Trio

by William Boyd

In fact, she was quite happy to be shut down and not think. She had asked Jacques to call her lawyer and her agent in Los Angeles and set them to work but he said it was too soon. The fewer people who know where you are at the moment the better. Don’t send any signals just yet—it’s safer. We’ll take our time—our fightback will happen when we want it.

  During the day she listened to French radio—playing songs that she could barely understand—snacked, dozed, looked out of the windows. Alphonse returned from work, ate something and went out again. This was clearly on the instructions of Jacques because he routinely appeared ten minutes after Alphonse left. They would go to her room and make love. Somehow the fact that she was on the run and in danger made their relationship flourish sexually again, at least on Jacques’ side.

  “Why can’t I come back and be at your place?” she asked.

  “You can, but not now. We have to be careful. All sorts of people will be looking for you. Let’s be sensible, let’s wait a bit, a few days, a week.” He paused. “I’ve had an idea. It’ll wake everyone up. Boom.”

  She acquiesced; she didn’t ask what would go “boom,” happy in her limbo at the moment. Sometimes she thought of Troy and worried and wondered what he would make of all this upheaval. She also realised that she was taking more than eight Equanil a day but what else could she do? The time slipped by easier with the Equanil. Sometimes she left the apartment block and went for a stroll. Strangely, the streets around the block seemed full of Chinese people—Chinese people speaking French. She found a café that she liked and would order a Coca-Cola and smoke a cigarette or two, looking around her, watching this unfamiliar world go by—and then go back to Alphonse’s place. Sometimes she thought she’d been in Paris for years instead of a few days but nothing seemed to matter all that much, as long as she was safe.

  12

  Talbot stood outside the door on the second floor where he’d been directed by the concierge. A plastic rectangle above the bell bore the name M. Mehdi Duhameldeb. Talbot rang—and after a few seconds Jacques Soldat/Mehdi Duhameldeb opened the door carefully. He was clearly extremely surprised to see Talbot. He recognised him but couldn’t remember his name, obviously.

  “You are?”

  “Talbot Kydd. We met in Brighton on the film. I’m the producer.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Ah…” He didn’t have a ready answer. He improvised. “Anny left your address at the office.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I think she wanted us to send something to you. Something like that. Anyway, there it was.” He smiled. “How else would I have found you?”

  Soldat peered over Talbot’s shoulder as if he expected to find others lurking and, when he didn’t, opened the door wider so that Talbot could come in.

  In the main room Talbot sat down on a small cane bergère while Soldat positioned himself at his desk, swivelling his chair round to face him.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Talbot?”

  “We have a problem, as I’m sure you realise,” Talbot said.

  “No. What problem?”

  “Anny has disappeared. She’s ‘run away.’ We surmised that she might have come to you here in Paris.”

  “No. Not at all. I can’t believe she would do something like that. It’s not like Anny.”

  Talbot thought Soldat’s attempt to be disingenuous was pathetic. Still, they would have to proceed with the pretence.

  “Maybe she went back to America,” Soldat said.

  “I doubt it. There’s a warrant out for her arrest. Her ex-husband has been apprehended and shipped back to the States. He’s in FBI custody. He’s accused Anny—claimed she helped him evade capture. That she gave him money to help his escape. It’s serious.”

  “Quel con,” Soldat said, bitterly. “I wish I could help you. I haven’t seen Anny since I left Brighton.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Not for a week or so.” He stood. “Can I offer you a drink? Whisky?”

  Talbot accepted and Soldat left the room, returning moments later with two small whiskies in wine glasses.

  “To the swift return of Anny,” Soldat toasted. “France is a big country. Maybe she’s gone to the south of France. I know she has a friend in Cannes. Maybe you should look for her there.”

  “Do you know this friend’s name?”

  “I can find it for you.”

  Talbot gave him the name of his hotel for form’s sake. Soldat’s lies were inept. Talbot finished his whisky, sensing that the encounter was near its end. He stood and thanked Soldat for his time, assuring him that the minute he found any trace of Anny he would let him know.

