A Taste for Vengeance

by Martin Walker

  He took a small digital camera from his bag, and the room flared with light as he took photo after photo of the lock, the door and the contents of each shelf.

  “Got your notebook ready, Bruno?” Yves called. “Write it down as I call out. Middle shelf, one wrapped bundle of notes, pounds sterling in twenties, appear to be used. One bundle of U.S. dollars, in hundreds, also used. Two bundles of euros, one of fifties, one of hundreds, also used. One bundle of Swiss francs, hundreds, used. One folder with assorted bearer bonds, another with plastic pockets containing postage stamps and stamped envelopes. Two smartphones, one Android and the other one Apple. You got that?”

  “Yes. Should we count each bundle now?” Bruno’s hand was still trembling, and his usually neat writing had become a scrawl.

  “No, we’d better wait for someone from the fisc to come and do that. I’ll call them when you’ve listed the documents on the top shelf. We usually reckon that a stack five centimeters high of one-hundred-euro notes would contain about fifty thousand euros, but that’s clean bills. These are used, so may be twenty percent less.”

  “Go ahead with the inventory,” said Bruno, trying to do the mental arithmetic before Yves resumed with his new list from the top shelf. He reckoned that the total stash would be close to a hundred and fifty thousand euros.

  “From the top shelf we have three passports bundled together, Canadian, Australian and Irish, in three different names, the photo in each one identical, and there’s a national driver’s license tucked into each one. There is a separate United States passport, same photograph, different name.”

  “Let me see that,” Hodge interrupted, reaching out a hand safely covered with an evidence glove.

  He leafed through it, held up some pages to the light, looked at the binding and the passport stamps inside before noting the number and date of issue. He handed it back saying, “Go on.”

  “There’s a single account book, partly filled in, dating from the first entry in 2008 and the latest one in February this year,” Yves resumed. “We have three checkbooks, from HSBC, Allied Irish Bank and Julius Baer Bank, Zurich, along with bank statements. One Austrian post office bankbook showing an account of forty thousand euros, no name, just a number. One German Postbank book, showing a credit of thirty-two thousand euros in the name of Patrick Flanegan, the same name as the Irish passport. There’s another folder that contains sheets of paper with what appear to be computer passwords and PIN numbers. One small box with assorted SIM cards. Last item, a thick folder containing various share certificates in companies with registered addresses in Panama and Cayman Islands. And there’s one in Dutch Antilles.”

  “It looks like Uncle Sam’s going to get something for his trouble, after all,” said Hodge, turning to beam at Bruno.

  “I don’t suppose Uncle Sam will feel grateful enough to let us crack a bottle or two,” said Yves, looking hopefully at the stacks of wine.

  “I don’t think he’d like that at all,” Hodge drawled with a smile. “So it’s just as well you’ve been photographing everything. Right now I’d like to take those four passports and check all the dates and stamps and draw up a coordinated list of his travels.”

  Chapter 21

  Bruno arrived at the rugby stadium after halftime and saw that St. Denis was leading by three points. He had left his uniform jacket in his van and taken off his tie and donned a plain black jacket to look a little more like a civilian. He hadn’t dared leave his gun in the van, so it was tucked into the back of his trousers. He glanced up at the crowded stadium benches, where Paulette was sitting in the place of honor. The mayor sat on one side of her, her father on the other with Father Sentout beside him. To Bruno’s disappointment there was no sign of her mother. Paulette spotted him, smiled and raised a hand in greeting. He waved back and went to the kiosk for a grilled sausage on a bun and a plastic glass of beer and turned to watch the game.

  “I’m glad you made it to the match, I was beginning to worry,” said Jack Crimson, suddenly appearing at his side. Bruno had not heard his approach.

  “Something came up at Rentoul’s place in Lalinde. We found a safe, false identities, a lot of cash, bankbooks, share certificates and the most expensive wine collection I’ve ever seen.”

  “Interesting. The FBI must be pleased.”

