The Templars' Last Secret

by Martin Walker

  Where he was radicalized, thought Bruno, like so many other young men from immigrant families. Two-thirds of France’s prison inmates were Muslim, and more and more of them were fervent jihadis by the time they came out.

  Yveline darted across the room to the printer, where Demirci’s prison mug shot was spooling from the roller, followed by his personal file and prison record. Yveline took the photo to the clinic, to see if Fabiola would allow her to show it to al-Husayni.

  Bruno leafed through the other papers that came from the printer. Demirci came from a family that had been part of the Turkish minority in Algeria, descendants of the Turkish officials who ran North Africa in the era of Ottoman power. Mainly police, military and administrators, they had long been loyal to France during the Algerian War of Independence, and many of them were persecuted after the French left and the war was won. Demirci had three brothers, and remembering what al-Husayni had said about the two men looking like twins, he asked Yveline to see if there were any files, photos or criminal records for the brothers. Then he began thinking about the implications of there being two terrorist combat teams in the area, able to hit two separate targets at the same time.

  “Yves is at the scene,” said J-J, referring to the head of the forensics team. “He’s found the bullets that hit al-Husayni. It was a small gun, and he’s sure it was fired from a Manurhin with a silencer fitted. It’s a French copy of the Walther 5.56 millimeter, the caliber the Anglo-Saxons call a two-two.”

  A small bullet and slowed by the silencer, thought Bruno. A bigger gun could have blown Husayni’s arm off. But why would they want to kill him? Had he lost his usefulness? And the shooter had been talking on his phone, presumably back to his base. Perhaps Mustaf had panicked after Bruno’s phone call, despite the way the Flemish-speaking Ahmed had sounded like a Dutchman. They must have called al-Husayni’s driver and told him they were leaving and to get out fast and kill the now-useless al-Husayni. That call could be traced and the numbers monitored as they triggered each new cell tower that came into range.

  He called the familiar number at France-Télécom and asked for an emergency review of the calls logged by the St. Cyprien cell towers for the thirty minutes after the tabac owner’s call to him. They should send the breakdown to Yveline’s e-mail address at the gendarmerie, he said. Then he told J-J and Yveline that they might be getting some useful phone numbers and then that he had to leave for an appointment with the mayor.

  “Anything that you’d like me to say to Delaron about this ex-nun?” he asked J-J. “He’s camped outside, desperate for some comment from you. He probably also wants something on the helicopters, maybe the shooting.”

  “There’s nothing I can say,” J-J replied tiredly. “I’m sorry the woman committed suicide, but we interviewed her several times, followed it all up and found nobody who corroborated her allegations. Tell him to get some statement from the police spokesman. I’m not saying a word.”

  “Can I tell him anything about this latest development with al-Husayni?” Bruno said. “It might help. Every lead we’ve had has been because some member of the public has called us with information. And visible roadblocks, helicopters cruising overhead, a shooting in St. Cyprien—we can’t keep this secret.”

  “We have to,” interrupted the brigadier. “The minister wants this wrapped up quietly, no publicity, no panic. He’s given us all the resources we need. It’s now up to us to settle this.”

  Bruno shrugged, picked up his képi and left, thinking to himself that to live in a democracy was a wonderful thing, except for the politicians. Outside, Philippe was leaning against his car, camera at the ready.

  “What’s this about a shooting in St. Cyprien?” he demanded.

  “I’m not allowed to say a word to the press,” Bruno replied. “And J-J says any comment on the ex-nun’s suicide will have to come from the official police spokesman, sorry.”

  “Can you tell me if this is linked to those photos you asked us to run, the woman who died at Commarque?”

  Bruno raised an eyebrow, grinned and walked on.

  “You know the psychologist, Duteiller, is saying that J-J was morally responsible for the suicide.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe that. Bye, Philippe.”

  “Come on, Bruno. How about some give-and-take? I help you when I can.” Philippe tried to look appealing. It didn’t suit him.

  Bruno stopped and tapped him on the chest. “You know the wonderful thing about living in a country with a free press?”

