by Lex Lander
‘You have no more appointments tonight,’ he snarled and sat up, glaring at her.
Refusing to be cowed, she glared back until he released her arm. Red fingerprints flared on her creamy skin. She rubbed the spot.
‘You are a brute,’ she accused, pretending to sulk though privately she was triumphant. His reaction and his actions made her realise that she had more power over him than he over her. ‘But I will forgive you. I will also stay. Provided …’
‘Yes?’
‘Provided you compensate me for loss of income.’
Barail sighed. Once a poule …
He promised to make good her losses. He was besotted with her and that was a fact. Four trysts and already he was scheming how to get her off the streets. It couldn’t work. Poules were notoriously incorrigible. But he had determined to try. This one really was special.
As he resumed a supine position Lucille slipped naturally into his arms. She nuzzled his chin where the new day’s bristle was already bursting forth.
‘Cave man,’ she murmured, her tongue flicking at his ear lobe. ‘See, I am your adoring slave. You can treat me like a slut …’
‘You are a slut,’ he cut in. He had no romantic illusions.
‘Quelle gentillesse! But I will not be discouraged. You can say and do anything to me.’
‘For money,’ Barail observed, a little sourly.
‘Also for other things. I … I do like you, Raoul. Much more than all the others.’
Barail flinched inside at ‘all the others’, but let it pass.
‘You are far too pretty. You are not safe for a man to be around.’
She made a mock growling noise and snapped her teeth just short of his cheek. ‘I am a tigress. I will bite and scratch you to death.’
She raked her silver-painted fingernails across his moderately hairy chest leaving four parallel tracks running from nipple to nipple. He sucked hard through his teeth but uttered no protest.
‘You are not really in the mood tonight,’ she observed. ‘You have something on your mind perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’ Barail reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table, then, unable to resist bragging, went on, ‘If you must know, I am in the middle of a very big deal that will make me a rich man. In the meantime it is turning my hair grey.’
Lucille sat up and began to probe his scalp as if hunting for lice.
‘Indeed, you already have strands of silver here and there, my love. But that is perfectly in order for someone of your mature years. You are a distinguished man, so you should look distinguished.’
Barail’s jaundiced gaze wandered around the room of the rather seedy, but oh-so discreet establishment. Nothing distinguished about his surroundings or his situation. He clicked his lighter under the cigarette.
‘Tell me about it, Raoul,’ Lucille cooed, trying without success to smooth the lines from Barail’s forehead. ‘Take some more wine and unburden yourself to me.’ As she spoke she reached across him for the half empty bottle of red Bordeaux.
‘D’accord, but I assure you, ma petite, it is nothing. Why should I expect you to share my tribulations?’
‘Because I insist.’
* * *
When Commissaire Barail was shown into the President’s private study by the ADC on this damp morning in April he was momentarily put out to find that he was the last to arrive.
‘Mes excuses, Monsieur le Président,’ he said uncertainly as he advanced into the rather under-heated room. ‘Am I late?’
It was Le Renard who answered, after a small chuckle.
‘No, Commissaire. The rest of us were early.’
The other two of the four Beauvais Tapestry chairs ranged before the President’s desk were occupied by Jean-Louis Debre, Minister of the Interior and Barail’s ultimate boss, and Bernard Provost, Director General of the Gendarmerie National, known to many as ‘Charlie’ after the gendarmerie’s national call sign.
President Jacques Chirac, without looking up from the papers he was poring over, muttered a ‘Bonjour,’ and waved Barail to the free seat. Hands were ritually shaken as he passed the other three.
‘Now,’ the President said, tapping the top sheet of paper, ‘let us come to the subject that concerns the good Commissaire, then he can be about his business, whatever it may be.’ The smile that accompanied this pronouncement struck Barail as distinctly sharklike. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. That’s what came of having a guilty conscience, he said to himself. You started reading your fears into every gesture, every nuance, even every smile.