  “The safe was also booby-trapped.”

  “A careful fellow, we must have trained him well. What did he use?”

  “An antipersonnel grenade. You remember Yves from forensics? He managed to slam the door closed in time,” Bruno said between bites of his sausage. “How’s the game?”

  “The two sides are pretty evenly matched, but we may have the better forwards thanks to Karim.”

  The game seemed bogged down in the visitors’ half, with St. Denis trying charge after charge by the forwards and getting blocked every time. It’s a pity Paulette isn’t playing, thought Bruno. She always varied the rhythm of her play and he was confident she would have found an unexpected way through. Just then Karim made a fine play, sidestepping one defender and forcing another to tackle him, leaving a gap through which the St. Denis winger took Karim’s pass and scored.

  Bruno thrust his arms into the air in delight, spilling the remains of his beer. The stadium erupted with cheers and applause. That was five more points, and since the conversion kick was easy it was soon seven, giving St. Denis a ten-point lead. The visitors would now have to score twice to win.

  That was how it ended, but instead of running off to the showers the players shook hands and then lined up as the mayor led Paulette down from the stadium, signaling to Bruno to join them on the pitch. Alongside her father came Lespinasse as club chairman, brandishing the championship cup Paulette’s team had won. Philippe Delaron was scampering around in front of them, snapping away with his camera.

  “I’d like to congratulate both teams on a very good game today, played hard and played well,” the mayor began, speaking into a wireless microphone. “But we’re also here today to congratulate the captain of our women’s team, Paulette, not only on winning the regional championship and this cup but also on the wonderful news that she has been picked for the French national women’s team.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur le Maire,” said Paulette as the mike was passed to her. “I’d like to thank you and my parents and teachers like wonderful Florence Pantowsky at the collège, here with her children, and Gérard Bollinet at my lycée, who is here today with his wife and baby, and all the town for their support. Above all I want to thank my teammates, who really won this cup, and our coach, Bruno Courrèges, for his endless support and enthusiasm for the women’s game. He first began teaching me rugby ten years ago, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. And now I’d like to invite all my friends on the women’s team to come out onto the pitch so you can congratulate them properly. And I want every girl and mother and grandmother in this crowd to see that rugby is a sport for all of us.”

  One by one, the town’s young womanhood made their way onto the pitch to rousing cheers. In a move they must have rehearsed, Karim and Maurice, the next biggest of the St. Denis forwards, advanced and picked up Paulette to place her onto their muddy shoulders. All the players on the pitch joined in the applause as Philippe darted around taking photos and the mayor rescued the microphone.

  “And now the town of St. Denis would like to welcome you all to enjoy a glass of our town wine in the clubhouse, drinking to the health of Paulette and her teammates and to her future success when wearing the blue shirt of our beloved France.”

  Paulette beckoned to him and took back the microphone, almost toppling from the shoulders on which she was perched.

  “I’d just like to remind you that I’m not the first inhabitant of St. Denis to be selected for a national sports team,” she declared. “The head of our gendarmes, Commandante Yveline, was on the field hockey squad for the Olympic Games, which
means that we women are really doing well. So I’d like to tell all my male friends and colleagues here, it’s time for you guys to catch up. You can’t expect the women to do all the work. Thank you.”

  Bruno found himself laughing as Paulette’s teammates whooped with joy and gathered round to embrace her. Paulette took Karim’s brawny arm and slipped to the ground. Then the girls took up a shout of “We want Bruno.” Little Amandine, the youngest of the team, darted out to grab Bruno’s hand and pull him into the group. Delighted at being included, Bruno embraced every girl in reach, remembering what they were like when he’d first started to train them and the pleasure he had taken in watching them learn and grow into this terrific team. He was bursting with pride.

  Finally, the group broke up as Paulette embraced first her father, then Lespinasse, Father Sentout and finally the mayor before they all headed to the clubhouse and the waiting wine. Bruno limited himself to a single glass, knowing he’d have to work, circulated quickly, shaking endless hands and kissing innumerable cheeks. He went to give Paulette a final hug. She kept a firm hold of his arm, turned and said, “I’d like you to meet my drama teacher, Gérard.”

