The Grave Gourmet

by Alexander Campion

  “Entirely.”

  “So the topic made several laps around the corridors of power and a consensus has been achieved. The matter has been taken out of the director’s hands, but the powers that be reached the same conclusion he had. The upshot is that Typhon will be moved to an armored cavalry garrison at Rambouillet that has been vacant for some time. It’s more than big enough for all the equipment and test tracks and all that. It’s going to be placed under the authority of the CNRS, which was the obvious choice since it’s the largest research agency in the country and a tightly controlled government department. The project will be completely detached from Renault. Once the work is completed the government may, or may not, give it back to Renault for implementation.”

  “What happens to the staff?”

  “As many as possible will be retained, but they will all have to go through full government security clearance procedures. A new project head is in the process of being appointed. We are to act as advisers on the security side of things, but the CNRS will be in charge. The general idea is to shut the thing down by the end of this week at the latest. Then everyone gets run through the security mill and the survivors start up at the other end in a few weeks. They’ll lose a month at worst. The general feeling is that it’s the only possible solution because the whole thing is out of control right now.”

  “That really was fast.”

  “But wait! Here’s the fun part. You just have to love our masters. Apparently, it is also not wished that your investigation be hindered. You have carte blanche. But only until the end of the week. The fact that after that you might have some difficulties in investigating a unit that has been largely disbanded is apparently irrelevant. The intent is positive and that’s all that counts.”

  “That sentiment will be enormously helpful. My boss is going to be delighted.”

  “Be sure you make him fully aware of the fact that the rapid success of your investigation is now even more anxiously awaited in high places. Of course, that, no doubt, has already been communicated to him directly.” Jacques paused. His voice lowered a register. “Capucine, I am sorry, but there was nothing to be done. Between you and me, the director’s nose is a little out of joint because he thought he was running things. I think it just dawned on people that this Typhon really could be hot stuff. They didn’t have a clue before. I hope this doesn’t make your job impossible. If there’s the slightest thing I can do just give me a bell and I’ll come running. In fact, even if there isn’t anything I’ll still come running.”

  “Jacques, you’re a dear. I have to get off the phone. I need to go drop this bombshell upstairs.”

  Just as she reached the door her phone rang. “Lieutenant!” Guyon shrieked. “I have just had some very displeasing news and I suspect you’ve had a hand in it. I need to discuss it with you and not over the telephone.”

  “Monsieur Guyon, why don’t you come to the Quai des Orfèvres this afternoon and we can chat.”

  “Come to the prefecture? Me?” Guyon paused. “Very well, I doubt I have any choice, but I want you to know how displeased I am by your conduct. I may be forced to make a complaint.”

  Capucine’s tightly closeted meeting with Tallon lasted far longer than she expected, stretching into the early afternoon. Not only had her lexicon of invective been substantially enriched but she had been awakened to a new and distressingly dire vision of the shortcomings of the government. Still, the upshot of the meeting left her elated. Either she was learning or Tallon was coming around to her way of thinking. But either way they were definitely beginning to sing from the same hymnbook.

  Guyon had been left sitting in one of the ground floor glass-paneled interview rooms for over an hour.

  “This is an outrage! And this coffee is filth! How dare the government inflict it on taxpayers.”

  “Monsieur Guyon, you’re being ridiculous. Think for a minute what the majority of our reception facilities are like. Would you have preferred the sight of bars? You’ll have to be brief. I’m going to have a busy afternoon. What’s happening?”

  “I was convoked by the acting president this morning and told that Project Typhon was to be relocated to a government facility and removed from my tutelage. Is this your doing? Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  “It certainly was not a recommendation of the Police Judiciaire. The ministry must have reached its own conclusions. The results of the DGSE investiga—”

  “What? The DGSE has been rooting around in Renault?”

  “Monsieur, sit down and calm yourself. Yes, following that incident I reported to you, they were asked in.”

  “But you had no authority—”

  “Actually, I do. Do you want me to go on or not?”