‘The object is to settle the security arrangements for my stay chez Crillon in June.’ The President tapped the paper again and peered at it through his reading glasses. ‘Monsieur Provost’s dispositions seem adequate to me, considering the area to be secured. You have seen this, of course, Commissaire?’
Barail was in the process of extracting his copy of Le Renard’s memo from his attaché case. He nodded.
‘Oui, monsieur.’
‘Have you anything you wish to add, in particular reference to your own obligations?’ Debre asked, his deep dark eyes inscrutable.
Barail was well-briefed, as much for Lux’s benefit as the President’s.
‘The President’s bodyguard will be quartered in the annex over the garage, with the overspill in a mobile accommodation unit to be installed one week before the start date. They will stand four-hour watches, as usual, so that four men will be on duty at any time. Commandant Petit will have command until my arrival. I propose to attend personally the day immediately prior to the President’s arrival and will remain overnight.’
‘Any special concerns?’ Debre said, directing an elegantly raised eyebrow at Barail.
The President’s chief bodyguard was an old, old hand. He had foreseen a general question along these lines. His natural desire for the assassination to succeed made him reluctant to aggravate Lux’s task. Yet his own emergence untainted carried a higher priority. His prepared response was thus a fraud, cunningly packaged to appear as a real improvement to the security measures already in place.
‘The perimeter wall is over five kilometres in circumference, therefore I would agree that the numbers envisaged are adequate to assure its integrity. What I would like to know is how the men will be distributed along the wall.’
‘Over to you, Monsieur Provost,’ Chirac said.
The Director General of the Gendarmerie glanced down at the notes in his lap.
‘My men will be positioned on the outside of the wall except for the seven hundred metre section on the eastern side of the estate, above the river valley, which is sheer. There is nowhere for a man to stand along that part of the wall, and in any case, in my opinion, it is not necessary. The steepness of the gorge is protection enough. Even so, I intend to station a small number, probably ten or twelve, officers along the inside of the wall on that section.’
Barail nodded slowly, his expression pensive.
‘Bien. I cannot fault your dispositions but if I might make a suggestion …?’
‘Please do,’ the Gendarmerie chief said, inwardly berating Barail as an interfering know-all.
‘I visited the site yesterday and spent some time on the far bank of the river. From there one has an uninterrupted view of the side of the gorge below the wall. May I suggest an additional ten men be stationed along the river bank. This will prevent a would-be intruder from getting anywhere near the wall, let alone over it.
Barail did not notice the exchange of puzzled glances between Debre and Le Renard. He was silently congratulating himself on having reaffirmed, as he saw it, his bona fides without detriment to Lux’s chances.
‘That seems to be an excellent suggestion,’ Le Renard remarked, stroking the apex of his denuded pate, and Debre murmured his accord.
The head of the Gendarmerie, mildly discomfited at his failure to consider this solution, could only mumble ‘I will deal with it right away,’ and scribble furiously on his notes.
<
br /> ‘I understand from the Director General that a helicopter patrol will also be provided,’ Barail said.
The President frowned. ‘Not continuously, I trust. My wife hates the noise those things make and I am not keen on it myself.’
It was Le Renard’s turn to make notes.
‘It will be based outside the estate, Monsieur le Président, and will only fly patrols twice daily - at dawn and at dusk - and always beyond the perimeter, not above the estate itself.’
This appeared to mollify the President.
‘Any other business in the matter of my vacation?’ he demanded, his gaze passing from one face to another. ‘If not, I suggest we allow the Monsieur Provost and Commissaire Barail to return to their duties.’
As the door closed behind the two, Chirac, fingers interlocked, hands resting on his snow-white blotter, directed a flinty gaze at the Minister of the Interior.
‘Now, if you please, mon cher Jean-Louis, is there a plot to assassinate me or is there not?’
Debre motioned to Le Renard to respond.
‘Effectivement, Monsieur le Président,’ Le Renard confirmed. ‘Only last night our agent made the first breakthrough with Commissaire Barail.’
