by Michael Bond
‘And Pommes Frites too, I hope,’ said Martine.
‘I shan’t be able to look him in the face if I leave him behind,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He is already licking his lips.’
As he terminated the call, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard a tap on his windscreen, and looking up he saw a meter maid using the bonnet of his car as a writing desk.
It was a pity Monsieur Leclercq wasn’t with him. It might have been a salutary reminder of the fact that not only was there no justice in the world, but even the prettiest of little things could have their downside.
On the other hand, the chances were that it would be like water off a duck’s back. Some people never learnt.
CHAPTER NINE
Crossing the Seine via the Pont de Bir Hakeim for the second time in three days, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering if Madame Grante and Jo Jo were watching the passing scene from the window of Véronique’s apartment further downstream.
In the Place de Costa Rica he turned left into the rue Raynouard and found a parking space almost exactly opposite the entrance to Maison de Balzac. Crossing the road, he looked down at the little blue-roofed house, with its green shutters and immaculately kept garden. Despite being stuck in a kind of time-warp and shrouded in darkness, the semi-circular front porch still managed to looked welcoming and friendly, which was more than could be said of some of the entrances to the vast apartment blocks on either side, with their vast plate-glass doors and uniformed security guards.
Making his way up the hill towards Mademoiselle Borel’s block, he came across a plaintive handwritten notice attached to a lamp post, pleading for news of a cat that had fallen from a seventh-floor window. Cats led charmed lives. Even so, he didn’t fancy its chances. It must have used up most of its allotted number on the way down.
Presenting his credentials to a poker-faced man in the marble foyer, he led the way round a flower-filled rock garden towards a bank of four lifts, conscious as he did so that their every move would be recorded.
If the man remembered him from his last visit, he didn’t let on. The same flowers were in bloom, confirming his initial suspicions that they were probably vacuumed every morning rather than watered. He wouldn’t have dared touch one to find out. That, too, would be preserved on disc or tape.
Arriving on the tenth floor, he crossed the thickly carpeted vestibule, pressed a button on a door facing him, and while waiting recalled the first time he had visited Martine Borel.
That was when he discovered that not all computer boffins sported beards and wore steel-rimmed glasses. Instead, he had been momentarily knocked for six by the person who greeted him; cool, and smelling of what was then the ‘in’ perfume – Bigarade.
As the door opened he was relieved to find nothing, not even the perfume, had changed.
Pommes Frites bounded on ahead with a proprietorial air, made a half circuit of the room, stopped by a door leading to the kitchen for an appreciative sniff, then just as speedily returned to base, wagging his tail.
‘I do apologise …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘There is no need.’ Martine Borel gave her four-legged visitor a welcoming hug. ‘It is good to know everything meets with his approval …’
To Monsieur Pamplemousse’s relief it was a case of taking up the threads as though they saw each other every day.
Martine ushered him towards a black leather armchair, one of a pair set near the picture window running almost the entire length of one wall.
A glass-topped table between the chairs had been set with two tall and recently chilled champagne glasses, one on either side of an ice bucket.
The arrangement of the furnishings was remarkably similar to Véronique’s, as was the view across the Seine; in Passy, the Eiffel Tower was never far away.
Removing an already opened bottle from the ice bucket, Martine wiped the bottom of it dry with a napkin. While she was filling the glasses he took stock. Her make-up was, as ever, understatedly impeccable. A few grey hairs, perhaps, but the gold bangle on her wrist was the same, and the absence of rings suggested she was still Mademoiselle Borel.
It occurred to him how similar she and Vérnonique were. They even dressed alike, except Martine favoured green rather than brown, to match her emerald eyes. Perhaps these extra niceties also went with living in the 16th.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he said.
‘Neither have you …’ She eyed him quizzically as she handed him one of the glasses. ‘A few more grey hairs, perhaps.’
He raised the glass to his nose. The last time it had been a Californian white: Château Bouchamie Carneros, if his memory served him correctly; this time it was pink, refreshingly pétillant, and equally elusive.
‘Think Bugey,’ said Martine.
He placed it now: Cerdon, a sparkling wine made by the Champagne-method in the mountainous area to the west of the Savoie. She had caught him out again.
‘Tell me the worst,’ said Martine, after he had given her a rough outline of Le Guide’s problem. ‘I take it you still have everything on a main frame computer? As I remember it, a Poulanc DB23, 450 series. That is still in use?’
‘It is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But following the previous attack, we now have a new system in place. Preliminary work on the guide no longer takes place on the main computer. It has been divided into separate work-stations, one for each of the twenty-two regions of France.
‘Theoretically, Monsieur Leclercq is the last person to see each entry via a printout, and he checks every detail with the proverbial fine tooth comb before giving the OK for it to go through to the DB23, where it is assembled as a whole.’
‘So it isn’t exactly a repeat of the last time you were infiltrated?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘On that occasion the hard disc on the DB23 was stolen and reprogrammed. This time it is more insidious and therefore potentially much more worrying. The first occasion would have been a disaster, a criminal act easily recognisable as such by the general public. Hence it would have been easier to recover from without leaving Le Guide with too much egg on its face.’