  Philippe sighed. “Okay, tell me.”

  “It means I’m also free not to have to talk to you.”

  “But you’re a public employee. We pay your salary.”

  “Quite true, Philippe, and I’m glad you brought that up. My salary has been frozen for two years, even with my promotion. May I have a raise this year, please?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I do have one lead for you, on this ex-nun who committed suicide. You know she was an alcoholic?”

  Philippe nodded. “That’s old news.”

  “Here’s something new. If you go up to the scout camp you might talk to the couple who are the caretakers, Alain and Anne-Louise.”

  “The priest who left the Church and got married to his housecleaner?”

  “She’s a nurse. She was only cleaning the church as a volunteer. She’s an orphan and she was at the Mussidan orphanage. Ask her about this ex-nun. She’s talked to the police, but nobody else has heard her version yet.”

  Chapter 23

  Yacov and the mayor were already installed in Ivan’s bistro when Bruno arrived, to be greeted with a hug from Yacov and a wave from Ivan behind the counter, who called out, “You’re getting the menu du jour like everybody else.”

  “It’s been too long,” said Yacov.

  “I don’t see Bruno much these days, either,” said the mayor, drily. “I presume you know something about all the helicopters and the armed camp that has sprung up around our gendarmerie.”

  “And I’m under orders to say nothing about them,” Bruno replied. “But since we have to inform Yacov that security concerns require us to postpone the formal opening of the scout camp, I’m sure he’ll put two and two together.”

  “That’s what I just told him,” the mayor said. “I also told him what you told the council and swore him to secrecy.”

  Bruno nodded as Ivan placed a tureen of vegetable soup on the table along with a basket full of bread. He returned with a bottle of the house white wine and a carafe of water.

  “All sorts of rumors are swirling around town,” said Ivan. “Dead nuns, Arab terrorists, and now Fabiola performing some emergency operation in the clinic and a mysterious patient with a gendarme with a machine gun guarding his door.”

  Ivan’s eyes swiveled across the dining room to where Dr. Gelletreau was lunching with his wife, the pharmacist. The two of them studiously avoided Bruno’s eye. He waved a greeting at them anyway. There was no way to keep secrets in a town like St. Denis.

  “I think I understand why the formal opening of the camp can’t go ahead,” said Yacov. “I even heard some rumors at the embassy in Paris.”

  Bruno was not surprised. He knew that Yacov’s law firm did a lot of work with the Israeli embassy, and Yacov, although a French citizen, had chosen to do military service in Israel and was still in the Israeli naval reserve.

  “What were they saying?” he asked.

  “Arab terrorists, something about a medieval document and the Arab claim to Jerusalem, plus a dead Israeli woman who was a Palestinian sympathizer.”

  “Does Maya know about this yet?” Bruno asked.

  “Yes, I called her, but she’s coming to Paris anyway. There’s a meeting of the family trust and I have to deliver a report on the camp’s progress. And she wants to come down and see you and say hello to Pamela and the mayor and all the schoolkids who did the design for the museum. She’ll travel incognito, but she definitely wants to come and see the camp for herself
.”

  “We can probably arrange that,” said the mayor. “And we three can visit it this afternoon, if Bruno’s other duties allow him an hour or so to join us.”

  Bruno nodded and poured some wine into the last of his soup. “I can do that.” He picked up the bowl and drank.

  “Chabrol,” said Yacov, smiling. “I remember that.” He put a little more soup into his bowl, added wine and drank it down.

  Ivan brought plates of pâté and pickles and said in a low voice to Yacov, “The pâté is venison, is that okay for you? That green bowl with the pickles is our special new sauce, Haitian épice, a friend of Bruno taught me how to make it and now it has become very popular, spicy but I think you’ll like it. Poulet chasseur to follow.”

  “That’s fine, thank you. I’m not kosher. Venison is great and so is chicken. What’s the dessert today?”

  “Apple tart. You’ve eaten that here before, the last time you were here. Red wine coming up. Bon appétit.”

