“There’s a recent book, very popular in Germany, French Women Don’t Get Fat, so that indicates that your Helena was one of these slim Venus figures,” said Horst’s friend from the valley of the Neanderthal.
“What a wonderful wedding gift from Clio,” said Manners, “to present you with this new cave at Commarque.”
Bruno was wondering who this Clio person might be, when Barrymore raised his glass and declared, “A toast, to Clio, goddess of history, daughter of Zeus and Muse of historians.”
“Clio, the cruel goddess, who rides her chariot over heaps of the dead,” intoned Manners, raising his glass in turn.
“Clio, she who has the power to make men famous,” added one of the Germans, and the others raised their glasses in turn. Bruno followed suit, smiling to himself that learned professors and academics could make just as much fools of themselves as anyone else when the wine had been flowing. A short buzz came from the phone at his waist to signal an incoming message. Discreetly, he checked it. Isabelle had texted him that the gendarme who had been shot at Siorac would live.
Chapter 21
Thankful that the quality of the wine and his deliberate avoidance of Crimson’s whiskey had spared him a hangover, Bruno entered the gendarmerie shortly before eight the following morning. He had spent the previous thirty minutes in his office, checking e-mails and messages from his networks. At one point he had risen from his desk in excitement to study the map on his wall. On the way to the briefing he stopped at the Maison de la Presse to buy copies of the detailed local maps used by hikers and marked each of them with his latest findings. Pleased that he had something significant to contribute, he greeted Prunier and J-J as their car pulled up. Despite the cardboard coffee cups each man carried, they looked tired and solemn. Bruno’s bright mood did not last long after J-J looked at him grimly and asked, “Heard the news?”
“Not yet. What’s up?”
“That ex-nun in my pedophile case, the alcoholic. She committed suicide yesterday, pills and a bottle of gin. The problem is she phoned Madame Duteiller, the psychologist, who happened to be giving her statement at the commissariat at the time, on this tax-evasion charge. So Duteiller didn’t get the message, and now she’s saying that it was just a cry for help, and the ex-nun would still be alive if she’d been able to take the call. She says the nun told her she was going to end it all because there would be no justice for the innocent victims of Mussidan.”
“Did the nun leave a suicide note?”
“Yes, saying exactly the same thing and adding that she blamed me in particular and the police in general for not getting the evidence to sustain her story. Duteiller is now all over the radio saying the police are responsible for the nun’s death. If it weren’t for this case, I’d be on the mat in front of the prefect right now.”
“Is the radio also saying that Duteiller was in the police station because she was being charged with tax evasion?”
“We’ll see whether the commune wants to press those charges after they listen to the local news. I’m not getting my hopes up. Right now, the nun is a victim of police neglect, and Duteiller is the saintly angel of mercy seeking to bring justice to molested kids.”
Prunier shook his head. “Don’t worry, J-J. I’ll give a statement to the radio as soon as this is over and straighten things out. And I’ll make sure the commune files charges against Madame Duteiller.”
Sergeant Jules showed the three of them into Yveline’s office, and Bruno almost stopped in his tracks when he saw the brigadier and Isabelle seated behind the desk, frowning at their laptops. She was the last person he’d expected to see back in St. Denis. At least she hadn’t seen his surprise, and probably would not detect the way his pulse was racing at the sight of her.
“Bonjour, messieurs,” the brigadier greeted them, hastily adding, “and you, mademoiselle,” when he noticed Yveline slipping into the room. “I believe you all know Commissaire Perrault, whose local knowledge and European connections I thought would be useful.”
Isabelle smiled politely and then rose to be heartily kissed by J-J, her former boss when she had been stationed in the Périgord. Prunier was greeted with a cool, “Bonjour, monsieur,” while Bruno received only a courteous nod and a handshake that lingered just a moment too long. Half expecting this, he returned a beaming smile, and she raised an eyebrow in return, an ironic facial gesture he recalled fondly, before asking after Balzac. She was looking well, if a little tired, but her eyes were bright. The thrill of the chase had always inspired her.