‘Fragmentation has its advantages,’ said Martine. ‘Presumably the stations themselves are not connected to the outside world?’
‘The hope was it would make the system impregnable.’
Martine looked skeptical. ‘So what is happening this time?’
‘It began with tiny changes being made to individual items by some person, or persons unknown, after they had been passed by the Director: essential pieces of information were being altered in such a way as to make it look like sheer carelessness, something calculated to undermine people’s trust in Le Guide.
‘Par exemple, early on we came across an entry saying Paul Bocuse is closed four days of the week.’
‘That would have thrown the cat among the pigeons.’
‘Indeed. Fortunately, we picked up on it, otherwise knives would have been out in Collonges-au-Mont-d’Or!’
‘Is there a recognisable pattern to the changes?’
‘In the beginning there was. Unfortunately, whoever is responsible seems to have grown more confident with time and the whole thing has begun to escalate.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse cited the recent changes relating to the Tour d’Argent’s entry.
‘So it’s panic stations?’
‘The publication date in March may sound a long way away, but the reality is that unless something is done quickly we shall never make it, and that will be a black mark in itself.’
Martine replenished their glasses. ‘Entering a computer is much like cracking a walnut. Once you are through the outer shell you can introduce a worm, which will feed on the inside fruit to its heart’s content. The problem is how to get through the hard exterior in the first place.’
‘Which is why I am here,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Tell some people a thing is impossible and they immediately see it as a challenge,’ said Martine. ‘That’s what h
ackers are all about.
‘Data security is big business. The craft of “intrusion protection” is an official job description – they are called “sniffers”, and part of their work is trying to see how to break into systems. A good many start out as programmers. There is no better introduction.
‘Only one thing is certain, there are people out there whose main aim in life is to keep ahead of the game. It is our function to try and beat them to the call.’
‘Excusez moi.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made a face as his phone rang.
Signalling to Pommes Frites, Martine discreetly made her way towards the kitchen. Pommes Frites obeyed the call with alacrity, licking his lips as he followed on behind.
Activating his mobile, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard a familiar voice at the other end. ‘You have been quick,’ he said.
‘Knowing which buttons to press helps,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘If you have one piece of information about a person you can almost always find more.
‘In the case of your young lady, I struck gold almost at once by playing around with the name Péage, wondering what one would do to Anglicise it. Quite simply, the answer is – take away the “é”.
‘Her maiden name was Crescent … Deirdre Crescent, but for some unknown reason she was always known as Maria. According to the records, she is twenty-four, but looks much younger. Father was possibly a refugee from Eastern Europe who came to do the garden. In my day, when she was small she would have been known as “the school cert”.’
‘Comment?’
‘It is an English joke to do with exams. Rather difficult to translate, I’m afraid. But take it from me, it was an augury of things to come.
‘She was born in Totteridge and Whetstone. It sounds like a firm of estate agents, but in fact it’s a station on our Northern underground line. Rather out in the sticks. Such details are important in England; we place great store by them. They conjure up an immediate picture. Living in Harrow-on-the-Hill, is one thing, but someone born in Totteridge and Whetstone might well kick over the traces sooner or later. In Maria’s case it was sooner.
‘She had what is known in the trade as a “loose eye”, which she used to good effect when she was at school. It was a kind of party trick that also became a weapon of self-defence.
‘When she was eighteen she married a Captain Page. Ex-British army, although there is no record of which regiment he was in. At the time he was dabbling in used cars in London’s Warren Street; that and real estate.
‘He also wasn’t averse to passing his new bride around among his friends in the motor trade – for a small fee, of course. Afterwards he sold the photographs on. She stood it for six months, then ran away to Paris and hasn’t been seen since.
‘The last that was heard of her she was living on a canal boat somewhere in north-eastern France.’
‘That is it?’
‘I’m afraid so. At least as far as this side of the Channel is concerned. If I find out any more I will let you know. I hope I haven’t interfered with your dinner.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You have whetted my appetite. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you how long it has been cooking.’
‘Now you have whetted mine,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I will have a word with Mrs Pickering.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse offered up his thanks and promised to be in touch if he needed anything else.
He stared at the instrument in his hand. The information wasn’t exactly world shattering, but at least it confirmed all that Jacques had told him and helped build up a picture. Guilot had certainly been right about the name change. He had guessed Péage sounded more exotic to foreign ears. Living on a canal boat explained the tattoo as well.
He wondered if she would put in an appearance at tomorrow’s tasting.
‘I have been thinking,’ Martine, broke into his thoughts as she came back into the room.
‘It seems to me there are three questions that need to be addressed.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Who? Why? and How? Not necessarily in order of importance. If you solve any one of those,’ she continued, unwittingly echoing Mr Pickering’s words, ‘it will inevitably lead you to the others. I would suggest for a start it is most likely someone within your own organisation.