  “Ivan never forgets a face of anyone who’s eaten here,” said the mayor. “I’d be delighted to welcome your grandmother here again, so long as the security question is resolved. When is she coming to France?”

  “Monday. She’ll rest for a day, hold the trust meeting Wednesday afternoon and was planning to come down here for the opening next weekend, but we can delay that until you’re sure it’s safe.”

  The mayor sighed and sipped his wine, and they began to eat. After a while the mayor spoke.

  “I hate to say this, but after what happened in Paris, I’m not sure we can say that anywhere is safe these days. Not even St. Denis.”

  “The question is whether we can ever bring over some Israeli scouts to stay at this camp. As you’ll understand, that is something that Maya very much wants to happen. And we’d also hope that scouts from this region would come to camp in Israel as our guests.”

  “We have no problem with that,” said the mayor.

  “When your scouts come, I’m sure the mayor would agree that I should move in and stay with them,” said Bruno. “And we’ll have every member of my hunting club patrolling the grounds while they stay. Around here, we take our obligations to guests very seriously. Your grandmother has done a lot for this town, and we’re prepared to do the same for her.”

  Yacov raised his glass, and Bruno and the mayor clinked theirs against it.

  “Celebrating?” asked Ivan as he cleared the plates.

  “You could say that,” said the mayor.

  “If you’re celebrating, where’s the lovely Amélie?” Ivan asked, sending a stab of guilt through Bruno. He hadn’t called to say he’d been held up. Despite all her help, he hadn’t even thought about inviting her to lunch.

  “She’s tied up in the office working on the report she has to write,” he said smoothly, chiding himself for being so glib. “But we’re visiting the new camp after lunch, and she’ll be joining us for that.” He explained her role and presence to Yacov, adding how useful she had been.

  “I told you she’d be useful,” said the mayor. “I know you’ve been tied up with this security business, but I’m surprised you didn’t invite her to join us for lunch.”

  Feeling ashamed of himself, Bruno pulled out his phone. “You’re right, I should have done,” he said as he dialed.

  “Sorry, Bruno,” Amélie answered. “But I’m enjoying a perfect homemade quiche with Monsieur and Madame Fauquet in their apartment above the café. It’s such a treat and they’re very kind. Perhaps I could join you later for coffee.”

  Bruno felt stunned, and the mayor was equally surprised when Bruno explained. While the very soul of hospitality in their café, Fauquet and his wife guarded carefully the privacy of their home.

  “I’ve never been invited up there for a quiche,” said Bruno.

  “Nor me,” said the mayor. “And she’s barely been here a week.”

  “She sounds like quite a woman,” said Yacov.

  Over the apple pie, they agreed that they would take the mayor’s car, which could seat four in comfort, unlike Bruno’s van. When the mayor left to get it, Bruno took Yacov to Fauquet’s for coffee and called to ask Amélie if she would like to join them. She should be ready to wear the rubber boots again, he warned her. He then called Alain at the camp to tell him they were coming.

  Yacov stood, smiling appreciatively as Amélie approached their table. Bruno had grown accustomed to her colorful style of dress, but Yacov seemed captivated by the combination of her bright yellow jeans and matching headdress, along with an even-brighter red polo shirt. And Yacov’s height with his slim, athletic build and dark good looks seemed to be having an equal effect on Amélie. She held out her hand to be kissed rather than shaken, and she treated Yacov to one of her beaming smiles as he brushed her fingers with his lips.

  Bruno made the introductions, and Yacov and Amélie quickly discovered that they had been to the same law school in Paris and began trading stories about professors they had known. When the mayor rejoined them, he asked how the quiche had been.

  “Perfect,” Amélie replied, almost casually. “The pastry was as light as a feather.” She turned to Yacov, resuming their reminiscences of law school.

  It had become a perfect spring afternoon, bright sunshine with scattered clouds like white puffballs and a gentle breeze that set the young green leaves of the willows by the river quivering so that the trees seemed almost to dance on the water. Mother ducks paddled serenely, each with a row of tiny ducklings behind her like warships in line of battle. An angler standing in the shallows was casting his fly in a long, flickering curve that just kissed the surface of the river.

