Jesus, thought Louis. He sat up in bed. His eyes were wide open now. His body was tense: that, he realized for the first time, was the moment of betrayal. How could he have missed it? He had been promoted out of the mainstream, away from influence, and into a secretive world where his destruction could be accomplished without leaving a trace.
Louis now gauged the depth of his obliviousness, his staggering naivete, by the fact that he had preferred working at CIA headquarters in Langley to working at the State Department in Foggy Bottom. It was a great sprawling campus with modern, low buildings and tree-lined walkways. In fact, it had felt to him like a modern university, but for the high wire fences, the cameras mounted everywhere, the guards. And despite the secret and duplicitous nature of their business, he had found the people at CIA headquarters possessed of a peculiar and eccentric innocence—he could think of no better word for it—which he found appealing. They all had arcane specialties at which they worked earnestly and single-mindedly without any apparent ambition beyond the desire to do their job as thoroughly as it could possibly be done. And they all seemed to believe that they could make deceit and intrigue their livelihood and still lead normal lives. Louis had joined them in this belief.
The director of central intelligence, whom Louis realized only now had been the appointed instrument of his undoing, was an amiable man who had, prior to his nomination to the directorship, been a federal judge in Texas. He had made large contributions to the president’s election campaign and had subsequently expressed interest in serving the president as his head of the CIA, which entirely explained why he had been nominated. There were no obscure reasons for his nomination or secret plots afoot, though everyone expected that the president and the director were up to something. People always thought that way when the CIA was involved. The one thing of enduring value that Louis’s failed career had taught him about government was that people—including those in government—almost always had the wrong idea about how government worked.
The director had served in the justice and defense departments in a previous administration. He had had no experience in any intelligence service, and the senators who voted overwhelmingly to confirm his nomination were all convinced that he was being led like a lamb to the slaughter. But, in fact, the Judge, as everyone from the president on down still called him, thrived at the CIA. His amiability and, above all, his earnest resolve to change nothing, to leave things as they were, a resolve which he expressed repeatedly and as often as he could to everyone he encountered at Langley, assured his success as the director. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” he said with a determination and firmness that made it sound almost as though he were actually calling for something to be done.
Louis had been attached directly to the director’s office. His job was to see that evolving State Department policies were represented in policy meetings at the CIA and, to the extent that he could, to make certain that changes in CIA policy were in accordance with State Department objectives. Louis reported to the secretary of state. Still, when he filed reports and recommendations, he found that it was Hugh Bowes who called. When he was summoned to the State Department, it was Hugh Bowes he met with.
Louis had believed he understood the various tensions and conflicts, not only between Israel and its neighboring states, but also the internal political conflicts within Israel and each of the Arab states, the rivalries and power struggles among their leaders, the ambitions and jealousies that drove the engines of politics. He had thought he knew who was vying for power and how they were using the extant political conflicts and forces to do so. He had thought he knew about the incipient revolutionary movements in Jordan, Syria, Egypt, and even within Israel. His unease about the true nature of world politics, as he saw it, diminished to a faint hum in the background of his life, like the noise of distant traffic. Just as with Sarah’s silent sobbing in the early years of their marriage, since he could not think of anything to do about his unease now, he had chosen to ignore it. His reports to the secretary of state were met with apparent satisfaction.
Hugh Bowes announced one day that he was getting married. That is, the State Department made the announcement in the daily press briefing. Louis had been as surprised as anyone to learn this news. Bowes was frequently described as one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors. He was, after all, a young man of great intelligence and charm, with an extraordinary number of accomplishments already under his belt and a boundless future. He appeared at the best parties and found himself celebrated on the pages of the Washington Post ’s style section more often than he liked. However, the picture Louis had of him, even at the time, was of someone whose life was completely filled with himself, for whom love and companionship must certainly have been, if not alien concepts, then at least peripheral ones.
Of course, Louis had himself all but crowded love out of his own life. How Sarah’s work was going, how she spent her day, life in her department at the university, these things were all pretty much a mystery to him. He never asked, fearing that if he did ask, and she answered, he would be forced to acknowledge how little he knew. She had also stopped asking him about his work. “I can’t talk about it,” he said, whether he could or not.
From time to time, when Jennifer and Michael had jumped into his arms, or snuggled on his lap, or when he had made their supper while Sarah was away at a conference, he wondered to himself, Who are these little people? Do they really have anything to do with me? Their expectant, open faces, their sheer self-centered neediness aroused in him something that must have been paternal feeling. That his children had seemed strangers beneath whatever familial feeling he had been able to muster may have been due to his own incapacity, his own unwillingness to know them. As with Sarah, he had always been too eager to stop their tears without learning where they came from.
Yes, he was certainly defective, but so was the world. It was unreliable, dangerous, and filled with false hope. Whatever love there was in the world was often so limited and so damaging to others that it sometimes seemed worse to him than no love at all. He was tempted now to miss his children. But he knew that what he really felt was regret and sorrow which, despite the shape it took, had very little to do with them.