‘He is definitely implicated?’
‘Without doubt.’
The President gave out a long, heartfelt sigh. He was genuinely saddened.
‘Have you ascertained the identity of the proposed killer?’
‘Not so far, Monsieur le Président,’ Le Renard said, with a shake of his head. ‘We cannot rush this matter. To do so would be to jeopardise the integrity and the safety of our agent and throw away our ace card.’
‘So let us arrest Barail,’ Debre proposed. ‘Even if we can’t get him to talk, their plan will probably collapse.’
Le Renard shook his head. ‘Perhaps we will. But not yet. If we arrest him our subterfuge will be blown. If he doesn’t talk, what then? We will not know whether the killer will still go ahead, whether he will try for it at the Crillon place or some other place and time. Barail is not the mastermind in this affair. Most likely he is only a minor link in the chain. Whoever is in charge is not going to give up just because they lose their fifth columnist.’
‘What Monsieur Renard says makes sense,’ Chirac said, nodding. ‘I believe his plan should go forward.’
‘Very well,’ Debre said. ‘I understand you have given the killer a code-name, Renard.’
‘Indeed.’ Renard smirked. ‘Henceforth he will be known as …’ He paused for dramatic effect and he was damned if Debre didn’t jump in and steal his thunder.
‘Le Chacal,’ the Minister of the Interior trumpeted with a smirk of his own. ‘He will be called The Jackal.’
‘The Jackal?’ Chirac echoed. ‘Curious choice. Is there a connection with Ramírez Sánchez, that scumbag terrorist the press call Carlos the Jackal? If it must be an animal I would have thought hyena more appropriate.’ He smiled to show it was meant to be a joke.
A dutiful titter from the Minister of the Interior was not duplicated by Renard, who said, ‘No, it is not on account of that Jackal, Monsieur le Président. There was a book … you may remember - Le Jour du Chacal, The Day of the Jackal, about an assassination attempt on de Gaulle. It was written by an Englishman, whose name escapes me.’
‘Forsyth, Frederick,’ Debre supplied. ‘About twenty years ago, was it not? Everybody read it at the time.’
‘Indeed,’ Renard concurred. ‘Actually, I heard Pompidou made it required reading for all ministers and heads of security.’
The President was tapping his fingers on the desk top and looking impatient. He hated conversations in his presence in which he was not a participant.
‘This is all very fascinating, but I know nothing of this book. Perhaps you will obtain a copy for me, Jean-Louis.’ A nod from Debre, and Chirac went on, ‘In the meantime, if it pleases you to christen the killer in honour of a work of fiction, do not let me dissuade you. The Jackal it shall be.’
Seventeen
* * *
The aerial shots of the Maison Crillon, taken the previous day, depicted a walled estate, roughly egg-shaped, measuring some two kilometres from north to south and a little over half that at its widest point east-west. This added up to a perimeter of about five kilometres. The height of the wall, though not calculable from the shots, was over two and a half metres.
The land was undulating except around the buildings and the asphalt driveway. The ground-level studies showed the house to be an imposing, circa late-nineteenth century structure built in ochre-coloured stone with first floor balconies to each window. A tastefully blended annexe comprising a four-car garage and a guest apartment above had been grafted on. An avenue of trees - silver limes, by the look of them, though the species was not native to southern France - guarded a driveway leading from the southern extremity of the wall. In front of the house the driveway ended in a half circle, with parking space off to one side, discreetly screened by more trees.
Apart from the avenue, an olive grove in the south-west corner, and isolated mimosas, cypresses and pines dotted about the place, there were four distinct wooded areas: a large copse between the back of the house and the east wall and three smaller stands along the west wall. In the northern half of the estate, situated roughly midway from east to west, was a lake, too regular in shape to be natural. A tiny island, accessed by a footbridge, served as home for a single pine tree. Two other small patches of water defined the estate: a guitar-shaped swimming pool (for much of the seventies the owner was an American rock singer) and a rectangular pond at the back of the house. Otherwise, it was all grassland, criss-crossed by footpaths, the only irregularity being a paddock with stables that housed four horses.
