Another Day, Another Jackal

by Lex Lander

  Determined that these rumours should be substantiated or laid to rest, Legoff invited Le Renard to lunch at La Terrasse Fleuri in the Inter-Continental Hotel. So exclusive and expensive was this most bleu of cordon establishments that, owing to the adverse impact on his expense account, the columnist only ever dared use it when the stakes were high and the informant exalted.

  Though it was again a day of warm sunshine they dined inside amidst the plethora of flowering shrubs to which the restaurant owes its name, in a discreet corner where they could not be overheard. Legoff, shortish with close-cropped grey hair that stood up like bristles, was an untidy eater: he wore his napkin tucked in his collar to save his tie from the inevitable shower of debris.

  During the starter course he seemed content to discourse on everything but the President’s wellbeing. Only when the main course came - filets de rouges profilés for Le Renard, ris de veau for Legoff, the second cheapest item on the menu - did he unleash his bloodhound skills. With the departure of the waiter came the abrupt switch from gentle sparring to the equivalent of a punch below the belt.

  ‘Did you catch the assassin yet?’ he asked, in a ‘by the way’ manner, affecting absorption in the contents of his plate.

  Not even Le Renard, for all his encounters with the press and consequent suspicion of its motives and methods, was quite prepared for such bluntness. Fortunately his gaze was also on his plate and stayed there while he composed an answer.

  ‘You’ve had your ear to one too many keyholes,’ he said, shovelling rice into his mouth.

  ‘Don’t prevaricate, my friend.’

  Now Le Renard lifted his eyes to the newsman. ‘Did you not receive the Ordonnance?’

  Legoff dismissed the ministerial decree with a wave of his fork. ‘You and I are old friends. What is an ordinance to twenty years of lunching together?’

  ‘A good question, Hervé. One day I will ask myself.’ Le Renard sipped his wine. It was a Petit Chablis and just acid enough to titillate his critical palate. ‘For the present you must do as you are told.’

  Legoff grunted. ‘Don’t I always? Don’t we - the whole news industry - do as we are told? We are positively supine. To step so much as a millimetre out of line would be more than my job is worth.’

  ‘Not to mention your life.’

  A morsel of veal shot off Legoff’s plate and across the white table cloth, leaving a spoor of mushroom sauce.

  ‘Do not make jokes about such things,’ he said, retrieving it.

  ‘It was barely a joke. Though I should not need to say it, do not trifle with ordinances in general and this one in particular.’

  ‘I never have. But can you tell me nothing, even off the record?’

  A waiter hovered, enquired if all was to the gentlemen’s liking. He was sent away entirely reassured, just as he expected to be.

  ‘Off the record?’ Le Renard trusted Legoff as much as any other journalist - not at all. In the ordinary way he might have let drop a hint or two, nodded a rumour through, corrected an item of gossip. On this story though, he was gagged. His boss, Jean-Louis Debre, had left no margin for discretion. Denial was the official line. Not even a simple ‘no comment’ was enough.

  ‘The ordinance referred to rumours, did it not? It rejected these rumours as mischief-mongering. It forbade any reporting even of a speculative nature. That is all I have to say on the subject.’

  Legoff stared, his resentment plain to see. ‘And that’s it? That’s all you’re going to feed me?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Nothing about an organisation called Greenwar?’ Legoff was angry now and not trying to hide it. ‘Nothing about an act of revenge for the nuclear testing we did in the Pacific?’

  ‘If you wish to report on the subject of this Greenwar movement or on the tests, you are free to do so. Simply do not link either or both to any tittle-tattle about contracts on the President.’

  Legoff ripped his napkin from his collar and pushed back his chair. It squealed on the block flooring and caused several heads to turn reprovingly in his direction.

  ‘You insult me, my friend: me, my integrity, my profession, and … and our friendship.’

  ‘Some things are bigger than friendship,’ Le Renard rejoined.

  As the columnist whirled away out of the restaurant, an outwardly unmoved Le Renard resumed his meal. It was far too good to waste out of pique. In any case, it now looked as if he would be stuck with the bill.

