by Michael Bond
Pommes Frites, who had been occupying the intervening time searching in vain for the water bowl which was invariably ready and waiting for him whenever he visited the Director’s office, noticed it too, and having been caught in its beam, hurriedly sought refuge behind his master.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him a consoling pat. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t count on these things.’
‘Few things are certain in this life, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, overhearing the remark as he arrived at his desk. ‘In the present state of the world, nothing should be taken for granted. I trust he realises it is Véronique’s responsibility, not mine.’
‘We came as quickly as we could in response to your message,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but those of us who have no means of removing our outer cladding found the heat particularly enervating during the journey.’
‘Hmmph.’ The Director emitted a growl. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Particularly as from now on Pommes Frites must be kept in a constant state of readiness; all his faculties will need to be in peak condition in case they are required at short notice.’
While he was talking, he picked up a familiar looking form and in the manner of a conjuror seeking to impress his audience by making it vanish into thin air before their very eyes, held it up to a shaft of light infiltrating through a gap in the slatted blinds.
If that were indeed his intention, he was doomed to disappointment, and he eyed the document with increasing disfavour.
‘First of all, Pamplemousse, without naming names, I have to tell you that a certain person who is responsible for our wellbeing is worried about you.’
‘Matron has succumbed to the heat?’ queried Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She must be practically on her knees with half the staff suffering from dehydration.’
‘No, Pamplemousse,’ growled the Director, ‘I do not mean Matron. I am referring to someone who must remain forever in the shadows, but who has the safe-keeping and security of the entire population of France very much at heart. It is an onerous enough task at the best of times, but it seems a copy of your P27 arrived on his desk this morning and he is less than happy.’
‘My P27, Monsieur?’
‘Yes, Pamplemousse, the form containing your personal details. He wishes to know the meaning of the word “myob”.’
‘Myob?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director.
Monsieur Leclercq heaved a deep sigh. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep repeating everything I say, Aristide. It appears you have entered it under the heading of “religion”. Teams of highly paid researchers are even now scanning their computer files wondering if it is, perhaps, peculiar to some obscure African tribe. So far they have drawn a blank.’
‘I filled in the form when I first joined the company,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse primly. ‘Nothing has changed during the intervening years.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said the Director, ‘it must have escaped my notice at the time. However, it has now become a matter of national security and the country cannot move forward until the matter has been resolved.’
‘Mind your own business!’
The Director went purple in the face. ‘How dare you, Pamplemousse!’ he boomed.
‘It is an acronym,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Each letter of an acronym happens to be the first letter of a different word …’
‘I am perfectly well aware of the meaning of the word acronym, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘But what is myob an acronym of? That is the question.’
‘I have just told you, Monsieur – Mind Your Own Business,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse, as patiently as could. ‘It happens to be a phrase much used by les Anglais, the acronym of which is myob.’
‘Les Anglais!’ The Director appeared to have difficulty in swallowing, as though his worst fears had been realised.
‘It seemed a good idea at the time, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely. ‘I have an English friend, a Mr Pickering – funnily enough he was at the funeral this morning …’
‘Ah,’ said the Director, momentarily diverted. ‘How did that go?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say with a bang’, but it was no time for levity. One thing was clear, however; news of what had taken place had yet to reach Monsieur Leclercq.
‘Mr Pickering,’ he continued, ‘uses the word a great deal whenever he has a form to fill in, especially when the question infringes on what he regards as personal matters. I gather he found it very useful when he was in the army and had to state his religion. When pressed to explain it, he came up on the spur of the moment with what he thought was a suitable answer.
‘Subsequently, whenever there was a church parade and the command came for any Mid-Yugoslavian Original Baptists to fall out he was the only one able to respond and for ever after he was left to his own devices. You can hardly march to a non-existent church all by yourself. It proved to be an unforeseen bonus.’
‘I hope you are not suggesting I use the same explanation to the powers that be in France,’ said the Director. ‘Those in the higher echelons will treat it with the utmost suspicion. The fact that it is in English will make it even harder to accept.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is Mr Pickering’s opinion that while the first duty of any citizen must be to his country, a person’s religion is his or her own business and no one else’s, and I would agree with that.
‘Our American cousins may wear their hearts on their sleeves, but there is something very fundamental in the way they bring their children up to revere the Stars and Stripes and reiterate their allegiance to it, hand on heart, at every opportunity, irrespective of their religious beliefs.’
‘Hmmph!’ The Director sought refuge in another grunt. He consulted a list on his desk. ‘Before we go any further there is one other matter which needs investigation.’
‘Monsieur wishes to know my mother’s aunt’s maiden name?’
‘No, Pamplemousse, that will not be necessary, although once again it has to do with your P27. Under the heading “distinguishing features” you entered the fact that you have a mole on your right knee. I have been charged with ascertaining whether or not that is so.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself mentally counting up to ten. He couldn’t help wondering what Dr Livingstone would have made of such a question all those years ago on the banks of the Ujiji. For two pins he would have joined the Director’s secretary, wherever she was.