  “I’m falling for this place,” Bruno heard Amélie say from the backseat. “I’ve barely been here a week, but it’s so green and the landscape so gentle. In Paris you forget that France is like this.”

  The mayor took a slightly roundabout route to pass Oudinot’s farm, where half the hillside was filled with golden daffodils and the other half with grazing cattle. As the road climbed they saw ewes, their fleece gray after the winter, with their snowy-white young lambs. Picking their way along the skyline was a line of children riding ponies, and it looked like Pamela was leading them. Bruno rolled down a window to call and wave, but they were too far away to hear him. Then to his delight came the unmistakable double note of a cuckoo, the first he’d heard that year.

  “That’s it,” he cried, turning to see Yacov and Amélie craning their necks and almost cheek to cheek as they stared out of her window to try to see the bird. “The cuckoo makes it official. Spring is here.”

  Bruno turned back to face ahead and saw the mayor give him a wink; he’d obviously been watching Yacov and Amélie in his rearview mirror. What an extraordinary gift it was, thought Bruno, this mystery of human attraction. What was it that made the current pass between two people? And why was it—he thought of Isabelle—that its power could endure so long?

  There were women who were not conventionally pretty or striking to whom he felt powerfully drawn, and there were stunningly beautiful women who left him cold. There were women he liked, and whom he acknowledged to be attractive and alluring, like Amélie, but who did not stir him that way. And yet Yacov and Amélie had responded to each other almost at once. He wondered what might come of it. And the miracle of human attraction had little to do with age. Horst and Clothilde were in their sixties, had enjoyed an on-again, off-again affair for most of the last three decades, and now they were marrying. Would that ever happen to him? A woman whom he could commit his life to, have children with, grow happily old with as they waited for the coming of grandchildren?

  “We’re here,” said the mayor, bringing the car to a halt as it crested the last hill.

  The rutted track was no more, filled in with freshly rolled gravel, and the sunlight warmed the honey-colored stones of the farmhouse and gleamed from the solar panels on the barn roof. The bell-shaped tents reminded Bruno of the wigwams from American Western movies, or were they called tepees?
Recent rains in the hills swelled the small waterfall into a tumbling foam. The bright new grass on the long slope down to the stream looked smoother than a carpet, and the whole valley seemed blessed with an air of welcome and peace.

  “It looks better than I could have dreamed,” said Yacov as the mayor drove on and parked beside the farmhouse.

  The small piles of builders’ rubble had been cleared away, and half-a-dozen chickens were clucking as they pecked at the earth and explored the territory of the coop that had been built since Bruno’s last visit. Alain and his wife were waiting for them at a large wooden table on the terrace before the old farmhouse that was their home and office. Young geranium plants peeked through the potting soil in four big terra-cotta urns that flanked the terrace.

  “T’as fait chabrol?” asked Anne-Louise as the mayor shook Alain’s hand. Have you had your chabrol? It was the old Périgord form of the traditional peasant greeting, inquiring whether a guest had yet eaten.

  “We’ve had lunch, thank you, and what a pleasure to see you settled in and the place looking so well,” the mayor said. He introduced Yacov. Alain led the way to the barn, but Anne-Louise put her hand on Bruno’s arm to keep him back and murmured that she had spoken to Philippe Delaron about her time at the children’s home in Mussidan.

  “If that old bitch could blacken the name of a good priest after his death, I thought it was only fair to do the same to her. She was a cruel woman, cruel and vicious. She enjoyed beating us, you could see it in her eyes. And as she hit us she would always tell us it was for our own good, that she was teaching us to avoid the flames of hell. Children are so helpless.”

  Bruno nodded. “You and Alain will make the youngsters who come here very happy. It looks homely.”

  She looked fondly toward Alain who was pointing out to Yacov the places for the planned vegetable garden, the basketball court and sports field.

  “He’s happy here,” she said. “He feels he has a purpose in life again. It was hard for him, leaving the priesthood, and I felt a lot of pressure on me to make him feel that what we had together was worth the sacrifice he’d made.”