  Feeling himself blush as he shook hands with the young man, who carried an infant in his arms, Bruno was at a loss for words. Gérard filled in the gap, saying how he’d heard from Paulette of the years of support Bruno had given her and the women’s team.

  “Coaching a team must be a bit like being a teacher,” Gérard went on with an engaging smile, even though his ear was being enthusiastically tugged by his child. “This is one of those days when we realize how rewarding that job can be.”

  Bruno liked him at once and managed to murmur, “Enchanté, monsieur. I heard Paulette’s warm words about you, so thank you for your own efforts.”

  “Allow me to introduce my wife, Marie-Claire,” Bollinet said, and Bruno shook hands again. He saw the young woman’s brows crease as she tried to recall whether she might have seen him before, but then she smiled. Not for the first time, Bruno was grateful that a police uniform and képi were usually what caught the eye rather than the face of the wearer.

  As Bruno tried to make his escape, he saw Philippe Delaron approach Paulette. For once, Philippe’s camera was not poised to shoot. He reached her side and bent to whisper something in her ear. Bruno watched Paulette’s face grow cold and hard as she turned away, muttering something curt and dismissive. As so often, Bruno wished he could read lips. Philippe murmured something else, but this time Paulette said not a word. She simply tipped the contents of her glass of red wine onto Philippe’s shirt and turned away.

  The glass was only half full and it was done so calmly and discreetly that no one in the crowd seemed to have noticed, even when a red-faced Philippe squeezed through the crowd to the door, holding his jacket so as to conceal the stain. Philippe was a few years older, an inveterate womanizer, and as a sports photographer he probably spent more time with the girls’ teams than any other male except Bruno. Could he have been the father? Bruno found it hard to believe. Surely Paulette had better taste. But perhaps…He stopped himself. It was nobody’s business but hers. He turned away and found Jack Crimson in the throng.

  “You said you came bearing gifts,” Bruno said, leading Crimson outside, where he saw that Philippe was already disappearing through the stadium gates. “But you didn’t say who you wanted to receive them.”

  “I thought you and I could discuss that. Perhaps I should pass them on to the brigadier, but I’m not sure it’s worth his while. You know I saw him in Paris before I caught the Eurostar to London.”

  “Yes, he told me. But he’s not down here. I suppose Isabelle counts as his representative, but she’s gone back to Paris.”

  “I really don’t want this to go through official police channels, or to be shared with the FBI.”

  “What about Moore, from your Special Branch?”

  “Again, Bruno, I’m not sure. Maybe I should go to Paris, but could we talk it over first? I know you have your special ways of contacting the brigadier.”

  They took their separate vehicles back to Bruno’s home and installed themselves on the terrace to enjoy the evening sun with a glass of kir, a Bergerac white wine with a splash of cassis. Balzac sat on the ground between them gazing amiably from one to the other.

  “You know, of course, that one of the key safeguards of democracy is to keep our various intelligence agencies separate. If united, they could become far too powerful,” Crimson began.

  “Like the CIA and FBI or your MI5 and MI6, or our gendarmes and our police,” Bruno replied.

  “Yes, but in Britain we have five agencies. There’s the Security Service, which you call MI5, and the Secret Intelligence Service, which you call MI6. But there’s also military intelligence and the old police Special Branch, which is now part of the counterterrorist agency. And probably the most important and powerful of them all is GCHQ. It stands for Government Communications Headquarters, the listeners and the monitors and code breakers of worldwide radio, phone and computer systems. We keep these five arms separate, although we coordinate them through the Joint Intelligence Committee.”

  “Which you ran.”