“I have to brief the minister at nine before he goes to the Elysée to report to the president,” the brigadier went on, “and so far there’s nothing new to tell him, except that the overtime bills will be going through the roof. I’m hoping you gentlemen can improve that.”
Nobody spoke. J-J made a gesture of deference to Prunier, who grimaced and said, “Nothing new to report, sir, except that our roadblocks have all been manned throughout the night and minor roads patrolled by helicopters with searchlights. It looks as though these terrorists have found somewhere to hole up, eating the food they bought. Once they break cover, which we assume they will have to do, we should get them.”
“We’re checking all known associates in France of this woman Leah and the scholar al-Husayni but have found no such connection yet for Mustaf. The other two remain unknown to us or to our European neighbors,” said J-J. “We’re running their photos through various databases but no hits yet. Sir, has the antiterrorist team completed the list of possible targets?”
“We are adding to it all the time,” intervened Isabelle. She mentioned two possible human targets, a former French prime minister who lived in the region and a former foreign minister who lived near Sarlat. The foreign minister had been in office at the time of Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, when French troops had joined the Americans and British in liberating the oil-rich sheikhdom.
“There’s also your neighbor Monsieur Crimson, former head of Britain’s Joint Intelligence Committee at the time of the Iraq War, the one we did not see fit to join,” the brigadier added. “He’s authorized to keep a weapon for self-defense, but I’ve arranged for a guard to be assigned. Bruno, do you have anything for us?”
“Yes, sir, we may have something. As you know, my local network gave us the first sighting at the Casino store yesterday, and now a second network, of local hunting clubs, has come up with three rural houses which were certainly unoccupied a week ago but which now have signs of occupation. We’re fortunate that the hunting season is not quite ended. The hunters noticed fresh tire tracks, chimney smoke and, in one case, a crack of light showing where curtains had not been properly closed. I’m checking the records to see if we can identify the owners and plan to call each of them as soon as we’re done here. Meanwhile, here’s a copy of a detailed local map, and I’ve marked each building, assuming you’ll want to brief the helicopter teams.”
“Well, thank the Lord somebody seems to know what he’s doing. Don’t let us keep you,” the brigadier said. He handed Bruno a small, square enamel badge, about the size of a thumbnail, formed of a blue and a white oblong inside a red border. He saw that the brigadier and Isabelle were wearing the same badges. “Keep that on at all times. Everybody briefed for this operation will know that it means you’re on my staff. And now, track down those owners as soon as you can and call me or Isabelle with the results.”
“Yes, sir,” Bruno said, then saluted and left. He had one owner’s name already, of what looked like an old fermette, a small family farm in the sprawling rural commune of Urval. The owner of the second house, in the woods beyond St. Cyprien, would have to be checked by the local policeman. The third house was in a commune too small to have its own local policeman, but the mayor of St. Denis was tracking down his colleague to open the tiny mairie early and check the map and tax records. As Bruno approached the mairie, he spotted Amélie, who waved and called out a greeting from Fauquet’s terrace. He tapped his watch in return, signaling he h
ad no time to talk.
“No, wait,” she called, jumping up from the café table and coming across to him at a perilous pace in her customary high heels. “This is important. Those photos from Gare de l’Est. Did you notice they all smoked when they were on the terrace of the balcony on the square? Smokers need their fix. So I made a list for you of all the licensed tabacs in the area, with e-mails and phone numbers and loaded it onto your computer yesterday.”
“Many thanks,” he said, embracing her. Then he darted up the steps of the mairie to send out the e-mail to all the tabacs with photos of the four suspects attached.