‘In these troubled times, Aristide,’ said the Director, sensing the other’s hesitation, ‘one cannot be too careful.’
‘Perhaps Monsieur would like to check me for hidden weapons while he is at it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I may have a nail file concealed about my person.’
Reluctantly he reached for his zip.
‘There is no need to remove your outer garments, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq hastily. ‘A cursory glance will be quite sufficient. Perhaps you could simply roll up the right trouser leg?’
Having glanced over his shoulder in order to make sure all the blinds were safely in place, he opened a drawer in his desk and produced a torch which he held aloft with a flourish between thumb and forefinger.
‘I find this whole business distasteful enough as it is. I have been drawn into it much against my will, but our country is in peril. We are up against forces that will stop at nothing and there is an amber alert. I would ask Matron to perform the task but this whole operation must remain top secret.’
Following the beam of light, Pommes Frites joined forces with the Director, gazing with interest at his master’s kneecap. There were times when there was no accounting for human behaviour. Unaware of what the problem might be, he wondered if a good lick would help, although he had tried once before to remove the spot and nothing had happened.
‘Perhaps Monsieur would like to borrow my camera?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘That will not be necessary, Pamp
lemousse,’ said the Director stiffly. ‘My word will be sufficient.’
‘I hope the anonymous person, whoever he or she is, will be of the same mind,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he set about tidying his person.
‘We shall never know,’ said the Director soberly, ‘and I am not at liberty to ask. Suffice to say, he is second only to the President in terms of power.’
‘I hope he doesn’t ask to see Monsieur Chirac’s distinguishing features next time they meet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I would not care to be in his shoes if he does.’
Ignoring the remark, Monsieur Leclercq crossed to his drinks cupboard on the far side of the room. Opening the door of a small ice-box inside he removed a bottle of Gosset champagne and two glasses.
‘I suggest a restorative is called for, Aristide,’ he said.
From the angle at which he was holding the bottle, Monsieur Pamplemousse deduced it was by no means the first glass of the day.
Gazing up at the portrait of Le Guide’s founder on the wall above the cupboard, he couldn’t help but feel Monsieur Hippolyte Duval’s normally saturnine features would have looked even more forbidding had he still been alive and able to witness the current goings on.
‘I will have the whole sorry business decisionised by tomorrow,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, handing him one of the glasses.
Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears at the Americanism. It was usually a sign the Director had been in contact with someone from the other side of the Atlantic. At such times he was fond of peppering the conversation with the latest jargon.
He also liked nothing better than to lace it with references to what he called his ‘contacts in the Higher Echelons’ and his ability to pull strings when necessary, but clearly in this case the position was reversed; other people were pulling the Director’s strings and he wasn’t entirely happy with the situation. Given his other habit of playing his cards close to his chest, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering how many he possessed, or more to the point, when he would reveal his hand.
‘Am I to assume that my P27 is the only reason you wished to see me, Monsieur?’ he asked.
‘I fear not, Pamplemousse. That would be blue-sky thinking on your part.’
There it was again!
Monsieur Leclercq motioned him to sit down at long last, and even went so far as to raise one of the blinds, letting in a stream of light.
‘We live in troubled times, Aristide,’ he said. ‘Unrest is rife in the world. Terrorism is everywhere. Hence my having to make sure you are who you say you are. I trust you are not offended.’
‘I doubt if the people we are up against go through the same rigmarole,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In my experience many of them don’t even know who their father was, let alone if he had any distinguishing features.’
‘Countries of the so-called free world are surrounded on all sides by terrorism,’ continued the Director. ‘All nations have their soft underbelly. With America and 9/11, the twin towers, symbols of wealth and prosperity, were the target. Britain endured a similar attack on the London Underground railway. Russia continually finds itself embroiled with the Chechen rebels. In each case the enemy within strikes where it will hurt most. Over the years France has suffered at the hands of the Basque separatists …
‘Now, the target is the very heart of France itself. Intelligence has word from a reliable source that a terrorist group is planning to inject poison into the food chain. What that poison is, or into what part of the chain it will be injected, or even when it will happen, is not yet known.
‘As a nation we are caught between two stools. On the one hand every precaution must be put in place to safeguard the population. On the other hand, in order to avoid the kind of panic that would do untold harm to the farming industry, it has been decided to avoid at all costs admitting there is the remotest possibility that such a thing could happen. For that reason alone the need for the utmost secrecy is paramount. Before you leave I must ask you to sign a document to that effect.
‘In the meantime, in order to explore all possibilities, the powers that be are setting up a “think tank” made up of leading figures in the world of gastronomy. I have been asked to suggest a name to be part of that team, and your own immediately sprang to mind. Given your background and the time you spent with the food fraud squad before joining Le Guide, you are an ideal candidate.’
