“Park, those two witnesses will be all we need to get you sentenced for premeditated murder. You had motive, you had means, you had opportunity, you’ll get convicted. It’s a tight case. Under the circumstances it will take more than your ambassador to get you out. It would have to be an agreement between the heads of our two nations. It will come out that you are an intelligence agent, that’s obvious, and I doubt very much the government of South Korea will want to argue to the French government that the murder of the head of one of our largest industries was an act of state. Think of where that will leave you. They’re going to need a fall guy and it’s going to be you.”
“You talk lot about international relations for cop.”
“I hold a degree in political science.”
“Diplomatic immunity sacred. Have been told by my superiors. You must let me go.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re reasoning like a child. A few years back a deputy ambassador from the Republic of Georgia got drunk and killed a teenager in a car accident in Washington. Not some sleazebag spy like you with a trumped-up diplomatic job but the actual deputy ambassador. The Americans asked the Georgians to waive his immunity and the guy is now serving a twenty-one-year sentence.”
“South Korea not former Communist country. Different.”
“Right. Remember a few years ago when there was a demonstration in front of the Libyan embassy in London and some nut inside strafed the crowd with a submachine gun and killed a young policewoman? A cop shooter—just like you. The mild-mannered British bobbies laid siege to the embassy for nine days hoping to starve the man out. In the end he escaped and went home. So the British broke off relations with Libya. Know what happened?”
“No.”
“The Libyans admitted responsibility, tortured their fake diplomat, and then made a big production of hanging him.”
Park began to look worried.
“And if I talk to you, what I get?”
“It’s more what you don’t get. If you cooperate it will be taken into account. Your government will be consulted. There will unquestionably be a negotiation. Your sentence may be reduced. There is even some possibility that part of your time will be spent in a Korean prison. I don’t know how much slack your government will cut you but it’s bound to be a better deal than if you go to prison kicking and screaming.”
“Still not like going home now on plane.”
“Park, there’s not a chance in hell of that happening. You’re in a lot of trouble. Talking is the best thing you can do now. The worst thing for you is to get thrown into the bin as a cop shooter. Which is exactly what’s going to happen this afternoon if you do nothing.”
Kim paused for nearly a full minute. His head sunk progressively lower on his chest until Capucine began to wonder if he was losing consciousness again. Finally he looked up and said in a barely audible whisper, “I remember other cases of diplomats arrested. But get sent home after negotiations.”
“Yes, deals can be made. But unless you cooperate, we’re not going to be making any.”
“Okay. I like make deal, then.”
“The only way that could work is for you to tell your story in full. Then we’ll take it to the French government and see what happens. In fact, you have no choice. If you get sent to court on a flagrante delicto charge it will be impossible to cut any deals.”
Kim shook his head as if angry flies were buzzing around. “Yes, yes, yes. Okay, okay, okay. Why shouldn’t I tell story. Just get me home faster. Back to duty quicker. Give me painkillers. Make talk easier.”
An hour passed. The doctor had come, tut-tutted cynically, changed the dressings, and added four new drip bags alongside the big plasma sack on the IV. “He’ll be a new man with that stuff,” he said, “for a while, at least. You might even have to hold him down,” the doctor had laughed.
The small clinic room filled with people. The last to arrive was Tallon, producing the usual tension among the officers present. Kim had responded well to the stimulants and looked at each new arrival with interest.
“All right, let’s hear it,” Capucine said. The stenographer straightened up and lifted his hands ready to type.
“I am a major in the NIS, the South Korean intelligence service. National Intelligence Service is like French DGSE and French DST combined. NIS work in Korea and abroad. I am specialist in industrial espionage. I joined long ago when service called Agency for National Security Planning and objective to keep out agents from North Korea who want steal our industrial informations. We best service in world in industrial espionage. Best. When attend five-year training course at the ANSP I also go to Yeungnam University and get master’s degree in engineering.