  “I’m sorry, madame.”

  “The DGSE’s investigation revealed a serious leak.”

  Guyon went pale. “What do you mean? They found out who was stealing information? Did they?”

  “Monsieur Guyon, I’m not talking about the person we apprehended passing materials on the street. The DGSE experts undertook an examination of your group’s computer system and found that it had been invaded by a worm and was transmitting information.”

  Guyon seemed to relax. “Oh,” he said almost indifferently. “I see.”

  “They rectified the situation so there is no more problem on that account. But my guess—and this is only my guess—is that since this was the third instance of spying in your group it was decided to move the activity to a more secure venue.”

  “The acting president said nothing about any of this. That fool probably doesn’t know anything anyway. He just told me the development work had been reorganized and the CNRS was going to assume responsibility for Typhon. I had hoped I would be going with it. After all, it’s my creation. My brainchild. This is a catastrophe for me. Can’t you do something?”

  “Monsieur Guyon, don’t forget I’m just a vulgar flic. Surely you don’t think I can have the slightest influence on your career.”

  “Madame, I thought I could turn to you if I needed. I thought we had reached an understanding. I seem to have been mistaken. But I’ll tell you one thing. This whole business is entirely unacceptable. I’m not going to take it lying down. You will see what you will see! My reach is long, very long.” He stalked out, slamming the door hard enough to make the glass rattle.

  Chapter 43

  Capucine, flanked by Momo and David, took the steep flight of stairs two by two and banged loudly on the lilac door with the heel of her fist. The sound resonated like pistol shots in the narrow stairwell. “Police Judiciaire,” Momo said in a deep, menacing voice. In a few seconds the door opened a crack and Clotilde peered out timidly. When she recognized Capucine she opened the door wide and retreated into the apartment.

  “This time you’re here to arrest me, aren’t you?”

  “Not necessarily,” Capucine said. “It depends on how well you cooperate with us. Have you heard from your Asian contact since we spoke?”

  “No. Thank God. I’m so happy that’s over. But I am missing his money.”

  “The last time we met you told us that you reached your Asian friend on his cell phone. You said you called him, but he never answered and only called you back later. Is that right?”

  “That’s it. I’d call. He wouldn’t pick up. When his voice mail message came on I’d hang up without saying anything. He would see my number on his caller ID and call me back. But I never knew when he would call. Sometimes it would be right away, sometimes the next day.”

  “Well, I need you to call him now.”

  “But the last time I told him I never wanted to see him again and refused to take his money. What could I say now?”

  “Leave a message that Project Typhon is being transferred out of Renault and you have an extra-thick envelope for him. Spice it up and say you want double pay because it’s an extra-special envelope.”

  “Are you behind that? The move of Project Typhon? There’s a lot of gossip in the
office about that.” She paused. “Is that what this is about? I never made the connection.”

  “Don’t worry about who’s behind what. Clotilde, let me caution you. This is a very serious matter. I’d very much like to keep you out of trouble, but that’s going to depend on your working very closely with us for a few days. Do you understand?”

  The next day Capucine received a call from a very excited Clotilde. “He called me back this morning. Right here at work,” she whispered into the telephone. “I told him that Typhon was going to be shut down and moved and that I had a big bulky envelope for him. I did just what you said and told him I wanted double my usual money and also the money I didn’t take the last time.”

  “Good. When are you supposed to pass the envelope?”

  “At eight tonight. He said he wanted to talk to me. We’re supposed to meet at a café at the end of my street.”

  Capucine smiled up at Momo, who was hovering by her desk. “He bit.”