Once he had received the name of the property owners from the St. Cyprien colleague and from the mayor, he checked the annuaire for the three phone listings and began calling the houses his hunting contacts had identified. The first phone was answered sleepily by someone speaking what sounded like Dutch. The man said in halting French that he and his family had recently arrived from Rotterdam for a spring vacation. There was no reply from the house near Urval, and he could find no phone listing for the name of the owner in the tiny commune of Castels. Those houses would have to be searched. He e-mailed the details to Isabelle and the brigadier. He then sent the e-mail with photos attached to Amélie’s list of tobacco shops and went back down the stairs for a coffee and croissant with Amélie.
“You really are very good at this,” he said. “I wish you’d think again about what I said.”
“Forget it,” she said sharply. “Any more thoughts about the target? I was looking through the local paper to see if there were any long-planned events that might attract them, like the big soccer match in Paris. I don’t think local rugby games are what the jihadists have in mind. Nor this new cave at Commarque. Your friendly local reporter has used it to write about the Templars again.”
“I’m not surprised. He has to sell papers. How was your evening with Florence?”
“Great, I really liked her, once she stopped singing your praises. It was almost embarrassing, until she said she sang in the choir and then we started doing duets. She has a great voice. She said you’d gotten her the job at the collège.”
He shook his head. “I just heard that the old science teacher was retiring, and she’s a trained chemist with a university diploma, which meant she was much better qualified than most of the science teachers we tend to get around here. She’s getting her teaching qualification while working.”
“Yes, she told me that. And how she went about starting the computer club. And her kids are great.”
“I’m glad you got to know them. She’s a wonderful woman, a real asset to the town. I expect she’ll be elected to the council before long and become one of my bosses.” He paused, looking at his watch. “I’d better get back to the gendarmerie to see if they have work for me. Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you can track down these two property owners and see why their houses suddenly show signs of life.” He handed her the short list and said the first one had been checked, a Dutchman he’d woken up when he called him.
“If he’s Dutch, why is his name de Villiers?”
“It’s a fairly common Dutch name, from the Huguenot Protestants who fled there in our wars of religion.” He paused, reflecting. “Maybe we should double-check.”
Leaving Balzac with Amélie, Bruno headed for the café to ask Fauquet if there’d been any Hollanders in today, but he shook his head. He began looking through his phone for the number of Willem, a Dutch friend from the tennis club, but as he returned to the terrace he heard Amélie on her phone. She seemed to be asking someone to call a number to see if whoever answered was really Dutch and then call her back. She paused and laughed in response to something and closed her phone.
“What was the joke?”
“A friend in Amsterdam who is going to call them now. She said if there was any doubt she might ask them to say ‘Scheveningen.’ ” She stumbled as she tried to say it. “It’s the name of a town on the coast that only a Hollander can pronounce. Apparently it was how they identified Germans in the war.”
“First rule of policing,” said Bruno. “Make sure you have friends everywhere.”
Amélie waited, watching her phone as if willing it to ring. But Bruno’s phone rang first, the one he’d been given by the brigadier during a previous case. Along with the special ringtone came a telltale green light that showed the caller was someone else connected to the special security network. It was Isabelle.
“Where are you?” she asked, her voice brisk as if to tell him that this was official. Bruno wondered why she bothered. Every call on this network was automatically recorded.
“Just leaving my office and heading back to the gendarmerie,” he said, in a tone as official as hers. Damn it, he thought to himself, we know each other too well for that. And allowing his voice to convey the affection he felt for her, he added, “Shall I bring Balzac along? He’d love to see you.”
There was a pause, and then he heard a nonverbal sound that seemed friendly; in a cat, it would have been a purr. “I’d love to see him, but it’s not a good idea. I’ll try to see him later. We’ve got a helicopter on the way to the house near Castels, and then it will check on St. Cyprien—”
“Wait a moment,” Bruno interrupted, seeing Amélie answering her own phone and gesturing at him. “Another report is coming in.”
“No reply?” Amélie was saying into her phone. “Are you sure? Somebody answered just a few minutes ago. Could you try it one more time? It’s really important.”