“Korea does not need foreign technology. It is the reverse. But sometimes foreigners get good idea and we don’t want good idea to be wasted in the hands of lazy incompetents. The NIS often act in those cases.”
He paused. “Can have water? Throat is dry.”
Capucine held a plastic cup with less than an inch of pale liquid to his lips.
“It’s tea. The doctor says if you have too much liquid you’ll throw up. Go on.”
“As said before, assignment to obtain gasoline catalyst from Renault. For me is only one way to do this properly. With assistants on inside. Espionage services in West no longer like to use assistants. That is very wrong. In old days of ideological conflict it easy to obtain loyal and faithful assistants happy to die for cause. More difficult now. So CIA and everyone else now like only computers. Easy, safe, go home at five o’clock. But never get everything. And not fully understand what get.
“No. Must be assistant. But that now hard. Have to be bought. Have to know how to recruit. Have to know when they about to desert.”
For the first time Tallon intervened. “Look, buddy, we’re not here for a tutorial on espionage while you’re sucking up free drugs. Tell your story and be quick about it.” Capucine shot him an irritated look.
“Well, I tell policewoman,” Park said, nodding at Capucine. “Arrive in France, recruit three possible assistants, and put one in right department Renault. For a while the informations come satisfactory. Then assistant get greedy. They always do. Important informations all in one department. Assistant not have access. Find girlfriend in section who let him in to get final informations. He want large bonus for this. Then he invent other story, claim management of the company find leak, so we need to get final informations immediately before everything shut down. In end, we never get informations.
“Police follow secretary who deliver informations and try to arrest me. Case a failure. Important I not get arrested. Fired shot over head of policewoman to scare away. Big, big mistake.” Progressively Park’s head had been sagging on his chest. Finally his chin rested on his sternum and spittle dripped from his slack mouth.
“The fucker’s faking,” Tallon said. “But get the doctor just in case. Lieutenant, what the hell happened here? You said he was all set to spill the beans and you wanted to make him more comfortable. So he’s had a happy little trip and all we get is laughed at. Get this guy back on the rails and call me when he’s really ready. I don’t want to hear Chapter One of the NIS espionage primer again. Got that?” Tallon strode to the door and made an irritated gesture with the tips of his fingers for the guard to open it. He stalked out, swearing under his breath. Gradually all the other occupants followed, leaving only Capucine and the stenographer, and of course, Park.
Chapter 49
“Pretty policewoman get scolded.” Park laughed drunkenly. “Punishment for shooting me. But you good. Not weak like rest of French.”
“Keep this up and I’m going to shoot you again. What the hell was that all about? Bullshit to get more drugs?”
“Yes. Pain very great. Did not like man who look like bull. I know I have to talk. But not to him. Talk now. Don’t shut painkillers off. Please.”
“Let’s hear it, then. Did you kill Président Delage?”
“Of course. Only solution.
Should have been easy for Nguyen to get informations over weekend if he not have interference. Killing président easy way to get needed time. No risk. No problem. Proper solution.”
“Let’s go through the events of the week. The first thing was that Giselle told you the président had a reservation that Friday.”
“No, no. First, Nguyen tell me his boss tell him about coming crackdown. Very clear that Président Delage in charge. No doubts. Project very important to career of président, that why he take charge himself. Important man. Go to big boss in government. Things then happen fast. Just like Korea. Need immediate action. Had to do something before weekend.”
“And you had no doubts that Delage was really on the verge of asking for the assistance of the DGSE?”
“I quite sure. Project of highest importance. I have many plans to keep Delage from meeting with government man. Hit with car or just kill on street. Not hard to do, to kill someone. But I find something much better.” He paused for breath. “Giselle, juicy girl from Best Restaurant, tell me Delage come for dinner on Friday. Perfect. Easy to do then.”
“How did you do it?”
