“Get the fire extinguishers,” Bruno shouted, grabbing the only one he could see. “Somebody call an ambulance and the pompiers.”
He forced his way through the throng of confused men and down the steps and ran up the long drive to the main gates of the château. He heard steps pounding behind him and saw Carlos, the only other man who seemed to have found an extinguisher, and they ran on together. The sentry box at the open gates was unmanned, its two guards tumbling from the hotel, each carrying a small hand-sized fire extinguisher in one hand and holding a soaked washcloth against his face with the other. As Bruno approached the searing heat from the burning vehicle, he understood their precaution even as he wondered how they were hoping to use the extinguishers with only one hand.
“Was anyone inside?” Bruno shouted.
One of the guards gestured wildly. Behind the neighboring cars, its windshield cracked by the explosion, the innkeeper had covered a heap on the ground with an overcoat and was reaching to turn on the tap of a garden hose. The water sputtered and then spurted out, and he pointed it at the overcoat and then lifted the coat to play it on the smoldering form beneath. The form moved, turned over and tried to get to its feet as Carlos turned his extinguisher on the car that sheltered the innkeeper and the charred security guard. The chorus of a dozen car horns played on.
Suddenly a throng of people seemed to be around them, foam erupting over the wreck of Carlos’s vehicle, the security guard who had been covered by an overcoat retching but evidently alive as he was helped to his feet.
Bruno looked at Carlos, arms on his hips and his back hunched, staring grimly at the glowing shell of his car, the emptied fire extinguisher between his feet.
“That was meant for you,” Bruno said.
“I know. Lucky we had one of those remote starters.”
Isabelle had now arrived on the scene.
“They know who you are and where you are,” she said to Carlos. “You must be almost as good a target as the two ministers.”
“Maybe just an easier one,” Carlos said, as an ambulance siren whined in the distance.
“Nobody leaves,” Isabelle said.
She was leaning on her cane, panting. Bruno tried to imagine the willpower that had brought her here so quickly from the château. The brigadier came running up.
“All the security teams, the hotel staff, any guests, anybody who could have set that bomb—I want them all double-checked,” he said. “Where’s that damn security chief when I need him? Bruno, please call J-J and tell him I need a forensics team and an explosives expert. I want a media blackout on this. If there are any inquiries, we’re to say a car simply caught fire with an electrical fault. I want no reference to Carlos or to the summit. And I want this wreck and any other damaged vehicles removed from the parking lot. I want it all looking normal within the hour.”
28
A form of panicked calm had descended over the château. The security guard had indeed been spared the full blast of the explosion thanks to the remote device with which he had started Carlos’s car. One of Isabelle’s aides was arranging for the delivery of a replacement Range Rover for Carlos.
England was an hour behind French time, Bruno knew, and he assumed Scotland would be the same. It would be a little early to call Pamela. And she’d said she would call him once there was news from the brain scan. Bruno had an appointment with the paratrooper major and the mobiles from the gendarmes in not quite two hours to walk the grounds and review the patrol system. So he had time to think about Isabelle’s supper. It would have to be something he could make quickly, and he’d cleared out most of his fresh food when he moved to Pamela’s. And in case some new emergency meant the meal had to be canceled, it had better be something he could easily save and warm up again.
The house would be cold; he’d have to make a fire. They had eaten foie and pork the other evening, so he was thinking steak or veal. He had some soupe de poisson in the freezer. He’d need bread for the croutons and some spring vegetables, and a visit to Bournichou’s boucherie for the meat, and at some point he’d have to pick up Gigi, who was evidently the star of the show.
He had time to get to the market, which on this day of the week was held in Le Buisson, where he knew he’d find Stéphane selling his cheeses. Stéphane pointed Bruno to Madame Vernier whose stall across the street carried spring onions, new carrots and navets, the small turnips Bruno loved, and even some early green beans. Instantly he decided on a navarin d’agneau, a lamb stew with fresh spring vegetables. It would take time, but it was a dish he enjoyed and he’d never made it for Isabelle. He bought his cheese and vegetables and a big boule of bread, raced back to St. Denis to buy the lamb and quickly went home.
Once in his kitchen, he splashed duck fat into a heavy iron pot and cut the boned lamb shoulder into inch-and-a-half chunks. While the callers on a Radio Périgord show were hailing the charms of foie gras, he browned the lamb on all sides and spooned off the excess fat. Then with the lamb on medium heat, he added his secret ingredient, a large spoonful of honey, and stirred to coat the meat. He sprinkled on some flour to soak up the juices and stirred again. He added a glass of dry Bergerac white wine, a can of peeled tomatoes, some crushed garlic and a bouquet garni, and then grated in a little nutmeg. He added salt and pepper and just enough water to cover the meat and brought it to a steady simmer.
Normally he would leave it for an hour, but before then he would have to see the troops who would be manning the cordons. He set the table for two, with some candlesticks and a vase into which he would put daffodils from his garden when he returned. He took the soupe de poisson from the freezer to thaw and then cut some slices from the bread so that they would harden by the evening, making them just right for the croutons. He washed the vegetables and left them ready by the counter.