‘I would also suggest you are holding in your hand a very likely means.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his mobile. ‘This?’
‘Not that particular one,’ said Martine. ‘It is, if I may so, somewhat out of date.’
‘Sticks and stones …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘… may break my bones,’ said Martine, ‘but never criticise a man’s mobile. It is very emasculating.’
‘I happen to like buttons that are easy to find in the dark,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have enough trouble getting my fingers on the right ones as it is.’
‘I only said that,’ said Martine, ‘because if you have someone in mind it would be good to know what model they are using.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was reminded of the Director’s words: She is always using my mobile.
‘I think I can safely say it is the latest model.’
‘Was,’ corrected Martine. ‘New ones appear almost as fast as we speak.’
‘Tell me more,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Martine looked at her watch. ‘Why don’t I do that over dinner? If we leave it any longer gigot de sept heures will become eleven-hour lamb, and as it is my first essay into the realms of molecular gastronomy, I would value your expert opinion.’
Having seated Monsieur Pamplemousse at an already laid table in the kitchen, she removed a large casserole dish from the oven, and while he was opening his bottle of wine – a Croze Hermitage Tête de Cuvée from Yann Chave – began serving it out.
‘The lamb is milk fed from the Pyrénées. Two days ago I began by rubbing in salt and some thyme. This morning I pre-heated the oven to seventy degrees centigrade, wiped the leg clean of any excess salt, browned it in olive oil and placed it in the casserole – it needs a tight-fitting lid, like this one. After that I prepared all the other ingredients: carrots, onions; a bouquet garni of fresh thyme, rosemary, and a bay leaf of course; then I added garlic to the dish, and later still, some sliced potatoes …
‘Earlier today I reduced around a third of a bottle of white wine until it was syrupy and passed that through a sieve to make a sauce in the roasting tray.’
While she was talking, Martine prepared a liberal helping in a bowl for Pommes Frites.
‘It was lucky for both of us that you had time to answer the phone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I know it sounds very labour intensive,’ Martine placed one of the plates in front of him while he poured the wine, ‘but it isn’t really. Besides, it almost becomes a labour of love. You keep wondering if all is well inside its cocoon.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse applied the side of his fork to the meat. It was like cutting through butter.
For a moment or two, apart from a lapping sound coming from a corner of the kitchen, they ate in silence.
‘It is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse at last, ‘quite the most delicious lamb I have eaten for a long time. Congratulations!’
He tasted the wine. To his relief it didn’t let him down. The underlining flavour of olives and thyme complemented the food; the slight acidity gave it freshness.
‘Don’t thank me,’ said Martine. ‘Thank my current cookery guru, Hervé This. He is the one who brought science into the French kitchen. The recipe itself comes from an English chef – Heston Blumenthal. It was from his Slow Food period. Nowadays he is also deeply into technology and the pursuit of excellence.’
‘They are not alone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is all part of the process of evolution. Gastronomy has never really stood still since Carême turned cooking into an architectural art form. Escoffier followed on, raising its status still further. Nowadays we live in a restless age.
&nb
sp; ‘Apart from Hervé This, we have Marc Veyrat, Robuchon, Ducasse, Gagnaire and many others. Spain has Ferran Adrià at El Bulli. America has Thomas Keller’s French Laundry, Harold McKee, with his extraordinary books on the chemistry of food, and Jean-George Vongerichten in New York. I have also read that if you go into the kitchens of Grant Achatz’s restaurant in Chicago you will look in vain for a stove as we know it. Fragrance is the order of the day, and it is all brought about in stainless-steel cylinders.
‘People in all walks of life are forever searching for perfection. If it isn’t a new taste sensation it is mobile telephones.’
‘I can take a hint.’ Martine looked suitably penitent.
Adding another slice of meat to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s plate, she took a deep breath.
‘Not to bore you on the subject, but historically, once upon a time bigger was best. Then a researcher at Bell Laboratories in America developed a tiny gear wheel that was so small – around the diameter of a human hair, they couldn’t find a use for it, so for fun he turned it into a bracelet for an ant’s leg. It didn’t do much for the jewellery trade; come to that, it didn’t do a lot for ants either, but in the fullness of time it spawned a whole new industry called nano-technology. Now, small is beautiful.
‘Mobiles are not only getting smaller by the day, but at the same time they are becoming so crammed with gadgets they are starting to suffer from what is known as “feature creep”. They are like Swiss Army knives. Fascinating to play with, but who needs to get stones out of horse’s hooves these days?
‘Now that it is possible to combine mobile technology with satellite-based navigation, people will be able to point their mobile at any hotel or restaurant and, at the press of a button, it will tell them everything they need to know.’
‘Monsieur Leclercq won’t be very happy,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It is something he will have to come to terms with,’ said Martine. ‘But at the same time, for many people part of the joy of travelling is in finding things out for themselves. Planning ahead is part of the pleasure. They also value the opinion of someone they can trust.