The Tsunami File

by Michael E. Rose

  Rochemaure led him in silence across the gravel and through a set of thick oak double doors into the cool, echoing stone vestibule of the house itself. Worn stairs to the second floor led up and away to the rear. To the left of the vestibule, Delaney could see into a large restaurant-style kitchen, with a stainless steel chef’s stove and copper-bottomed pots and pans hung in careful disarray above a large central counter island. To the right through an archway was a long sitting room, painted in intense shades of Provençal blue and yellow. Expensive sofas in deep reds and offwhite faced each other before a shoulder-high fireplace. Framed modern oils and charcoal sketches of walking and reclining figures lined the walls.

  All was stylish, superior quality, perfect. It was a house that could very well have been featured in Architectural Digest or another glossy decorating magazine. Not at all the humble retreat Delaney would have imagined for a disgraced German policeman in hiding from his past.

  Rochemaure brushed a hand over his unruly mane of wavy black hair. A few flecks of grey had been allowed to develop, Delaney noted, but they appeared, like everything else in the scene, to be part of a master visual plan. Rochemaure’s deep tan and bright floral shirt did their part in the overall set design as well.

  “Ulrich is resting,” Rochemaure said. “He rests in the afternoon. Mareike has told you he is not well.”

  It was not a question.

  “I know he’s ill, yes,” Delaney said.

  “I believe the telephone call from Berlin upset him,” Rochemaure said. He seemed to expect an apology of some sort.

  “Why would that be, do you think?” Delaney said.

  They regarded each other in silence for a moment.

  Then Rochemaure said: “Your room is upstairs.”

  Delaney hadn’t been sure whether he would be invited to stay or even if he would need to stay overnight. He began to realize he had very little idea how any of this was actually going to unfold, now that he had arrived.

  “Ulrich says he will see you at dinner, tonight,” Rochemaure said.

  A pause.

  “You will need lunch?”

  “I ate on the plane to Lyon,” Delaney said.

  “The housekeeper comes back later in the afternoon. I can offer you for the moment some cheese and bread and wine. Perhaps some fruit also.”

  “That would be lovely.” Rochemaure brought him to his room upstairs. It was just above the main entrance door, overlooking the courtyard, and it, too, was perfect— a magazine spread waiting to be photographed. Elegantly worn stone floors, a painted metal bed, a small washbasin near the window, an antique writing desk, more framed oils and charcoals. The bathroom with requisite clawfoot tub and brass towel rack was not far down the ochre-tiled hallway.

  When Delaney came back downstairs, he could see that Rochemaure had set a place at one of the outdoor tables, with sliced bread in a basket, a small selection of cheeses on a platter, and butter, apples, grapes, nuts. A dark bottle of wine with no label stood at the ready, beside a small glass.

  “I hope this will be sufficient for you, Monsieur Delaney,” Rochemaure said. “It’s perfect. Thanks very much.”

  “I have some work I must do. Bon appetit.”

  Rochemaure then disappeared into the house. Delaney sat alone in the warm spring afternoon, munching fruit, slicing excellent cheeses, sipping local wine. Butterflies and bees flitted around. The only thing missing in this scene from the pages of Chateau Living magazine was a warm welcome from the host.

  Delaney wandered around the grounds after he had eaten, marvelling at the grand view down the valley toward Privas and at the horizon pool perfectly placed to make the most of that view. A small stucco outbuilding near the pool contained a bar fridge, a microwave and a sink. There was a tennis court about 25 metres farther away, all but hidden by trees.

  As he lay resting on his bed a short while later, Delaney wondered how even a man on a generous German police pension could afford such surroundings, let alone an officer who had left the Bundeskriminalamt without collecting any pension at all. Rochemaure’s high-end BMW 735i parked outside provided a clue, Delaney thought. There was more than a hint of old Paris money about Rochemaure and about the supremely comfortable house he had helped renovate. And, Delaney thought as he waited that afternoon to finally meet Ulrich Mueller, life at the Chateau de Bressac also gave off more than a hint of discreet homosexual domesticity.