With another twenty minutes before he had to leave, he went outside to feed his ducks and chickens and check on the fencing and his own potager. Up here on the ridge, and with no greenhouse to bring on his early plantings, his own navets and carrots were still two or three weeks from being ready, his potatoes and beans even further behind. His mâche was in fine shape to make a salad, and he had some early radishes. He raised his eyes to the view across the slope to the low ridge ahead, and on to the ridges that rolled all the way to the horizon. He never tired of it and it never failed to lift his spirit. As he looked at the land spread out before him he knew there was one thing he had to do today that would make him feel better about himself, more worthy of this place and this view.
He used his phone to track down the number in Paris for Médecins Sans Frontières, gave his name and rank and asked for the head of the press office. He was put through to a woman who gave her name as Mathilde Condorçel and asked what she could do for him.
“It’s about Annette Meraillon. She used to work for you, in Paris and in Madagascar. You probably saw the story in Libé today.”
“I saw it and I didn’t like it. We worked together here and she did a great job for us in Madagascar. If she’s going to get axed as a magistrate over this, we’d all be very glad to have her back.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Why not put out a press release that says just that and make sure that Libé picks it up. It’s the least they could do after the character assassination they did on her today.”
“That’s a very good idea, but why are you calling? Do you know her?”
“I’m the chief of police in St. Denis, where she made that foolish remark about our foie gras being barbaric.”
“Speaking for myself, I love the stuff, but aren’t all your people from St. Denis up in arms against Annette?”
“We are, and we think she made a mistake. But that shouldn’t obscure the fact that she’s a fine person who did good work for you. Right now I think she needs some friendship and support.”
“Wait a minute. The chief of police of St. Denis? I saw something about you in Paris Match, a photo of you in that fire trying to rescue some children.
Why don’t we put out a joint press release?”
“I wouldn’t know how to start.”
“Leave it to me. Give me your e-mail and I’ll send you a draft. Have you got a number for Annette?”
Bruno gave her the details. He went back into the house, thought of Isabelle’s visit and put clean towels in the bathroom. Telling himself he should stop thinking like a lovesick youth he looked at the bedroom; he’d changed the sheets before he left to stay at Pamela’s house. Then he drove back to the château to brief the security troops on his soon-to-be-aborted patrol plan. He knew the brigadier would be angry, but Bruno had been in the military too long to see any sense in lying to his own people. So at the end of his briefing, he took the major aside and warned him in confidence that there was a strong possibility of the summit site being shifted to the Domaine. He pointed it out on the major’s map.
After a bumpy hour in a jeep ride through the woods with the major and two captains from the gendarmes, Bruno came back to the château with his phone buzzing from calls and messages that hadn’t reached him. Once away from the vicinity of the château, reception faded fast, and he made a mental note to get the security troops to double-check that their communications functioned effectively. The first missed call was from Pamela. He called her back and asked after her mother.
“This second stroke was very bad,” she said tiredly. “They think there may be severe brain damage.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Even if she gets better, I’m going to be stuck here for some time sorting out her affairs.”
“Don’t worry about anything here. We’ll take care of it all.”
“God, I miss you. And Fabiola, and St. Denis,” she said. “How are the horses?”
He reassured her that all was well with her house and stables and described Fabiola’s dinner, remembering to emphasize the success of Pamela’s apple pie. Her replies were understandably short and distracted. She had weightier matters on her mind.
The next missed message was from a French mobile phone, the number of which was not in his own phone’s memory. Curious, he called back and heard a familiar accented voice say, “Bruno?”
“Teddy? You know half the police in France are looking for you? And where’s Kajte?” He went up the stairs to Isabelle’s room in the château and put a finger to his lips as she turned from her desk. He walked across as he listened to Teddy and scribbled down the cell phone number the call had been made from. He scribbled “Trace this—it’s Teddy” on a pad beside Isabelle. She nodded, scribbled “Keep him on the line,” and left the room.
“She’s with me,” Teddy was saying. “In fact it was she who persuaded me to call you. She borrowed a car from a friend in Paris and came to pick me up. Look, we want to give ourselves up. How can we do that?”
There was no arrest warrant out for either one of them. Sneaking off the bus to Bergerac was no crime; the students’ agreement to undergo explosives testing had been voluntary. Teddy was wanted solely for questioning about how he came by the map and therefore knew where to find his father’s body, something he could only have learned from someone with knowledge of where the killing had taken place.
“You can give yourself up to me, if you can get through the various patrols that are looking for you,” Bruno said. “But you’ll still be facing some tough questions. I’ll try to see you’re treated fairly. Do you want to tell me where you are?”
“We’re not far away,” Teddy said. “What sort of tough questions?”
“I think you have a good idea,” Bruno said. “It’s about that unidentified body you found. We’ve identified it and we know it’s your father. That’s why you’ll be in real trouble if you don’t give yourself up and cooperate.”