  “It’s kind of you to offer, but,” Soldat paused at the door of his apartment, hand on the knob, “to be honest, I think our relationship—mine with Anny—is over.”

  “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She was fucking your pop star, what’s his name? The Toy.”

  “Troy. Troy Blaze. No, that’s impossible. I don’t know where you got that idea from.”

  “I got the idea from my eyes. From seeing the two of them on the set of your film. I’m not a fool, Mr. Talbot.”

  Talbot refrained from correcting him.

  “I can assure you you’re mistaken. I would’ve known. Instantly. Would’ve heard. Their relationship was purely professional.”

  “What is your English saying? ‘There are none so blind as those people who will not see.’ Use your eyes. It’s obvious.”

  “I see everything, Monsieur Soldat. Nothing escapes me. Particularly on a film I’m producing.”

  “We all like to think that. It’s our unique vanity.” He smiled. “Oh no, no one can fool me.”

  He stepped closer, as if he were about to divulge a confidence.

  “They are trying to destroy Anny.”

  “Who?”

  “The Americans, the CIA, the FBI. The American state. She’s a symbol, you know. Everyone is looking at Anny—what she believes, what she hates, what cause she will follow. If they can smash that symbol it will send a message to many people. This is what’s going on, Monsieur Talbot. Be very careful. These forces are powerful. What do you say?—we have to fight fire with fire.”

  “I think you’re mistaken.”

  Soldat gave him a pitying smile.

  “In this world there are people who bow their heads—and people who refuse to bow their heads.”

  “If only it were that simple. I’m just trying to make a film.”

  “And there, exactly, precisely, is your problem.”

  Talbot shrugged. This conversation was going nowhere. Soldat opened the door for him, wished him bonne chance et bon retour and Talbot left without a handshake. He slowly descended the stairs, happy to avoid the apartment’s open lift with its two sets of rickety, clattering doors. How many lies had Soldat told? It was obvious that he knew where Anny was and, in a way, his oafish denials and his preposterous conspiracy theory were all the confirmation he needed. But what to do now? He was sure Kincade would have an answer. Thank God he’d hired him, difficult, contrary individual though he was.

  He stepped out into the street and lit a cigarette, looking around for his investigator. Where was he lurking?

  “Mr. Kydd? We meet again.”

  Talbot turned and saw a man he vaguely recognised. The accent was American. He was wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat.

  “I’m Agent Radetski. We met a week or so back.”

  “I remember.”

  They shook hands.

  “What’re you doing here, Mr. Kydd? Looking for Anny Viklund?”

  “Yes.” Talbot opted for honesty.

  “What’ll you do if you find her?”

  “Try to persuade her to return to her contracted job.”

  Rad
etski allowed himself a sceptical smile.

  “Have you just met with Mr. Soldat?” he asked.

  “Yes. He has no idea where Miss Viklund is. So he says. Their relationship is over, it seems. Ex-lovers.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I’m inclined to believe him,” Talbot said, equivocally. He had no desire to give any help to Radetski. “I was absolutely sure she’d be staying with him. But, no—not a trace. It’s a small apartment—I would have noticed.”

  “Maybe I should talk to him.”

  “You can try, but I doubt he’ll talk to you. By the way, you and your organisation are the Antichrist, as it were, as far as he’s concerned.”

  Radetski gave a tired smile.

  “These intellectuals—Jesus.”

  “You know you can’t extradite her, now she’s in France.”

  “We can try and extradite her—there is a treaty between the U.S. and France—but it seems to take about twenty years, as far as I can tell. We just want to talk to her. She must know a lot. Could be very useful.”

  “She’s just a young, confused actress. You can’t—”

  “She was married to a terrorist,” Radetski said patiently, as if explaining something to a child. “A violent, deadly terrorist prepared to detonate bombs that would kill innocent people. Cornell Weekes is part of an underground terrorist army called the Warning Call. Have you heard of them?”

  “The Warning Call? No.”