  Delaney woke from his siesta to the sound of gravel crunching outside. He went to the window and saw an older woman with a kerchief on her head crossing the courtyard. She was carrying a string bag of groceries. The housekeeper, apparently, returning to work after her own afternoon break. It was almost 6 p.m. He heard the big door open and close below his window and then the clatter of things domestic being done in the chateau kitchen.

  He went downstairs and put his head into the kitchen.

  “Bonjour, madame,” he said.

  The housekeeper looked startled, and then smiled grimly. She had beefy, reddened forearms and hands, and what appeared to be a gold tooth.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. Bonjour,” she said. She did not ask who he was nor did she introduce herself. Like Rochemaure, she had very few words to say to houseguests.

  Delaney wandered to the living room and sat down. Rochemaure did not immediately appear. But a voice came from behind a closed door at the far end of the room, between the start of a long corridor that headed left to another wing of the house and a side exit door to the terrace and the pathway downhill to the pool. Rochemaure was on the telephone.

  Eventually, he emerged from what looked like a small office. Delaney saw a photocopier and a computer inside. Rochemaure’s mood had not improved.

  “We eat quite early in the evening here, Monsieur Delaney, so as to give Ulrich an early night.”

  “That’s fine,” Delaney said.

  “I will get him for you now,” Rochemaure said. He went immediately down the corridor to the left. Delaney flipped through magazines and resisted opening what was surely a liquor cabinet near the fireplace. Eventually, he heard voices speaking in French.

  Rochemaure maneuvered Mueller into the living room in a wheelchair. The old policeman was fully dressed—no pajamas for this invalid. He wore brown corduroy trousers and a beige, vaguely military, short-sleeved shirt, immaculately pressed. His hair was grey but still thick and carefully combed. His grey mustache was perfectly trimmed.

  He wore round spectacles set low on his large nose and these drew attention to his silver blue eyes.

  But Mueller’s shoulders were round with age and illness. His chest looked sunken and his legs were thin. His hands did not shake but they were covered with brown spots. It was the collection of faint red and purple lesions on his face and neck, however, that told Delaney the story. There could be no mistaking the telltale signs of AIDS, in an advanced state.

  “Monsieur Delaney, this is Ulrich Mueller,” Rochemaure said in English.

  Delaney went forward to clasp the old man’s hand. The skin felt papery and dry. There was not much power left in what Delaney was certain would have been, in another time and place, a solid policeman’s handshake.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Herr Mueller. I know you’re not well,” Delaney said. “It is at the suggestion of my niece,” Mueller said in a slightly hoarse voice. His English was very good, almost without accent.

  Mueller and Rochemaure watched Delaney trying to assess the old man’s health.

  “What is your guess, Mr. Delaney?” Mueller said with a bitter smile. “Can you guess what it is that’s killing me?”

  This was a test of some kind. Delaney waited a moment before answering.

  “Go ahead,” Mueller said. “Let’s not wait. Tell us your theory.”

  “AIDS,” Delaney said. “I would say AIDS.”

  “Well done,” Mueller said. “Mar
eike told me you were an excellent reporter. Very well done.”

  Rochemaure looked furious.

  “This is a stupid game you play, Ulrich,” he said.

  “Why should we wait, Pierre?” Mueller said.

  “Hmm? Let us get the preliminaries over and done with. Shall we, Mr. Delaney? So we can then have our little civilized French aperitif?”

  “An aperitif sounds like a very civilized idea to me, Herr Mueller,” Delaney said.

  Mueller started to cough dryly behind his spotted hand.

  “Pierre, Pierre, a handkerchief, if you please,” he said. “A handkerchief and then a pastis with ice. If you please.”