  * * *

  It was to be the final meeting of the key figures in the Jackal affair; the concluding chapter. Better still, the epilogue.

  Le Renard reported to the assemblage that the threat to the President’s life had been removed, leaving the ‘for now’ qualification unsaid. He formally ruled out any further attempts by the clandestine green organisation, claiming, without evidence or justification, that they had been reduced to a demoralised rabble. Ending on this upbeat note, Le Renard delegated to Mazé the CRS response to Interior Minister Jean Louis Debre’s request for a breakdown of results.

  ‘Not a chronological account,’ the Minister elaborated. ‘Just a status report on the protagonists.’

  Le Renard affected not to notice Mazé’s resentful glance at being handed this poisoned chalice. By rights, the head of the department should take the rap for the bad as well as credit for the good.

  When Mazé spoke though there was no suggestion of rancour in his voice.

  ‘Commissaire Barail, who acted as contact and informant and joint-co-ordinator for want of a better title, has been dealt with. Rafael Simonelli, who was the original recruiter of Barail and shared the co-ordination with him was arrested in Switzerland the day before yesterday on suspicion of murder. A formal application for extradition is being prepared. He was also close to the Glister woman, whom I shall come to shortly.’

  ‘So far so good,’ the Minister murmured.

  Mazé shuffled his papers around. ‘Alors, the Jackal, whose name we now know to be Dennis Randolph Lux, was shot to death in Lausanne, seemingly by Simonelli, on 5th June.’

  ‘Very obliging of him,’ Le Bihan, the Foreign Minister’s Chef de Cabinet observed.

  ‘As we are all aware Agent 411 became emotionally involved with Lux,’ Mazé continued. ‘As a result she absconded with him and in so doing became an accessory after the fact. She is under arrest and will be interrogated by the DCPJ very shortly. Charges will almost certainly be preferred against her.’

  ‘We must be sure she keeps her mouth shut.’ This from Roger Billaud-Varennes, right-hand man to Debre at the Ministry of the Interior.

  ‘Evidemment,’ Le Renard said.

  ‘Other than that only one other French national was involved - Monsieur Le Comte d’Arbois, who is also to be charged as an accessory, though he claims to have been unaware of the plot and of Simonelli’s fugitive status. It may be difficult to prove otherwise.’

  ‘He is unimportant, surely,’ Le Page said. ‘There is no suggestion that he was a party to the assassination attempt, merely that he was doing Barail a favour.’

  ‘In any case,’ Debre said, ‘that leaves only the Greenwar people unaccounted for, in particular the Glister woman.’

  Mazé moistened his lips. They were about to enter territory where the results were less likely to earn him plaudits.

  ‘As has been reported, the man, Gary Rosenbrand, was … er, arrested on 4th June in London. This man was a companion of the Glister woman, though it seems to have been a purely professional relationship. His precise role is unknown. In any event, despite subjecting him to a total of … ’ Mazé’s index finger roamed over his notes, came to rest near the foot of a page, ‘eighteen hours interrogation, we were unable to obtain either an admission of complicity or any inculpatory evidence to use against the Glister woman.’

  Debre was ill at ease with the term ‘interrogation’. Interviewing officers often got carried away by their enthusiasm and their natural wish to obtain a result.

  ‘Nothing un
authorised occurred during questioning, I trust,’ he said, to cover himself.

  Le Renard, equally anxious to keep his reputation clean, said, ‘Instructions were given verbally to Commissaire Mazé prior to interrogation of the suspect and subsequently confirmed in writing. Any violence and intimidation was firmly forbidden.’

  ‘Non, Monsieur le Ministre,’ Mazé said in answer to the Minister’s query.

  ‘Where is this man now?’ Le Bihan enquired.

  ‘He is held incommunicado, at Hubert Monmarché, pending instructions.’

  Le Renard began to speak but was out-deciballed by the Interior Minister. ‘Release him at once.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur le Ministre.’

  ‘With an apology,’ the Minister added, ‘and luxury travel facilities to any destination of his choice outside Metropolitan France. And make sure he knows that the President is alive and in perfect health.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur le Ministre.’

