but it wouldn’t have occurred to him in a million years that something so outwardly solid could vanish, although seeing it again made him want to kick himself.
‘But it isn’t possible. It must have weighed a hundred tons or more. It is as solid as a …
‘Ça y est, j’ai compris!’ The penny dropped. Suddenly everything fell into place at once; the roll of material in the boot of Yasmin’s car, the smell of acetone, the bag of light grey powder he’d found in the waste-bin – it must have been filler powder to go with the resin, the paint, the half dry brushes, the piece of sawn-off material he had come across lying on the ground, the pieces of wire and the solder.
A fibreglass menhir! It was on the face of it a preposterous idea, but the more he thought about it the more logical it seemed. As quickly and as briefly as possible he outlined his thoughts. ‘It would be an ideal hiding-place. The whole area is so full of stones no one’s going to notice an extra one – or if they do they’re not going to report it until it is too late.’
Mr. Pickering accepted the thesis without question. ‘How many menhirs do you reckon are around here?’
‘How many? Probably as many as there are cafés in Paris. This part of Brittany is full of them.’