  The brief coughing spell did not seem severe enough, Delaney thought, to warrant a request for handkerchiefs. Mueller just seemed to want his partner to fetch and carry. Rochemaure pulled a neatly folded square from his pocket, as if accustomed to such ritual, gave the handkerchief to Mueller and then stomped out in the direction of the kitchen.

  Rochemaure apparently thought it appropriate to demonstrate to the houseguest that serving duties were actually for the hired help. The housekeeper emerged from the kitchen after a few minutes, glumly carrying a clinking tray on which were positioned a bottle of Ricard pastis, glasses, a water jug, an ice bucket, tongs and a small bowl of pistachio nuts.

  “Thank you very much, Madame Chagny,”

  Mueller said.

  The housekeeper said nothing and returned with no enthusiasm to her dinner preparations. Rochemaure reappeared from the kitchen immediately afterward, his little demonstration that he was no fetch-and-carry boy duly completed.

  The evening was all very civilized, very south of France. They drank pastis in the stylish living room in the fading light as Mueller and Delaney circled each other—Mueller clearly trying to size up this journalist with a sudden interest in his life story, and Delaney trying to decide how explicit his questions could be and how soon he should ask them.

  “Pierre is of course the mastermind of all of the changes made to this house, Mr. Delaney,” Mueller said.

  He was looking slightly less tired as the conversation and the aperitif revived him.

  “I came down here from Germany alone a number of years ago after I left the police. I heard that the Chateau de Bressac was for sale,” he said. “But it was a ruin. There were holes in the roof; pigeons were nesting in the attic. I was living only in the section of the house on this side, here on the ground floor, like a hermit. Then I was fortunate to get a recommendation about Pierre’s work. I called him in Paris and used my policeman’s power of persuasion to get him to come for a weekend to see what I had found.”

  He looked over at Rochemaure.

  “And you fell in love with the place, didn’t you, Pierre?” Mueller said.

  “I did, yes,” Pierre said joylessly. “It was a challenge I could not resist.”

  “And now you see the fruit of Pierre’s exceptional talents all around you,” Mueller said. “Those are even Pierre’s paintings on the wall, most of them.”

  “Congratulations, Pierre,” Delaney said. Rochemaure ignored him, drank pastis.

  “It is not clear, you understand, what would have become of this place if an old German police chief had been responsible for the changes,” Mueller said. “Of that I can assure you. I would have made it into a replica of some Bavarian chalet, I would guess. Pierre saved me from that.”

  “It’s a grand house,” Delaney said. He wondered how much detail he would also be given about the domestic living arrangements.

  “Of course we went through the usual trials of finding reliable local tradesmen to help us,” Mueller said. “I was not well and there was very little I could do by myself. Thankfully, there are now Polish plumbers even here in the Ardeche, Mr. Delaney. Estonian carpenters, stonemasons from Bulgaria. We no longer need the French at all for such jobs. It is a good thing, the new Europe.”

  “It’s a very big job, fixing up an old place like this,” Delaney said.

  “Yes. But Pierre began spending more and more of his time here,” Mueller said. “He was the one who looked after things, and, in fact, after me as well, as my health got worse. I would say that we have almost become locals here now, as much as anyone can become locals in la France profounde.” “Not such a bad fate,” Delaney said. Rochemaure’s expression darkened even further.

  “There could be worse fates,” Rochemaure said.

  Dinner at a small table set off to one side of the stone vestibule was also a stylish, civilized affair. And it gave Mueller more of the time he clearly still needed to size Delaney up.

  Madame Chagny was an excellent cook, despite her attitude problem. Perhaps she was a drop-out from the same hospitality school as Rochemaure. She had prepared an appetizer of zucchini flowers stuffed with salt cod. Then lamb with caraway seeds and rosemary and eggplant. The noname local wine was the same red that Delaney had drunk at lunch and just as good at night.