  I may have overdone it this time. If he gets away I won’t dare show my face at the Quai, Capucine thought. But so what? It can’t be helped. This is our one shot. She had been over the plan twenty times in the afternoon. Twelve brigadiers and adjudants were posted. Two in each of the three closest metro stops and six around the perimeter of the café. The evening prayers were already over, so there would be no repetition of that debacle. As instructed, Clotilde was sitting in the window of the glassed-in café terrace quietly reading Le Monde and sipping a kir. The stark blue-white of the neon light and the thick cigarette fog made her look tired and old. Behind her, three youths, who showed every sign of becoming future clients of the Police Judiciaire, were violently playing a pinball machine, thunking the buttons loudly with open hands and slamming the machine brutally against the wall with pelvic thrusts to make the steel balls rebound more vigorously. The café was on a broad avenue, making surveillance easier. There were more than enough passersby on the avenue to provide cover for the officers but not so many as to hinder pursuit. So far so good.

  At exactly ten after eight the Asian suddenly materialized on the seat opposite Clotilde. Capucine was stunned. She had not seen him walk into the café. It was as if he had appeared as part of a magic trick. He must have been sitting at a table inside for hours before she came. Thank God we took position with no commotion. Luck must be on our side today. Clotilde and the Asian spoke for a moment. He appeared agitated. He asked questions with aggressive gestures, pounding on the table frequently. Finally, disgusted, he thrust his copy of the Monde at Clotilde. Capucine had procured several dated automobile engine design files from the CNRS and sealed these into a tear-proof mailing envelope in the hopes that the Asian would not be inclined to struggle with it in public, or if he did, would be lulled by a quick glance at the contents. It was an unnecessary precaution. He grabbed rudely at the Monde shrouding the envelope, tucked it under his arm, and stormed out.

  “Subject leaving the café.” Even over the radio she could feel the entire team become tense. The Asian turned left and walked up the avenue toward the Barbès metro station. Capucine alerted the team in that direction and followed three hundred feet behind. At the steps of the metro he stopped without warning, wheeled, and came back the way he had come. Capucine melted into a doorway, pretending to light a cigarette, muttering into her radio. As the man approached, he fixed her with a frank, appraising look and quickened his pace. He turned right abruptly into a narrow street, no wider than a passageway.

  Capucine and one of the brigadiers reached the street at the same moment, just in time to see the Asian rounding the corner ahead at a dead run. Before she had the chance to alert her crew her radio cheeped and someone spoke. “Okay. I see him. He’s sprinting. He’s just ducked into the rue Pilon moving fast. Adjudant Chauvau, he’ll be at your end in a few seconds.”

  Capucine pushed her transmit button. “Adjudant, don’t try to stop him. Let him go by but keep after him.”

  “Très bien, mon Lieutenant,” came the reply. The Asian sprinted toward the boulevard Clichy, running as fast as he could down the steep slope. The sidewalk was packed with a mulling, sullen North African throng, mostly too poor to have even a few euros to spend in a café, passing the time on the street before going to bed, taking advantage of the last few days before it would become too cold to saunter.

  The momentum of his run down the steep hill projected the Asian into the boulevard at speed, the two police officers well behind but still obvious to all on the street that they were flics in pursuit. The crowd came alive, muttering, gesturing, indignant. The short half block of chase had fanned their hatred of the police to the flash point. As they ran down the boulevard, the two officers were continually shoved and bumped. One nearly fell. Losing his temper, he drew his gun and waved it in the air, warning the crowd back. A cry went up and grew into a wailing ululation. In a second they would attack the two officers, guns or no guns.

  Capucine and Momo emerged into the avenue fifty feet ahead of the Asian. If he had had the wit to turn and run back into the crowd he could have escaped easily. But he kept on. Capucine drew her Sig, cupped both hands around the grip, dropped to one knee, and shouted, “Stop or I shoot!” The crowd scattered noisily like a flock of clucking farm chickens.