  “He’s no lone-wolf figure. Your Miss Viklund might be happy to trade some information about the Warning Call organisation for a plea bargain.”

  Talbot stood there silent, looking at Radetski in his raincoat and trilby hat. Why wear a raincoat when there’s no risk of rain? He thought again of Soldat’s conspiracy theory and suddenly wasn’t so sure it was preposterous.

  “I don’t think she knows anything,” Talbot said. “She’s a child.”

  “With respect, Mr. Kydd, she’s no child. Look who she hangs out with—Cornell Weekes, Jacques Soldat. A convicted terrorist. A radical revolutionary philosopher. Come on. We deal with these types every day. They may be deluded but they’re not children. She knows stuff, even if she doesn’t think she knows stuff. When we talk to her we can analyse what’s useful. It’s her duty as an American citizen.”

  “If you can find her.”

  “She caught a plane to Paris. We’ve confirmed that. She’s in the city.”

  “France is a big country,” Talbot said, echoing Soldat. “Soldat suggested I go and look for her in Cannes.”

  Now it was Radetski’s turn to stay silent and look at Talbot. Impasse. Each with his separate agenda, Talbot thought, but each of them needing Anny Viklund.

  “OK. Maybe I’ll try Soldat.”

  “Good luck. By the way, his real name is Mehdi Duhameldeb.”

  “I know that.” Radetski smiled patiently. “See you around, Mr. Kydd. Be sure to let us know if you get lucky.”

  “I’m heading back to London. I can’t do anything more here.”

  He watched Radetski stroll away towards the boulevard Saint-Germain. Talbot felt a murmuration of worries descend on him as if he were being attacked by a flock of malign starlings. For the first time he had to accept that Anny Viklund’s future did not contain the possibility of completing Emily Bracegirdle’s Extremely Useful Ladder to the Moon. It was a depressing thought.

  “You look a bit un-chipper,” Kincade said, startling him as he appeared from a nearby doorway.

  “I have been in more sanguine moods,” Talbot said.

  “I like that. I’m going to use it. ‘I have been in more sanguine moods.’ Classy. Who was that man you were talking to?”

  “He’s an FBI agent, also looking for Anny Viklund.”

  “You do move in unlikely circles.”

  “Not through choice.” Talbot dropped his cigarette and stepped on it.

  “Any trace of Miss Viklund?”

  “Not in that apartment.”

  “Does Soldat know where she is?”

  “I think so. He was lying to me the whole time. Tried to send me off on a wild goose chase to Cannes.”

  “Cannes? That sounds nice.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. We’re not going to Cannes. What shall we do, Mr. Kincade? Sorry, Ken?”

  “I need more money.”

  They took a taxi back to the hotel. On the way Kincade told him some facts about Jacques Soldat that his publisher had divulged.

  “Apparently he was a young conscript in the French army, in 1945, in Algeria. Twenty years old.”

  “Ah. A soldier. Hence ‘Soldat.’ ”

  “Exactly. He was witness to a massacre at a place called Guelma. May 1945. Tens of thousands of Algerians massacred, so I was told. By the French army and French Algerian settlers.”

  “You sure? I’ve never heard about this.”

  Kincade went on to explain that five years later, under the pseudonym of “Jacques Soldat,” Mehdi Duhameldeb wrote a book called Massacre.

  “Made his name. Suddenly he was the intellectual spokesman for the disaffected colonial people of the French empire. Overnight fame. Never looked back. Book followed book.”

  “Massacre. Was that one of the books Harold J. Hopkins was trying to acquire?”

  “It was indeed.”

  “I begin to understand Monsieur Soldat’s attitude,” Talbot said. “Why he’s so permanently aggressive.”

  The taxi pulled up at the hotel.

  “How much money do you need?” Talbot asked Kincade.

  “Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

  Talbot cashed several travellers’ cheques for the sum of £200 and had it converted into francs. He handed the money to Kincade.

  “What’ll you do with this?”