  “Mareike tells me you want to write an article about the last days of the disgraced head of the BKA,” Mueller said eventually, as they ate little rondelles of the Saint Marcellin cheese that preceded dessert. Madame Chagny was banging pots and plates as loudly as she could in the kitchen. Rochemaure silently smoked another in his evening series of Marlboros. He had also been drinking large quantities of wine.

  “Not quite,” Delaney said. “I think it may be part of a bigger story, possibly. I’m also looking for connections to another big story. Did Mareike tell you about that too?”

  “A little,” Mueller said. He looked somewhat warily over at Rochemaure. Delaney wondered how much, or how little, Rochemaure had been allowed to know about Mueller’s life before France.

  “Who would be reading such an article?” Mueller asked Delaney.

  “I haven’t really decided yet what publication I would do it for,” Delaney said.

  “That is a little unusual, is it not?” Mueller said. “In my not always happy experience of how journalists work.”

  “I’m not even sure I’ll write anything at all, Herr Mueller,” Delaney said. “I’m really here just to gather information and see what I come up with. I’ll decide afterward what to do with the information.

  That’s how I usually operate.”

  “And why would I want to help you with something like that?” Mueller said. “Just tell you my little story, like that, with no clarity about how the information might be used.”

  “Mareike seemed to think you might.”

  “And why?”

  “She thought the time might be right for you to have your say.” “Because I am dying?”

  Delaney and Mueller looked steadily at each other. Rochemaure stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Merde,” Rochemaure said. “C’est de la merde.”

  “Are you dying, Herr Mueller?” Delaney said.

  “Merde,” Rochemaure said again. “Why this crazy game?”

  “Yes, I’m dying, Mr. Delaney,” Mueller said.

  “You are an experienced journalist, this Mareike tells me. Do I not look like a man who is slowly dying?”

  “I’m more accustomed to seeing the results of sudden deaths,” Delaney said.

  “As I was, in my work as a policeman,” Mueller said. “Slow deaths were for old people, or so we thought. We always thought policemen should make their exits in a blaze of glory.”

  “Maybe that’s still possible,” Delaney said.

  “The power of the press.”

  “Something like that.”

  “This is shit,” Rochemaure said, pouring himself a very large glass of red. “C’est de la merde.”

  Dessert was Madame Chagny’s excellent cherries clafouti and small coffees and Armagnac. Mueller played policeman for a while, quizzing Delaney about his life and his career and his publications and his credentials generally. Rochemaure
played stricken lover; his mood darkened as the evening passed, his social skills all but disappearing along with the supply of wine and cigarettes. Delaney still held off playing journalist, or spy.

  Talk turned to Mareike Fischer and her unorthodox policing methods. Mueller knew more about how his niece operated than she apparently realized.

  “She sails very close to the wind,” Mueller said. “In drug squad work this is perhaps necessary. In the LKA in any case.”

  “Undercover work is tough,” Delaney said.

  “It is risky, always,” Mueller said. “For one’s health and one’s career.” “I would say,” Delaney said.

  “Mareike’s career in many ways is just starting. Her judgment is not always exact, but she is smart and has the hardness required for such work.”

  Delaney wondered if the veteran BKA man would approve of certain details of how his niece actually operated in the rough and tumble of local police work. The BKA was more concerned with national security and intelligence and analysis than it was with biker gangs dealing amphetamine in rundown city houses.

  “Mareike’s judgment about you, Mr. Delaney, is that you could be trusted to do the right thing.”

  “I’m glad she feels that way.”

  “She formed this judgment very fast, in my view,” Mueller said. “Do you always have this sort of effect on people, Mr. Delaney?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to say. That’s something other people would have to decide, I would think.”

  “She has urged me to cooperate with you,” Mueller said. “Perhaps ‘urged’ is too strong a word.

  But I find this unusual. So quickly.”

  “Maybe that has more to do with what she thinks of you than what she thinks of me, Herr Mueller.”

  “Poor dying Uncle Ulrich. The man needs a storyteller before he leaves this earth for heaven, or somewhere else.”