  “Not quite. I chaired the committee, which is not the same thing. But it means that I’ve been allowed to make handwritten notes taken from three separate files I was allowed to see in recent days. One is from military intelligence, dated 1988 and updated in 1989 and again in 1990, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, on Felder’s divorce and marriage to Monika. I think that one is definitive. There’s another, less complete file from SIS on the close relationship between them and Felder’s company, and on that company’s parallel close relationship with several different arms of American intelligence. The third one, also from SIS, is from a single-page report on the row between father and son that led to Julian’s departure from the Felder company. It includes a separate note on Julian’s less than brilliant career in the British army.”

  Bruno nodded and topped up their glasses with kir. Balzac had wandered off, sniffing his way toward a long-abandoned rabbit warren he had searched in vain several times before.

  “On the first and third files, I can be brief,” Crimson continued. “Monika was the illegitimate daughter of an East German woman from Erfurt named Ursula Waskau, who crossed to West Berlin in May 1961, at the age of seventeen, a few months before the wall was built. Ursula was an orphan. In West Berlin she became a secretary but dreamed of being a pop star and actress. She had little success, no job and moved into a squat. She gave birth to Monika in 1970 and died the following year of a drug overdose. Monika was raised in a Lutheran orphanage and was a clever girl, did well in school and was gifted at sports, particularly tennis. When she met Felder, she was studying at the university in Düsseldorf. She played tennis at the nearby Blau-Weiss tennis club, where Rafael Nadal started his career.

  “Felder and Rentoul were at Rheindahlen at that time, HQ of the British army on the Rhine. Monika met the then Lieutenant Rentoul at some local sporting event and became his doubles partner and girlfriend. Through him, she met Felder. Despite their initial suspicions, army security gave Monika a clean sheet. After several interviews they concluded that Monika and Felder were genuinely in love. He secured a divorce so he could marry her.”

  “Did they interview Rentoul?” Bruno asked.

  “Yes, more than once. Despite his own feelings for Monika, Rentoul accepted that she’d fallen for his boss and soon took up with another German girl, one of several, the report says.” Crimson sat up. “Could we have some coffee, please? It’s been a long day.”

  They went into the kitchen together, and Bruno put on the kettle, readied a tray with two cups and spooned coffee into his cafetière.

  “There’s not much to add about Felder’s son, Julian,” Crimson said, explaining that Julian had gone to the Sandhurst military academy after his parents’ divor
ce. “He graduated in the middle of his class and joined the parachute regiment just too late for the Falklands campaign. He applied to join the SAS but was not accepted. He began drinking and was passed over for promotion. He resigned his commission, spent a year blowing his army gratuity on the hippie trail and then came back to London to work for various private security groups, including the U.K.-based Sandline. Have you ever heard of them?”

  Bruno shook his head and carried the tray out to the terrace.

  “They did a lot of lucrative work in Africa, mainly Angola and Sierra Leone, helping governments guard diamond and oil installations against rebel groups. Some called them mercenaries. That wasn’t really true because although they operated paramilitary forces they wouldn’t work for all comers, and Sandline liked to think they worked with the backing of Her Majesty’s government, or at least bits of it.

  “You should know that Britain in those years of Thatcher and her successors was a happy hunting ground for these private security and paramilitary outfits. This was Felder’s world after he retired from the army and it became Rentoul’s, just in time for the expansion of their business that came with the first and second Gulf wars.”

  When Sandline went into decline, Crimson went on, Julian tried working for some other private security groups with limited success before swallowing his pride and joining his father’s company, by then very successful. He spent a few years running some of its security operations in Afghanistan and later Iraq, one of which ran into trouble when an American investigation found serious mismanagement. His father withdrew Julian and settled the problem by paying a fine. Nonetheless, Julian demanded a seat on the company board, threatened once too often to resign and finally his father accepted the resignation.

  “Nobody reputable in the security business would hire him,” Crimson added. “So he spent some time in Dubai with a company providing antipiracy guards for oil tankers. Then the official navies took over that job and Julian joined an old school friend selling prime London residences to rich foreigners, got married to an old girlfriend and was divorced within a year.”