There was a silence of several beats before Teddy spoke. “What about Kajte?”
“There’s no more against her now than there was when she took the train. I think all the foie gras charges are going to be dropped.”
“We saw that story in Libé,” he said. “It seems like it’s all gotten way out of control.”
“Particularly your involvement in this Basque business,” said Bruno. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”
“When you say this Basque business … I just wanted to find my father.”
“Teddy, you know there’s more to it than that. And don’t think you can get out of this by going home. The British police are now involved. They’ve interviewed your mother. She’s worried sick about you.”
“Will I have to spend the night in jail?”
“Hopefully you’ll be able to spend it at the campground. Your tent’s still there and I’ve got your rucksack.”
“We’re driving around now, but in about ten minutes we’ll be at that same place where you met us before, remember?”
“I remember,” said Bruno, and heard the click as Teddy disconnected. Bruno went down to the communications room to find Isabelle. She looked up from one of the two phones she was holding.
“They just lost the connection,” she said. “He’s somewhere near here, in a car.”
“I know,” said Bruno. “I’m going to pick him up now. But I’d like it understood that he’s in my custody, please. I think he trusts me. Do you want to come with me?”
“I’ll call you back,” she said into both phones at once, then put one on the table, the other into her belt pouch and stood up. “I was thinking that so far there’s nothing we can charge him with unless we can use your criminal damage case.”
“I don’t think we should charge him at all. We’ll do better to treat Teddy as a cooperative witness.”
“Tell that to the brigadier. Oh yes, and here’s the Identi-Kit photo of this Fernando who went to see Teddy’s mother. It just came in by fax from London. It’s not too helpful.”
Bruno studied the picture as Isabelle got her coat and bag. It showed a man in early middle age with receding black hair, gray at the temples, and prominent ears. His face was very pale and his eyes dark, and he had the beginnings of a double chin. The most prominent feature was the way his eyebrows, which were thick and bushy, met over the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t familiar from the file of mug shots that Bruno had already seen; he’d have remembered a face like that.
Teddy and Kajte were sitting on the same steps of the rugby stadium where he had found them last time. They stood up as he approached, looking warily at Isabelle limping beside him on her cane.
“I haven’t brought a SWAT team,” he said, shaking hands with each of them. He introduced Isabelle and told them she was a friend.
“How’s the leg?” he asked Kajte.
“It’s fine, thank you. You did a good job. I don’t even need the bandage anymore.”
“Have you seen a doctor about it?”
“No, nothing since I saw you,” she said. “I just used that cream you gave me.”
“Let’s take a look.” He led the way into the dressing rooms. Kajte slipped off her cargo pants and lay facedown on the massage table. Isabelle’s eyes were riveted on the girl’s slim and perfect thighs, Bruno saw, as if she were thinking of the wreckage the bullet had done to her own. He shook his head and told himself to focus. He peeled the bandages from Kajte’s wounds. They all looked clean and were scabbing over. He gave Kajte more bandages from the cupboard.
He turned to Teddy and handed him the Identi-Kit picture. “Do you recognize this man?”
“Yes, that’s Fernando, a cousin of my father’s. He came to see us at home every once in a while. And he came to see me at university last year.”
“Was that when he gave you the map identifying your father’s grave?” Isabelle asked.
Teddy gulped in surprise, looked down at Kajte, who was clutching his arm, and nodded. “Yes, he said he’d gotten it from a sympathizer in the Spanish police who knew my father had been assassinated by the GAL in the dirty war. He said that I was entitled to know my father’s fate and to see he got a decent burial, a place where my mother could mourn.�
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“Do you know how to get in touch with him? A phone number or an address, perhaps.”
“Only an e-mail address on Yahoo. He was very cautious about being contacted.”
“So you knew he was ETA?” Isabelle asked.
“I suspected it. It was pretty obvious. He said my father had been an ETA sympathizer, which was why he was killed. He said they’d probably kill him if they could. I didn’t know what to think. It’s quite something to learn that your father was assassinated for being a member of a terrorist group.”
“And what do you think about that, about terrorism?”
“I don’t think terrorism is ever justified in a democracy. Spain these days is a democracy and the Basques have a lot of autonomy.”
“Have you ever been to the Basque country, looked up your roots?”
“I’ve never been to Spain,” he said. “The only Basque roots I know about are the ones I dug up here.”
“How often did you see Fernando, growing up?”
“Every two or three years he’d come to Wales and always bought a present for me, a book or something about Basque culture. He always sent something at Christmas, usually mailed from France.”
“When did he first talk about finding your father’s grave?”
Teddy explained that he e-mailed Fernando from time to time to keep in touch. He’d sent an e-mail last October, after his summer on the exploratory dig at the St. Denis site when it had first become clear they had a potential Neanderthal grave. Soon after that Fernando had appeared at Teddy’s room at university.
“He asked a lot of questions about the site and said he really wanted me to go back and work on it again,” Teddy said, smiling as he added that wild horses wouldn’t have kept him away.
The Crowded Grave Page 24