VIII
THE PALE SQUARES OF LIGHT ON THE CEILING FLUTTERED. SHIFTING only his eyes, Louis looked to the window where the curtains moved lightly. There was not a sound except for the almost imperceptible rustle of the curtains on the windowsill. The door from the hallway was in complete darkness, but Louis knew it had opened. Someone was in the room with him. When the curtains stopped moving, he reached over and turned on the light.
The man squinted, though the light was feeble. He backed against the door, fumbling to find the latch. Then he moved toward Louis. “Don’t come any closer. I’ve been expecting you,” said Louis in French, as if his expectation alone might somehow save him. Louis’s voice was calm and was made to seem even calmer by his American accent. “Don’t try to leave. Don’t try to harm me.” He motioned toward the phone. “The gendarme from Saint Leon, Monsieur Renard, is listening nearby. If you try to leave or to harm me, you will be apprehended.” He paused. The man was dark skinned with dark curly hair. He wore a blue double-breasted suit over a gray knit shirt. He held his hands in front of him in a gesture that was meant to be submissive. He smiled nervously. He had a gold tooth that glinted in the pale light. “I only want to talk,” said Louis. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said the man and he smiled nervously again. He turned his head slightly as though he were listening, considering the possibilities.
“Do not put your hands in your pockets,” said Louis as the man shifted. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Why did you break into my room?” asked Louis. He sat up in bed so that the covers slid from his shoulders. The sight of Louis’s pale, naked chest seemed to frighten the man.
“Why are you following me? Why are you asking questions about me?” said the man in rapid, heavily accented French.
He is North African, thought Louis.
“I have been inquiring about you because I think you are involved in a murder. You know why I have been inquiring about you. Tell me what you know about the dead man who was dumped on my doorstep.”
“Murder? I do not know anything about a murder. I do not know about your doorstep.” The man changed his tack. “I was on my way to the bathroom, and I came into your room by mistake.” He smiled again. His nervousness had disappeared. He suddenly seemed unconcerned about Louis’s questions or his threat to summon Renard. “Call your gendarme. I came in here by mistake, and you accuse me of murder.” But he did not leave.
“Which embassy do you work for?” asked Louis, trying to keep his voice calm and flat.
“First I am a murderer, now I am an ambassador,” said the man as he laughed. “If I want to kill you, I can kill you, and your gendarme cannot help you.”
“It’s all right, Renard. Not yet,” said Louis in the direction of the phone. Then to the man, “I just want to talk. I do not want you to be arrested. I just want information. The answer to some questions.”
“Ask your questions,” said the man. “I will answer if I like.”
“Which embassy are you with?” said Louis.
“I cannot tell you,” said the man. “I am not allowed.”
“Not allowed by whom?” said Louis.
“The dead man was one of our agents,” said the man. “We just learned from the French that he had been killed. Through our intelligence service. We learned through our intelligence service. I do not know who did it, or why he was deposited at your doorstep. Or even if that is what actually happened. I do not know, perhaps even you might have killed him. In any case, we are conducting our own investigation. It could become an international incident. We are trying to avoid that. Now, suppose you tell me why you are following me.” The man put his hands in his pockets.
“Take your hands out of your pockets,” said Louis. The man took his hands out of his pockets. The right one held a small silver pistol.
“Is this what you are afraid of?” said the man, holding the pistol up for Louis to see. He stepped to the bed. He pushed the barrel hard into Louis’s right ear. With his other hand he hung up the phone. “Renard is not in Villandry. He’s home snoring in Saint Leon. Do you think I am stupid? I am going to kill you for playing stupid games with me. I have already told you too much. Now I have to kill you.”
Louis smelled the sweat from the man’s suit. He smelled the wine the man had drunk while he was waiting in the bar downstairs. The curtains hung lifeless in front of the windows. The night outside was black and silent.
“If anyone finds out what you know, about Hakim’s murder, about the embassy. We cannot afford to let you live.”
“You cannot afford to kill me. There is Renard now.” And, in fact, at that moment a car could be heard racing through the night.
“I am not a fool,” said the man. But he took a step backward toward the door. Louis’s ear throbbed where the barrel had pressed into his flesh. “Renard is not here.” He pointed the gun at Louis.
“Then go ahead and kill me,” said Louis. He said it in English. At the same time, he threw the covers off his body. “Shoot me,” he said, again in English. There he lay, pale and old. The white sheets only emphasized the pallor of his skin. The thin hair on his head stood in tufts like an unruly halo. His hands, twisted slightly by arthritis, lay palms up at his sides. His chest rose and fell slowly with each breath. The muscles in his arms hung slack. The cloud of white hair on his chest gave way to his wrinkled stomach, his narrow hips, the folds and wrinkles of his penis and testicles, his thinning legs, his ankles, his feet splayed outward. His sad watery eyes were fixed on the visitor.
“You crazy bastard,” said the man in French. He put the pistol in his pocket as he ran from the room.
Louis lay motionless for a few long seconds. Then he turned out the light, got out of bed, locked the door with the key, and went to the window. He watched as the man walked quickly across the street and, without looking back, got in the passenger side of the BMW. The speeding car had already passed, and the sound of its racing engine disappeared into the night. The BMW started its engine and slowly pulled away from the curb. Louis did not watch to see whether it carried the insignia of the corps diplomatique. He knew that it did, but he was also certain that it meant absolutely nothing. He dressed in the dark, packed his few things into his suitcase, and left the hotel. An hour later, Solesme heard him drive by. She opened her eyes and watched as he turned up the driveway.
