by Manda Scott
‘Max, please. We are beyond formality.’
‘Max.’ Drink fuels her smile. ‘Then I must be Sophie. Sleep well.’
The drive back is uncomfortable. The Patron throws his Peugeot around corners at speeds it was not designed for. Sophie hangs on to the strap and fights waves of nausea. They stop at a junction and she throws open the door and begins to step out.
The Patron grabs her arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ll walk. It’s safer.’
‘It’s another two kilometres. It’s raining.’
Each of these is obvious. She ignores him. He drives alongside.
‘Sophie, get in the car.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Get in!’ He’s agitated now. ‘If Kramme comes along, we can’t be seen to be arguing.’
‘I’m not arguing. I’m walking.’
‘Sophie!’ He’s out now, walking round to stand in front of her. ‘Get in the car.’
It’s odd, now, how easy it is to defy him. With anger comes a different kind of clarity. It’s in the tilt of his head, in the way he holds himself, in the way he says Kramme’s name. Either he knows she’s working for Kramme, or—
‘You are jealous!’ She had told Kramme he was, but she thought it an act.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You are.’ Her truth for Kramme has become a reality. She starts to laugh, thinly, with too little control. She really does feel sick. He takes a step closer. She thinks he might slap her, but he takes her by the wrist, carefully, and guides her back to the car. In English, he says, ‘Get in. Please.’
Please. Only the English … There is a moment when she might vomit all over his suit, but it passes. She does as he asks, because he has asked it. They drive a while in silence. She says, ‘I am going to kill him.’
‘Sophie … you don’t have to—’
‘I’m telling you so you know why this happens. I have to get close to him and when London gives the word, I am allowed to kill him. This is their promise to me.’
He is not stupid, far from it. She watches the veins at the side of his neck, the creases by his eyes. He has hypnotic eyes; they change so fast. She sees the moment when he begins to ask what her deal is with London, what leverage they have over her, and then realizes he cannot risk knowing. He says, ‘I see.’ She does not trust herself to answer.
They do not speak again until they are outside the door of her lodgings. He steps out of the car and comes round to hold her door. ‘They will check,’ he says. ‘By tomorrow, they will have full details of the autopsy on Eduard Dourant.’
‘And they will find he had his tongue cut out and his throat slit and they will have the typed note left by the member of the équipe de tueurs that killed him.’
‘If you were his lover, they will find that. They will find your real name.’
‘Then it is lucky I was not.’
He stares at her. He is not entirely sober. She is really quite drunk. Her headache is spectacularly bad. She says, ‘I killed him. And yes, I took his tongue out before he died. And no, nobody knows but me. And now you.’
She steps close, and places the flat of her palm on his sternum. It is the first time she has touched him. The shock on his face is laughable. ‘So if Kramme finds out, I will know who told him.’ She leans up – in these heels, it is not so far – and presses a full, hot kiss to his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Patron.’
19 May 1944
‘Ici Londres. Veuillez escorter tout d’abord quelques messages personnels. Ecouter bien … Le cheval noir se promène sur l’eau. Merci Icare; vous nous encourager très bien. Le chat a dix vies. Il fait froid en l’hiver. Le ciel du soir est plus sombre maintenant. Sur le soleil …’
That’s it. Weeks of listening and at last, the evening sky is darker on the BBC’s French transmissions; the party is on: the Maquis de Morez will have air cover for a major action.
It is a fine, clear night with the gibbous moon not yet risen. Sophie is in a part-full hay barn half an hour’s walk from the Fayette farm.
All through the occupied territories, it is forbidden to listen to the BBC, but all through the occupied territories, everyone listens. There is a joke she heard in Paris that goes like this: It is said that a Jew meets a Boche officer on a bridge at 9.10 p.m. one night, cuts out his heart and eats it. But this cannot be true, says the joke, on three counts: First, a Boche officer has no heart, so one cannot be cut out. Second, even if he did, a Jew would not eat the flesh of a swine, so again it cannot be true. Third, if he did and he did, it still cannot be true because at 9.10 p.m. everyone – Jew and Boche alike – is inside listening to the BBC on the radio.