‘When you say it is a reliable source, Monsieur …?’
‘Impeccable!’
‘And the others who are involved?’
‘The British, for the sake of Entente Cordiale. And the Americans. I imagine you are familiar with the name Claye Beardmore …’
‘Isn’t that the person who runs a cookery website? He has invented some kind of diet for people want to lose weight. I believe it is all the rage. He also has a column which is syndicated worldwide.’
‘Correct. Beardmore also happens to be a CIA agent. An interesting case. Like many members of that ilk, Claye is what is known as a “sleeper”. Mostly they remain anonymous, leading a normal life – a garage owner here – a small shopkeeper there – until such time as they are called upon to serve.
‘Unfortunately, what started off as a relatively low-key cover job caught on. In some respects you could say it backfired. In short, it has become a worldwide success. The only saving grace is that since Claye’s picture never appears on screen, anonymity is preserved.’
‘The few pieces I have seen have always struck me as being very didactic,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Doucette finds some of the recipes depressing. A never-ending diet of raisins and rice is all very well if you have had the misfortune to suffer an arterial blockage, but there is little to recommend it otherwise.’
‘Claye Beardmore is an extremely didactic person,’ said the Director guardedly. ‘What our American friends would call a tough cookie. And a very successful one at that.
‘You must form your own judgements, but if you want my opinion Claye has been “downloaded” more times than you and I have had hot dinners.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the Director curiously. It was unusual for him to be on first name terms quite so early on in a relationship.
‘You have already met, Monsieur?’
The Director hesitated. ‘Briefly. Claye slipped into Paris late last night, ostensibly to take part in a recovery programme for food addiction. It is an occupational hazard. We rendezvoused and it was arranged that the two of you should meet up as soon as possible in order to exchange notes.
‘I will give you the name of the hotel.’ Reaching for a pad, Monsieur Leclercq scribbled a name and held it up for viewing.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a whistle between his teeth. The Pommes d’Or was one of a small band of Paris hotels boasting a restaurant that not only had three Stock pots in Le Guide, but three rosettes in Michelin.
‘It doesn’t sound a very suitable choice for someone suffering from severe food addiction,’ he said.
The Director held a match to the paper and watched it burn. ‘It has the advantage of being very central,’ he said enigmatically. ‘When you get there go straight up to suite 704. I suggest you take Pommes Frites with you.’
Catching sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gloomy expression, he made haste to soften the blow. ‘I would join you, but Claye wanted to see you in particular and three is a crowd.’
‘It would be four with Pommes Frites,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, he is not particularly partial to raisins, or fruit for that matter.’
Something in Monsieur Leclercq’s avoidance of a straight answer set alarm bells ringing in his head. ‘Do you not think, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘that a rendezvous with someone at a higher level than me would be more apposite?’
‘No, I don’t, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely.
Avoiding the other’s gaze, and clearly revelling in his new role, he busied himself sweeping the ashes into his waste bin.
‘But si
nce you have already met …’
Monsieur Leclercq ignored the interruption. ‘Bear in mind, Aristide, that what you are doing isn’t simply for Le Guide, it will be for France. I know you won’t let our beloved Marianne down. I can only wish you bonne chance!
‘Always remember, Claye Beardmore is a very influential person in the United States; arguably second only to Patricia Wells in the realm of food, and the world famous wine guru, Robert Parker. If we upset Claye, sales of Le Guide in America may suffer.
‘And now, before you go I must ask you to sign the document I mentioned earlier. As far as the outside world is concerned, this meeting never took place …and that applies to any future activities too! From now on, secrecy is paramount.’
Having escorted Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites to the door, Monsieur Leclercq hesitated, as though about to say more, then had second thoughts.
‘Before you leave, Aristide, I strongly recommend you do up the zip on your trousers. And if you want my advice I should ensure it stays that way for as long as possible.’
For the time being at least, there was nothing more to be said.
Largely on account of a mass demonstration by Parisian motorcyclists over the installation of a second speed camera on the Périphérique, Monsieur Pamplemousse took rather longer to reach the Pommes d’Or hotel than he’d intended, but in fact it served him well.
It was early evening by the time he arrived there and the foyer was crowded. The reception desk was awash with new arrivals and their luggage; residents heading for a night out on the town vied for use of the revolving doors with outsiders arriving for dinner. Add in a private function or two for good measure and the confusion was such that his own and Pommes Frites’ progress across the black-and-white marble floor to a bank of elevators on the far side failed to cause the raising of a single eyebrow.
Nor did the lift girl pass any comment as they entered her domain. As far as she was concerned, bloodhounds weighing in at around forty-seven kilos wanting to use the lift might have been a daily occurrence. The hotel could be full of them.