IX
HE HAD NO INTENTION OF KILLING ME,” SAID LOUIS AND TOOK A SIP of his coffee. Renard peered at him through the smoke curling from his cigarette. “Besides, I told him you were just outside.”
“You crazy bastard,” said Renard.
“That’s what he called me,” said Louis and smiled.
“He’s right,” said Renard, needing the last word.
The two men sipped their coffee in silence. “A little taste?” said Louis, and Renard shrugged his assent. He scowled into his cup. Louis poured brandy from the slim bottle. He patted the other man’s hand, but Renard’s anger would not be assuaged. He was angry with himself for not remaining in Villandry. And he objected to Louis’s putting himself in such danger without even informing him. For what?
“For knowledge,” said Louis. Each man cradled a warm cup in his hands, each closed his eyes and inhaled the plum fragrance of the eau de vie.
“The car was rented,” said Renard. “It is not a diplomatic plate. The name and address of the renter are false. He paid cash. It was rented in Paris. When they are finished with the car it will turn up abandoned.”
“It will turn up abandoned in Paris,” said Louis. “I would guess at the airport.” Renard waited, but Louis didn’t say any more.
“What knowledge?” said Renard. Probably, because he did not expect an answer, he got one. It was always that way with Louis.
“The answer. Who did it. Who the murderer is.”
Renard lit his cigarette again. “You know who the murderer is.” It was not a question so much as a request for confirmation of what he thought he had just heard.
“I have a good idea of who the murderer might be. I don’t know why the murder was committed just now or who the murdered man was. But, before I tell you about my suspicions, answer one question for me.”
“What question?”
“When are the national police arriving?”
“The national police? They’re not coming.” Renard pushed back in his chair and stared at Louis for a moment. “I was notified this morning that they’re not coming. The case is to be handled locally. That is very unusual for a case of this sort. After all, my jurisdiction ends at the edge of town. It means nothing will be solved. Although I have to admit, I’m relieved not to have to deal with the bigwigs. But you knew that, didn’t you, that they’re not arriving? How did you know?”
“Then I am right in my suspicions,” said Louis. It was his turn to push back in his chair. He smiled, but it was a chilly smile that made Renard want to button his sweater. “It is Hugh Bowes. The murderer—though he probably did not actually kill the man—is Hugh Bowes. I will tell you everything.” Louis examined the backs of his hands as though they had just revealed some mystery to him.
Renard looked at him in amazement. “Hugh Bowes?” he said finally. He knew the name. “The American secretary of state?”
“When I knew him, he was not yet the secretary of state, although we were all certain that one day he would be. It was nearly thirty years ago. He was about to marry Ruth Chasen. She was a famous television reporter.
“Ruth Chasen was a rising star at the television network, CBS. She was one of the first generation of female television reporters: smart, pretty, and ambitious.” These were all qualities that appealed to Bowes, if not viscerally, then at least theoretically. Hugh Bowes had seemed indifferent to sex, and Louis surmised that he regarded love of an
y kind with a mixture of fear and contempt. However, one strong component of Bowes’s enormous ambition had to be his desire for normalcy. Ambition always has that desire as a part of itself.
“Hugh Bowes must have known Ruth Chasen from press briefings he had held, maybe from an interview he had given her. Beyond that, how their courtship unfolded was a mystery to everyone. So, when they announced their marriage, everyone was taken by surprise. The wedding was to take place in New York where Ruth Chasen’s parents lived.
“Her father was Anhold Chasen, the famous tenor.” Renard had never heard of Anhold Chasen.
“The wedding was to happen at the Pierre Hotel only a few weeks after the engagement was announced. It would be a lavish affair with dinner for five hundred guests.
“I was securely ensconced as the State Department liaison at the CIA. What that means is not important. What is important is that I owed my job, if not my career, to Hugh Bowes. It did not surprise my wife, Sarah, that I wanted to give a dinner party for Hugh and Ruth to celebrate their engagement.” Renard listened in continued astonishment. After so many years, the floodgates had opened, and Louis was finally giving shape and detail to what he had always simply referred to as “the sordid world.”
“It is necessary that you know,” said Louis simply. “I need for you to know,” he added. After a pause he continued. “She, Sarah, made the arrangements for a catered dinner. For fifteen couples. Sarah looked lovely in a green satin dress.” Louis’s voice was flat and unemotional, as though he were simply laying out the facts of the case. But the story was a sad one, and Louis dwelt on the details. Renard did not mind.
“The long dining table was filled with great cascades of flowers. The room was lit by the light of many candles. They were on the table, on the sideboard, on the buffet. Everyone’s face glowed in the golden light. We drank good wine and ate filet mignon with new potatoes and roasted vegetables. We spoke about the rapidly escalating situation in Vietnam. We spoke about the theater, about movies and books. The conversation was lively and interesting.”
A French Country Murder Page 5