“Easy. Very easy. We have excellent poison called TZ, made by CIA, we have plenty from days when CIA help create ANSP. Comes from algae saxitoxin like in shellfish. Excellent poison. Victim immediately passive and then die quietly. No noise. I also give same poison to Nguyen to give to girlfriend, but only very, very little, so she sick and quiet all day and he free to go to her office. So, I wait for Delage to leave restaurant, inject him under ear into carotid. Use small hypodermic that easy to fit in pocket. Delage get quiet right away. I walk him to my car and make him sit. Drive him around until he pass out. Ha ha, go to Bois de Boulogne to look at juicy girls in trees. I want his last hours to be happy hours.”
“How considerate of you. Then what?”
“Drive back to the restaurant, put Delage arm around my neck like drunk, carry through door. Giselle give me key. Many police in area, guarding important buildings, but if anyone see, we just drunk workers of restaurant who forget something. Then put sleeping président in big refrigerator and all is finished. Giselle tell me restaurant always closed over the weekend so I know no one disturb until Monday.
“Then go back to the Bois de Boulogne. One of the girls we see is real juicy and wanted her. But she gone, so I go to Giselle’s apartment instead.”
“Lucky her.”
“Yes, she happy. Things work out good after removing président. Very successful plan. We not bothered for two weeks. But Nguyen not able to get into computers. Not have codes. Incompetent assistant. Then project shut down and about to be moved to military. My replacement not going to have easy time. No.” Park laughed dryly.
Chapter 50
Capucine rushed through the plain aluminum-framed glass doorway. Late again. I hope he isn’t fuming. She pulled up short in a small unassuming anteroom. A self-effacing man in a dark business suit left a lectern in a corner of the room and came up to her with the hint of a knowing smile, as if they shared a secret. At the mention of her name he nodded and led her down a hallway into a large, bland dining room. Not for the first time Capucine told herself that Tirel’s eminently forgettable decor was hardly what you would expect at the best known of the three-star restaurants.
Nonetheless, the room was full of memories for Capucine. Tirel had been her family’s venue of choice for celebrations. All the milestones of her youth had been feted here: birthdays, passing her bac, graduation from Sciences Po; it was even here that Alexandre had invited her parents for that memorable dinner to ask for her hand. In flowery hyperbole that made her mother giggle and her father frown Alexandre had explained that the paragon of restaurants was the only possible venue to ask for the hand of the paragon of women. The dinner had been successful enough to allay—but not permanently extinguish—her parents’ resentment that she was not making a more suitable marriage.
With its nondescript carpet and tan walls, the room exuded a sense of cozy opulence as comfortable as an old cashmere sweater. Capucine bubbled with a happy-little-girl-on-her-way-to-her-birthday-fete feeling as she walked toward Alexandre and Jacques in the far corner. Still, something nagged, scratching angrily across the surface of her contentment. Would she never free herself of that eternal fear of being sucked down into that hateful life of affluent insouciance so vital to her parents…and, for that matter, beneath all his bluster, Alexandre as well? By the time she reached the table most of the bubbles of her mood had gone flat and she hadn’t had time to really understand why.
Jacques and Alexandre percolated at the edge of hilarity, obviously fueled by a bottle of Dom Perignon that, given its drunken list in the cooler, was already well over three-quarters depleted. They both half rose from their chairs and saluted with their flutes in a toast.
“Here’s to your triumphal coup,” Alexandre said.
“Oh, so this is a celebration, is it?” Capucine said, with barely masked irritation. “I had hoped it was just Jacques dipping into the bottomless well of his expense account so he could show off his new tie. I’m not really sure there’s anything to celebrate.” She gave Alexandre a withering look that would have been rude had he not been her husband.
With more verve than the situation really required Jacques asked brightly, “Oh, do you like it? How nice.” He energetically flapped an Hermès tie dotted with blue and yellow butterflies cavorting on a salmon background, his pick of their fall crop.