  “I’m going to hire a car. If I’m going to stake out Soldat’s apartment I’ve got to be comfortable. I can’t stand in the street all day and night.”

  “Fair enough. Just keep receipts.”

  “This plan is all based on your intuition, Mr. K. If you’re convinced he knows where she is—then he’ll go to her. He won’t go tonight because of your visit—not a chance. But he’ll probably go tomorrow if he thinks the coast is clear. And I’ll be watching.” He held up the money. “From the comfort of my hired car.”

  They stood together in the lobby, Kincade folding the money into his wallet. Unlikely conspirators, Talbot thought.

  “Any plans for this evening?” Kincade asked.

  “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”

  “Exciting. I’m going to a club. Want to join me? I think you’d find it interesting. It’s called Inferno. Let me be your guide, your Virgil.”

  “Some other time, Virgil. I’m tired.”

  “Fair enough, as you would say.” Kincade smiled. “We’ll find your precious Miss Viklund tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  “I’m counting on you,” Talbot said. “Have a nice evening. If you can’t be good, be careful.”

  13

  “Hello?” Elfrida said cautiously, realising her voice was a bit shaky. She had stood above the phone as it had rung, her hand hovering over it, paralysed with indecision and then, as it showed no sign of stopping ringing, she had picked it up.

  “Elfrida, it’s Calder.”

  How is it that three words can convey so much? she thought. She knew from the tone of his voice that there was nothing joyous or uplifting about Calder’s call, instantly. She knew that it foretold nothing even bland or neutral of the “How are things going?” variety. Something about the way he said his own name seemed to presage the clear idea that he was the bearer of bad news.

  “Hello, Calder,” she said, as brightly as possible.

  “Bit of a problem, I’m afraid…”

  “Oh. What?”

&
nbsp; “Virginia Woolf.”

  “Yes. What about dear Virginia?”

  He coughed. He cleared his throat.

  “Nobody at Muir & Melhuish is very excited about the idea of your Virginia Woolf book, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Well, they may be excited once they’ve read it. It’s going exceptionally well.”

  “They’re more intrigued by The Zigzag Man. Which is something, at least.”

  “I’ll do that next. Get me a lovely two-book deal.”

  “It’s not quite that simple, Elfrida.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “It’s a bit awkward, but the bottom line is that they don’t want your Last Day of Virginia Woolf book—that’s a definite no—and they won’t advance any money on The Zigzag Man until they have a completed manuscript.”

  Elfrida stood there, the phone to her ear, aware she was swaying slightly to and fro.

  “Then tell them to fuck off,” she said. “Get me another publisher.”

  “Right. Maybe we should have a talk, my dear. Plot and plan. Set out our priorities.”

  “Let’s talk when you’ve lined me up another decent publisher. Night, night, darling.”

  She hung up and headed to the kitchen for the vodka.

  14

  Talbot had another day to himself, waiting for Kincade to report back. He breakfasted, thought about going to the Louvre but decided against. He wasn’t in the mood for concentrating. Instead he went shopping and bought an ambergris silk tie in Charvet and some Chanel No. 5 for Naomi. He lunched at Café de Flore on an omelette aux fines herbes, a green salad and two glasses of Brouilly. When he returned to the hotel in the afternoon the porter handed him a message with his keys. It was from Kincade. It read: “Found her. I’m in my room.” He called Kincade immediately and he came down to the bar.

  “How was your evening?” Talbot asked. He thought Kincade looked a bit tired, a bit shabby.

  “Intriguing…I left the club early, you’ll be glad to hear, and spent the rest of the night watching Soldat’s place, just in case.” He explained further that, after there had been no activity in the night, Soldat had emerged at around 10 a.m., on foot. Kincade jumped out of the car and followed him to the Métro. On the way Soldat had taken a certain amount of evading action, doubling back, going into a shop and coming out of a rear entrance, all of which made Kincade think that he was heading for Miss Viklund. Eventually he took the Métro to Corvisart and then walked from there to a block of flats on the rue Bobillot.