Everywhere else, this joke works, but not in Saint-Cybard. Here, in a forgotten corner of the Jura within spitting distance of Switzerland, Patrick Sutherland’s Troubadour network is staffed with men and women so pristine that Kramme could take their homes apart brick by mortared brick and find not one single incriminating item that might warrant their arrest.
Only Sophie Destivelle is allowed to – ordered to – take the risks. In the dark of the night, when her fears come to taunt her, she wonders if the Patron knows that Kramme will not touch her. The thought is almost as terrifying as the fear of being caught, because while she is not at all sure that Kramme would hesitate to make an example of her if she was found with a radio, she is certain the Patron would shoot her with his own gun if he found she was Kramme’s agent. She dreams, sometimes, of the look of reproach in his eye as he does so.
Just now, she is on her own, which is how she likes it. A heap of last year’s hay lies at the barn’s southern end. Holding her torch in her mouth, she pulls back an armful from the wall, lifts the board lying there and slides the radio into the dark space beneath. Lumpen shadows scuttle in the dark. She shoves the cover back over, piles hay back on top, and five minutes later, she is cycling back to the chilly, comfortless house of the chilly, comfortless collaborator couple with whom the Patron has lodged her.
There, in her upstairs room, she sits on the sagging bed, eats tepid cabbage soup and chews at gritty bread the colour and texture of mortar. This is more like it was in Paris: Madame Fayette’s farmhouse was an oasis of plenty, soon forgotten, except in her dreams. She listens to the Aillardes take themselves to bed, waits half an hour, then tucks the ends of her scarf under her sweater, and climbs down from her window to the ground. From there, she walks into town. It is midnight.
The Hôtel Cinqfeuilles is in blackout, but inside, chandeliers shatter light and spread it, crystalline, over oak and maple, jet and onyx, silk and pure, perfect wool. This is not Paris, but it is older, and in its own way, grander. The guards on the door ignore her as she walks past and turns right at the corner, but on the second circuit a back door opens and Kramme slips out. ‘You have a date?’
‘For the invasion, no. For a raid, yes.’
‘In Saint-Cybard?’
‘The Peugeot factory.’
A slow smile spreads across his face. He gives a small salute. ‘Will the leader be on it?’
‘I don’t think so. He is cautious and this is not considered a major target. It will be led by—’
His finger to her lips. ‘Don’t.’ He leans back on the wall, takes out a cigar and thinks better of it: if she is caught with the scent of good tobacco on her clothes, she may as well paint ‘collaborator’ on her forehead. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow night, under cover of an RAF raid.’
‘They would raid a town? Butchers!’ He is genuinely angry.
‘No. They’ll pretend to raid the factory, but they’ll miss, so they don’t risk hitting the Résistantes.’
‘I see.’ He stares into the distance a while, until her presence brings him back. ‘Will you take part?’
‘Yes.’ And then: ‘I took the message. This may be a test.’
‘Obviously. He is smart, your Vaughan-Thomas, but we are smarter.’ He takes her hand and kisses it. ‘You shall be safe, ma chérie, never
doubt it. Go now. We shall mitigate what damage we can.’
The Aillardes are still asleep when she returns. She lies awake, counting her untruths. Sleep steals them from her, and gives them back at dawn, but if she is crabby all day, the Patron thinks it is because he was rude to her, and does not enquire further.
~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ORLÉANS
Sunday, 18 March 2018
17.00
PICAUT IS SPENDING her free moments in the spare office at the studio: it’s considerably more comfortable than the over-air-conditioned incident room, has technology every bit as good, and most importantly, it lets her keep an eye on Martin Gillard.
Conference or no conference, there’s an international call out for Elodie Duval, although so far nobody has turned up sightings of her or her car. Ducat has a team manning the phones and another out on the streets of Orléans. Every station, airport, car hire and taxi company has her image on a screen and her name on their search systems.