  The Asian produced a pistol and fired a shot that went wild. Capucine forced herself into the discipline of the firing range, took a deep breath, let out half, locked her lungs, and gently tightened on the butt of her Sig. Don’t pull the trigger. Squeeze the whole butt as if you were squeezing the juice out of an orange, she consciously reminded herself. The sound made the night white. The Asian spun almost a full circle on one foot, the other leg outstretched, like a toddler imitating a ballet dancer. For a split second a rosy nimbus of blood mist framed him in the harsh light of a street lamp. His gun flew into the air and bounced off a wall with an innocent tinny sound, unnaturally clear in the silence following the deafening report. He fell and stayed on the ground. Capucine and Momo advanced toward him, crouched, separated, guns held out stiffly in front on straight arms, as cautiously as if he were a growling, fire-breathing demon waiting to pounce.

  Momo glanced over at Capucine as they inched forward and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Lieutenant, were you really aiming for his leg?”

  “Actually, I was trying to hit the other one.”

  Chapter 44

  “Hey, Lieutenant, ever seen one of these?” Momoasked, brandishing a short-barreled automatic pistol. “It’s a Daewoo DP-51. I just looked it up. It’s what the South Korean Army gets. Nine millimeter Parabellum. It’s got a weird feature. You push the hammer back down once it’s cocked. See.” He demonstrated. The gun gave a little tick. “And then when you pull the trigger the hammer pops back up and fires. Like this.” The empty gun clicked sharply. “That’s what must have saved our butts. He must have shot involuntarily. Dumbass Daewoo shoulda stuck to stereos.”

  Capucine, sitting at her desk signing forms, did not react. “So what are we going to do with the guy?” Momo pouted, not altogether unlike an insistent toddler.

  “He’s carrying a South Korean diplomatic passport. We’re supposed to check him out and if he’s a bona fide diplomat drop him off politely at his embassy. But the juge d’instruction’s signed off his garde à vue. She’s even classified him as a potential terrorist so we can keep him for the full seventy-two hours. Apparently, she doesn’t think diplomats should be able to shoot at flics on the street with impunity.”

  “How bad’s he hit? He was bleeding like a stuck pig in the van.”

  “Just a flesh wound. In one side, out the other. Missed the femur and the femoral artery. Nothing to worry about. I’ve got to get back to the clinic. He should be ready to tell his little story. Here.” She handed a thin sheaf of papers to Momo. “Can you walk these around to Records? It’s the paperwork for the GAV.”

  Capucine had a crise de conscience over the Clinique Bayol, the existence of which was unknown in the fiscal brigade. It embodi
ed the sleazy elasticity of French law. Even its charade as a prissy overdecorated private surgery emporium was offensive, probably because it was so well done. Still, she had to admit to herself that the damn place was essential. Under the circumstances her South Korean could hardly have been put in a public hospital where the press would have nosed him out in no time at all.

  When Capucine arrived at her detainee’s room, an over-fit officer clad in a black field dress and hobnailed combat boots sprang to attention and buzzed the clear Plexiglas door open for her. Inside, the Korean lay naked on a hospital bed, his arms handcuffed to the bed frame, a twisted bedsheet covering only one leg and his genitals, his tormented body as ingenuously exposed as a rococo sculpture. The visible leg was swathed in a thick bandage through which blood had seeped and was just beginning to turn brown. He was as thickly muscled as an Olympic weight lifter, his trapezius so well developed that his head seemed to fuse directly into his shoulders. Beside him a tall metal stand held a large, flaccid bag of clear plasma that trickled down a cannula, through a boxy, beeping, blinking flow-control device, and finally into a hole jabbed into the crook of his elbow. A smaller bag, containing morphine in a dextrose solution, dangled next to the bigger bag like an impish tag-along little sister ready to caper and make silly jokes. But the little sister’s cannula had been choked off with a blue plastic crimp.

  Two detectives sat side by side on chairs facing the bed, smoking, tipping the ashes into an empty glass, chatting in a whisper. One was the affable detective with a limp, the other Capucine had never seen.

  Both stood up when she walked in. The amiable one smiled at her with his warm, confidence-inspiring smile, looking for all the world as if he was selling life insurance on TV. “He hasn’t said a word. He’s conscious all right, but I’m beginning to wonder if he speaks French.”