Barail reshuffled the stack of photographs and waded through them for the fourth time, noting the service road from the village two kilometres away that petered out into a rutted track. At the end of the track was a ruined cottage, one-time home of some farmworker, no doubt.
His interest in the photographs was twofold. In the first place, as co-ordinator of the presidential bodyguard, he was on the circulation of all material relating to Chirac’s outings. To him the ultimate responsibility for assuring the well-being of the President, the last line of protection. If a venue aroused his concern he had the final veto.
In the ordinary way he would merely have stressed the need for thorough searches of the buildings, the outbuildings and the wooded areas. It was not his job to flush out any prospective assassins but clearly his job was made easier if the police and the other security services seconded to the location did their job thoroughly. If his protection squad was called upon to do its duty it meant that one of the other security forces had failed to do theirs.
In the second place, in his role as fifth columnist he had to view the set up as if from the other side of the fence, assess the feasibility of an assassin gaining entry unseen, discharging his obligations without hindrance, and fleeing the scene without being captured. A triple tall order. At least a hundred, possibly more, gendarmes and CRS would be drafted to the area to carry out a very thorough search and maintain a round the clock patrol.
The President would arrive by helicopter at mid-day, give or take half an hour, on Sunday 2nd June. The semi-circular asphalt courtyard in front of the house was more than adequate as a landing pad. Barail imagined Lux would want to make the hit as the helicopter hovered above the landing pad preparatory to touchdown. No, wait, that was a non-starter. The helicopter windows were bullet proof. Then it would have to be done at the instant Chirac emerged from the machine, before the twelve-strong Presidential bodyguard could move in to encircle him within a laager of flesh, bone and bullet-proof vests. The tiniest of windows of opportunity; the bodyguards would be swarming all over the President the instant the door opened.
A challenge indeed for the American. Barail was glad that he didn’t personally have to make it happen.
* * *
It was raining ha
rd in Paris. The pavements reflected the streetlights and the neon signs of the restaurants and clubs. Around midnight the downpour eased and when Lucille stepped out of the revolving door of the Vieux Moulin Hotel, she no longer needed her umbrella.
At the kerb a taxi was waiting, its engine running. She click-clacked over to it on her towering heels and stooped beside the driver.
‘Are you booked?’ she asked but before he could reply she noticed a dark head outlined against the rear window. ‘I am sorry …’ she began, then the back door swung open.
‘Get in …’ It was not a request.
She hesitated.
‘C’est moi, Mazé,’ said the vague form in the back of the taxi. ‘Now will you get in?’
‘Excuse me, monsieur,’ she said, feeling foolish, and climbed in, her micro skirt riding up to crotch level and treating Mazé to a flicker of white nylon. He didn’t object. Though he was content in his marriage and unlike many of his superiors never made use of other women, paid or unpaid, he was not averse to occasional titillation.
He ordered the taxi driver to move off.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked, not unreasonably.
Mazé, irritable from his long wait, snarled, ‘Je m’en fous, nom de Dieu! Just drive around.’ To Lucille, in a lowered tone, he said, ‘I need results - and fast. Most importantly, I need the name of the Jackal and a description and details of his movements. Secondly, I need the identities of his employers.’
‘Something has come up?’
‘No, nothing special. But I am under pressure, you understand. This is my pet project. Le Vieux Renard expects me to produce results.’
Lucille puffed air through pursed lips. To rush this job would be to court trouble. Barail was no mug. If she started pumping him really hard he would get wary.
‘Ecoutez, monsieur, that was only my sixth rendezvous with him. You don’t cultivate the confidence of a man like Commissaire Barail after a few sessions in the sack - especially if you’re a poule. You should know that better than anybody.’