So far, there has been nothing, nor has anybody cracked Elodie Duval’s cipher. On the positive side, forensics have turned up a partial footprint highlighted by the UV scan of Pierre Fayette’s back garden. It’s small and could be a woman’s. It’s probably the next-door neighbour’s but if it’s Sophie’s or Elodie’s, it would tell them … something. The technicians are checking the neighbours on both sides.
Picaut writes herself another list on her phone:
Maquis de Morez: three left alive – Laurence, René, JJ. Anyone else?
Next generation: Pierre Fayette, Elodie Duval (Was Fayette. Why did she change her name?)
Two ageing Maquisards on the run. Possibly dead. Why?
JJ, ditto.
JJ —>; Edward —>; Conrad —>; Martha. All in Orléans when JJ’s old comrade is murdered.
Common to all: image from the war & music box & lavender.
Two ciphers: one from Laurence, one from Elodie. What’s the key?
Shortly after five, Rollo slams in through the door, bringing Laurence Vaughan-Thomas’s breathtakingly beautiful music box, and the note that came with it. He sets both on Picaut’s desk.
He says, ‘The garden footprint is not from any of the neighbours. But it’s definitely a woman.’
‘Elodie, then,’ Picaut says.
‘Or Sophie. We need to find their shoes for a size match. Also, there’s a partial fingerprint on the red mug at the wrong end of the line in the cupboard at Pierre Fayette’s house that isn’t Pierre’s or Sophie’s or, if the prints on her computer, doorknob and mouse are accurate, Elodie’s. We don’t have a match on that yet, either.’
Picaut says, ‘Did you get Conrad Lakoff and his security team?’
‘Not yet. Acronym people don’t like having their prints on file, but I’ll get on to it. And ballistics have confirmed that Sophie Destivelle and Pierre Fayette were killed with the same weapon. Their current best guess is a Glock 19, current issue, which is, and I quote, “The concealed-carry favourite of Americans who like to think they can carry guns the rest of the world can’t see.”’
Rollo chews his lip. ‘Just because a gun is fired twice, doesn’t mean the same person fired it both times.’
‘Exactly. And if you’re right that faking an airtight alibi is Gillard’s modus operandi then …’
‘He needs to be top of the list for Pierre Fayette.’
‘Done.’ On her phone, she adds to her list:
Two deaths, one gun.
Guns … Guns! ‘Rollo!’
He’s halfway out of the door. ‘Yep?’
‘The wartime Colts, the M1911s – you said they were registered in sequence. Did you get the names?’
From memory, he recites, ‘Laurence, René, JJ, Daniel Fayette, Amélie Fabron and … Wait—’ He pulls up the list of names, and reads it, frowning. ‘Céline Vaughan-Thomas.’ He looks up. ‘I’m sorry, I should have seen this sooner. A relative of Laurence’s?’
‘We’ll ask him if we ever see him again. Certainly there was a Céline in the Maquis. I’m not sure where this takes us, though. I was sure it was going to be Paul Rey.’
‘This list was from the fifties and at least one of the people on it is dead. He might have had one by now.’
‘True. Don’t go away.’ She is up and out of the seat, across the hallway to McKinney’s office. ‘Clinton, where was Paul Rey living when he died?’
‘Virginia.’ Martin Gillard answers her before McKinney can. ‘About thirty miles outside Langley there’s a “rest home” for former intelligence officers. Just because they’re in a wheelchair, doesn’t mean they’re at any less risk.’
‘Risk of being compromised?’ Rollo has followed her through.
‘Of being shot,’ Gillard answers, crisply. They’re like dogs, these two, bristling.
‘Back off, both of you.’ Picaut steps between them. To Gillard, she says, ‘Martin, I’ll need the address, phone, email, website: anything and everything you’ve got, starting with the name of someone I can call. Can you do that?’
‘Of course.’
To Rollo: ‘See if you can get me lists of the other inhabitants going back at least five years. If you find anyone with the surname Lakoff, tell me ASAP.’
‘Done.’ Rollo’s happy with that. He and Gillard compete to see who can get the information fastest and both sets of data arrive on her desk more or less simultaneously.
Thus she learns that the manager of Paul Rey’s ‘retirement home’ is one Kathryn Kochanek, fifty-four.