“Cousin, it’s precious. I just hope it’s not something you intend to wear when you’re stealing around incognito.”
Jacques compressed his lips in a dramatic pout. “Cousine, you delude yourself if you think that these august surroundings will prevent me from pelting you in the kisser with the bread roll you so richly deserve.” He picked up a roll and brandished it menacingly. Capucine wondered if there was any champagne left in the bottle at all. “Also,” he added in a hurt tone, “it just so happens that I can be utterly invisible when I so choose.”
“Now, now, children, behave. This is a serious occasion. We are here to commemorate a truly Homeric achievement,” Alexandre interjected.
Capucine shot Alexandre a look that was frankly rude even if he was her husband.
“The paragon of restaurants for the paragon of detectives,” Alexandre said dramatically. “No other place would be suitable for such an occasion.”
“I seem to have heard that line before,” Capucine said.
Jacques clenched his teeth with a grimace of courageous despair that made Capucine think of a Foreign Legionnaire at Tuyen Quang trying to forget that he and his six hundred colleagues were surrounded by twenty thousand Chinese. “But, chère cousine, it’s not going on my expense account at all. Anyway, the director would never spring for Tirel. This is Alexandre’s treat. I understand he’s even going to pay out of his own pocket. I’m sure he asked me along merely for comic relief.”
Capucine ignored him and crackled in irritation with Alexandre. “Good Lord, you sound as fatuous as an Arsène Lupin character. Only the top hat and waxed moustache are missing,” Capucine said.
“My dear. I was being perfectly sincere. You really have succeeded a major triumph and I honestly think this is the only place that does it justice.”
In spite of herself Capucine softened and her irritation evaporated. Alexandre always had that effect on her. In a mini-epiphany she understood that her annoyance didn’t have anything to do with her parents’ lifestyle. The problem was that in her heart she didn’t see the case as a success. The whole thing was so obvious it had just resolved itself.
“It’s ridiculous to think of putting me in the same league as a Tirel, but I have to admit even that grouchy bear Tallon seemed pleased with the way the case worked out.”
“Pleased? He must have been impressed as hell. You’re a veritable Commissaire Maigret,” Jacques said.
Feeling that their dinner had returned to an even keel Jacques waved a remonstrative finger at Alexand
re and poured the last of the champagne, sparking the sommelier to rush up, distraught at not having been left to pour the wine himself. “Mon vieux, you’re becoming a cartoon-strip husband. You project yourself into your wife. Who could be farther removed from that Belgian beer swiller with his huge appetite, vast belly, and pipe glued to his mouth than Capucine?” Jacques asked.
Alexandre laughed happily. “That’s hardly it. I merely blush with pride when I recognize in her the virtues Georges Simenon bestowed on his character: the ability to plumb the unfathomable depths of people while having the courage to rely on his instincts.”
“How noble of you. But wasn’t the corpulent commissaire’s motto, ‘I don’t know anything’? Our dear Capucine has been dropping hints that she knew who the killer was almost from the very beginning. It was a bit like the dance of the seven veils except less titillating,” Jacques said.
“Well, I did have some ideas,” Capucine said, beginning to enjoy herself.
“Do you mean you really suspected it was the Koreans even before you arrested that awful man?” Alexandre asked.
“Not from the beginning, obviously, but the picture became clear the minute we discovered the involvement of Clotilde Lancrey-Javal, Delage’s secretary.” The sommelier returned and released the cork of another bottle of champagne, producing a sigh even more discreet than Alexandre could manage.
“Once the Trag saga was put to rest it was obvious that there had to be another spy network in place. During his interview that Trag operative made it quite clear that he was convinced there were no other Americans involved. And it couldn’t have been the Japanese, given Renault’s involvement with Nissan; you know how disciplined they are. And it also seemed unlikely that it was the Germans or the Italians. I don’t know why, but it just wasn’t their style somehow. So who was left? The Koreans, voilà!
The Grave Gourmet Page 24