Bruno spoke to Isabelle: “We’re checking on the house where I spoke to someone, apparently a Dutchman. We’re now trying to confirm his nationality with a native Dutch speaker, and now the phone’s not answering. I’ll call you back.”
As soon as he closed his phone, it rang again, and an unfamiliar male voice asked, “Is that Chef de Police Courrèges?”
“Yes, speaking. Who is this?”
“My name is Laurier, I run the tabac on the main street in St. Cyprien and got the e-mail you sent. A man has just been in my shop who was the spitting image of the older man in your photos. I took a good look at him because he bought two cartons, that’s four hundred cigarettes. Marlboros, and we don’t often sell cartons here. A hundred and forty euros, it was, and he wanted a new lighter, some chocolate bars and mints. He gave me three new fifties, and I let him have a lighter for free and a plastic bag to put it all in.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Five or ten minutes. I served him and afterward I was looking at the news on my tablet. My wife gave it to me for my birthday. Anyway, after I’d looked at the headlines I checked the e-mails and saw your message.”
“What was he wearing?”
“I didn’t really notice. Jeans, I think, and a turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket. I remember he was wearing a baseball cap.”
“Was he on foot or did he have a car?”
“I think he was on foot, but I wasn’t really looking, sorry. He might have had a car further down the street. Is this a criminal thing? Not forged banknotes, I hope.”
“No, it’s just routine, not about forgery. But thank you, Monsieur Laurier. Could you just take a look outside and see if he’s still in sight?”
“No sign of him,” said Laurier after a brief pause, and Bruno thanked him again, ended the call and turned to look at Amélie.
“No reply the second time my friend called.”
“Right, I have to go,” he said. “That was one of your tabac men. He just sold two cartons of Marlboros to al-Husayni in St. Cyprien. Thanks, Amélie, and well done. Could you keep trying that number where there was no reply? It strikes me as suspicious. I’ll call you from the gendarmerie.”
He called Isabelle as he trotted along the rue St. Denis.
“We have a sighting,” he said. “It happened minutes ago in the tabac in St. Cyprien, within walking distance of that house with the suspect Dutchman. The shopkeeper identified al-Husayni.”
“But how—” she began.
Bruno interrupted her. “I sent photos to all the tabacs and this one just called me. But you’d better warn the helicopter team that they may have a hot landing zone and see if you can arrange extra backup.”
“Right, got it.” Before she hung up he heard her shout, “Stop, everybody, emergency…”
Minutes later when he entered Yveline’s office, he caught the mood of controlled urgency that he remembered from military operations rooms when a serious mission was under way. Isabelle smiled at him, put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone she was holding and said, “The GIGN helicopter is heading for St. Cyprien, touching down in about fifteen minutes. Another one is on the way and we’re rerouting all the motorbike cops to seal off the town.”
“There’s more,” said Bruno, and the room fell silent, the brigadier, Prunier and J-J all turning from their phones to look at him expectantly. Yveline stopped putting pins into the big map on the wall and turned to listen.
“About twenty minutes ago I called the house outside St. Cyprien. A male voice answered claiming to be Dutch and to have just arrived at his vacation home. When I got a native Dutch speaker to call him, just ten minutes later, there was no reply. The house is marked on the map I gave you. Then I got the call from the tabac owner. He said that al-Husayni was carrying a plastic bag containing two cartons of cigarettes and chocolate bars,” Bruno said, and described the clothes he’d been wearing. “This is the scholarly one, not a trained soldier.”
“Understood,” said the brigadier and turned back to speak into his phone. “We have a possible location. Please route gendarme helicopter call sign Angel Two to a house two kilometers northwest of St. Cyprien, map reference seven-four-one-two-two-six. Land the combat team to observe only, and then I want that helicopter circling overhead until we can get reinforcements there. I want the other helicopters to head for St. Cyprien and await instructions.”
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