  Debre rested his hands on the blotter before him, arranged to expose the optimum two centimetres of white shirt cuff.

  ‘Good. This leaves the infamous Mademoiselle Glister, does it not?’

  Mazé’s sigh did not travel far enough to reach the Minister’s ears. ‘The same squad from the Service Extérieure that arrested Rosenbrand attempted to arrest Glister as a simultaneous operation. Regrettably, she escaped and has gone to ground.’

  ‘So you have lost her,’ the Minister said.

  ‘We have not given up,’ Le Renard asserted. ‘The DSE is still scouring England.’

  ‘Call them off. The operation is cancelled herewith.’

  Le Renard didn’t dispute the ruling, and Mazé was merely relieved, glad to be shot of the whole imbroglio.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the Minister said, his gaze skipping from one face to the next. ‘The operation is to be considered terminated. Renard, I would like your concluding report on my desk one week from today, with all ‘t’s crossed and all ‘I’s dotted.’

  Le Renard acknowledged. That would keep Mazé out of mischief for a few days.

  ‘That will be all, thank you,’ the Minister concluded.

  Mazé and Le Page were the last to vacate the room.

  ‘That’s a turn up for the book,’ the DCPJ Commissaire said. ‘I never expected to see the day when France let a gang of assassins off the hook.’

  ‘This is different. One of them is American, and the other a New Zealander, which is worse. After that Rainbow Warrior cock-up and all the fuss about the nuclear tests no president is going to risk upsetting those bolshie buggers again. If we did, I wouldn’t put it past them to declare war on us!’

  * * *

  Mazé scarcely recognised the woman who was led from her cell. She wore a prison dress - a grey, drab, utterly shapeless garment. Her hair was scraped back and held in a plastic clip. Her face was bare of make-up and her mouth had acquired a downturned set that soured her whole expression. Most of all the vivacity, the glow that complemented her looks was absent.

  ‘Are they treating you well?’ he asked as they walked together to the interview room.

  ‘I am fed, my bed is comfortable. They don’t use violence towards me. Not the physical kind anyway. What more could a prisoner ask?’

  As they settled on their respective sides of the table, Mazé offered her a cigarette. Gitanes, the brand favoured by Lux. They made her cough but she was in no position to be choosy.

  ‘The purpose of this interview is simply to find out if you will co-operate. By which I mean tell us all about your involvement with Lux and all you learned of the Jackal affair beyond the twenty-odd cassette recordings you supplied us before you decided to cross over the line. The sessions will not be conducted by DJCP officers, nor by me, although I may drop in from time to time. Expect them to last several days.’

  ‘As you say, you already have all the cassette recordings I sent you,’ Ghislaine pointed out, funnelling twin streamers of smoke from her nostrils. ‘What more is there?’

  ‘Cassette recordings provide much that is invaluable. They are not evidence, and we received nothing after 30th May.’

  ‘If you intend to use what I tell you against me in court I don’t have to say anything.’

  Mazé wafted away the film of smoke suspended in the air between them.

  ‘Understand this, Ghislaine. This case is not going to court. All we wish to do is tidy up loose ends for a report to the Minister. Tell the truth, co-operate, and you may yet escape with a few years in prison. If your change of heart and allegiance did not come about until after the assassination attempt you will not be considered an accessory before the fact. If this is the case, convince us. If it isn’t, admit it. Clear?’

  Ghislaine nodded.

  ‘Good. Now, if you are ready, I will send for the interviewing officers. The senior of the two is called Enrique Dubois …’

  PART NINE

  JULY

  Missing Persons not Missing

  Thirty-One

  * * *

  It was ten o’clock in the morning of 17th July and the Commissariat de Police in Rue Thorel was as busy as a bus terminal. Like a small boat bobbing on a stormy sea the petite woman with the iron-grey hair done up in a bun forged through the bustle. At the information counter she found herself alongside a fat Arab woman who was haranguing a ginger-haired policeman in mangled French. Something to do with a gang of hooligans daubing racist slogans on her kitchen window.