From Rollo, she learns that Kochanek was CIA station chief in Jakarta around the turn of the millennium and ‘nobody will tell me why she’s not there any more’. Whatever she did, it must have been bad for her to get shunted to running a home for geriatric field agents.
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, a dead end suddenly becomes live. Picaut checks her watch, subtracts six, and tries the home number. The line purrs and is answered. A soft American voice says, ‘Kochanek.’
Picaut sits up straighter in her chair and glares at Gillard until he backs out of the room and shuts the door. Rollo, grinning, hitches a hip on the edge of the desk.
‘Ms Kochanek, this is Captain Inès Picaut of the Orléans police …’
‘Wait.’ This voice is a steel door, slammed. ‘You understand I will need to call your superiors and confirm your identity. Whom should I call?’
Whom? Wow. ‘You can call Prosecutor Ducat, but I have to tell you that time is not on our side.’
‘Everyone says that, Captain Picaut.’
‘In this case, it’s true. Conrad Lakoff’s grandfather is missing.’
‘What?’
‘Lakoff is here in France with his father.’ Picaut pulls his business card from her pocket. ‘I can give you his contact details. It might be more useful if you were to call him rather than my superior. He is working on the case.’
‘I don’t think so. Strategic Operations Director Lakoff’s grandfather was shot dead in my facility eighteen months ago. The date is not in question. I was posted here three days later.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Picaut’s pulse makes a strange rolling leap. Rollo seems to have stopped breathing. He lays down the lists he was examining. ‘John Lakoff was shot?’
‘You just told me he was missing. I am about to—’
‘No! Don’t hang up! Not that grandfather. The missing one is on the maternal side. JJ Crotteau. He’s French, formerly Maquis, then of the DB, which is the old name for our External—’
‘I know what the DB was, thank you.’
Of course you do. You were a station chief. I really do want to know why you’re not one now. ‘I understand that you have to call to check my credentials, but before we hang up, if I told you the signature victim in this case was shot in the early hours of this morning with two rounds to the chest and one to the head, would that ring a bell with you?’
Warily: ‘It might do.’
This is what it sounds like to talk to someone who ca
n think eight moves ahead. Picaut says, ‘We believe it was a professional hit. Was John Lakoff’s death in any way the same?’
There’s a brief pause in which options are considered and one chosen, then Kathryn Kochanek says, ‘You understand there are limits to what I can say.’
‘I do.’ She takes a moment to formulate a question that can be answered. ‘Did you find the weapon used in the attack?’
‘No. It was a Browning Hi-Power. Is that pertinent to your case?’
‘Not that we are aware of. I’ll let you know if it becomes so.’ She writes Hi-Power on her phone. ‘We heard that Colonel Rey died this morning. Is there any chance his death might have been unnatural?’
‘There is no sign at present, but I’ve asked for an autopsy report. When we finish this call, I will make it a priority.’
And no longer any talk of hanging up to check identity. Picaut says, ‘I believe he may have had a visitor sometime earlier this week – his goddaughter, Elodie?’
‘Yes. And Theodora. They usually came together.’
‘Theodora?’
‘Theodora Sutherland. Her aunt, I think. I suspect she may have been an … intimate friend of Colonel Rey’s. She was his most frequent visitor.’
Eight moves ahead. Perhaps more than that. Picaut feels her jaw tingle, as if someone has injected lava along the scars. She says, ‘I’ll need CCTV if you have it.’
‘I’ll get someone to cut the relevant sections.’ A keyboard ripples, softly. Everything former station chief Kathryn Kochanek does is soft, but sure. ‘If you give me an email address, you’ll have everything I can give you inside half an hour.’ Picaut gives her address and hears Kochanek type it in. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
Yes. Maybe. ‘Was John Lakoff’s body mutilated after his death?’
‘Go on.’
‘It was common in wartime France for collaborators to have their throats cut and their tongues cut out. My victim displayed exactly these injuries.’
‘The wounds were post-mortem?’
‘We believe so. The interim report says she was shot first. If Lakoff was killed the same way, then you will understand how it changes the profile of our case.’