  A policeman who looked young enough to be the grey-haired woman’s grandson came over from his desk. He was tall, very erect and impeccably-groomed.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, seeming as eager to please as a puppy.

  ‘I wish to speak to an officer,’ she said, meaning someone of exalted rank.

  ‘Très bien. I am an officer,’ he said, assuming she was using the term in its generic sense. ‘How can I help you?’

  The woman was about the size of a twelve-year-old. To make her feel less intimidated he reduced his height by resting his elbows on the counter.

  He had a sympathetic face, she decided, and let drop her intention of demanding to see someone more senior.

  ‘Je m’appele Madame Duplessis,’ she said, fiddling with her handbag which she held before her on the counter as if to create a protective barrier. ‘I live near here, just off the Square de Montholon. It is about my daughter.’

  ‘Yes?’ The policeman did not yet draw the pad of report forms towards him. Time-wasters outnumbered serious complainants by 2-1 and like all policemen he abhorred form-filling, even when it was justified.

  ‘She is missing. She has not been home for over a week.’ She gave the counter a diffident thump with her bag. ‘A whole week, young man!’

  The gendarme inwardly assessed the age of the woman, putting it at around fifty-five, which in fact flattered her by a couple of years.

  ‘How old is your daughter, madame?’

  ‘She will be thirty in November.’

  ‘Well, now,’ the policeman said, selecting his words with great circumspection. ‘Do you not think she is old enough to come and go as she pleases? Does she live with you?’

  ‘Not normally,’ Madame Duplessis said, raising her voice to compete with the continuing verbal torrent from the Arab woman. ‘However, that is not all: she has a son, aged seven. He too is missing.’

  A missing child was a more serious matter. The policeman finally conceded that a report could not be avoided. He picked up a pen with a chewed end and regarded it with distaste for the chewing was not his doing.

  ‘The child has also been missing for a week?’

  ‘A little longer in fact. Ever since the police took him away.’

  The policeman had been about to start writing. Now he stared at her.

  ‘The police took him away? Was he in trouble?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, no, it was nothing like that. My daughter works for the police, or at any rate the RG.’

  ‘The RG?’ The policeman’s eyes widened
. This was getting too deep for a trainee Gardien de la Paix. It had the smell of something more than a routine missing person. ‘Wait here a moment, please.’

  He started towards a door to the side, then stopped after a few paces and turned.

  ‘What is your daughter’s name?’

  ‘Fougère. Ghislaine Fougère.’

  He repeated it to himself and resumed his forward progress. Madame Duplessis waited, occasionally drumming her fingers and listening abstractedly to the Arab woman scattering abuse over the ginger-haired policeman, whose powers of osmosis seemed limitless.

  It was some time before the young policeman reappeared. He was accompanied by a pot-bellied man in a rumpled suit.

  ‘Bonjour, madame,’ the latter smiled. ‘My name is Parizon, Lieutenant de Police. We have made enquiries with the RG and they maintain that your daughter transferred to the CRS in March of this year.’

  Madame Duplessis blinked at him. ‘I was not aware of it. But what has it to do with her disappearance?’

  ‘Nothing perhaps,’ Parizon conceded. ‘But I thought you should be aware of it. In any case, we checked with CRS headquarters and they told me …’ He shook his head. ‘It is very strange that your daughter has said nothing.’

  ‘What did they tell you, these CRS?’ Madame Duplessis said impatiently, supposing that this plodding policeman would get to the point sooner or later.

  ‘Simply that she and her son have been sent on a long holiday.’

  END

  Afterword

  DID ANY OF IT REALLY HAPPEN?

  * * *

  Fact blurred by fiction? Fiction built on a foundation of fact?

  In September 1996 a French freelance news correspondent called Thierry Garbe allegedly received an anonymous telephone call at his Paris Montmartre apartment. The caller claimed to have in his possession a secret Government dossier concerning an assassination attempt on President Jacques Chirac, arising out of his decision in 1995 to resume nuclear tests in the Pacific.