A Taste for Vengeance

by Martin Walker

  “Good point,” said Prunier. “We should look into that. But, Monsieur Hodge, please continue.”

  “Here’s something I find interesting,” Hodge said, in his measured way. “Prior to her death, it seems Monika Felder was planning to return to Houston. She was booked back into the Hotel ZaZa there from next Tuesday, and she had a first-class return ticket from London to Houston with a confirmed booking for next Tuesday.” He shrugged and gave a lopsided half grin, half grimace.

  “Thanks to the new information on Rentoul’s finances using his identity as McBride, we have now asked the U.S. Treasury to launch an inquiry through TFTP, the Terrorist Finance Tracking Program, investigating those Panamanian companies and those payments that have been coming into Rentoul’s Irish bank account from the Caymans and similar havens. That’s what we have so far. Are there any questions?”

  There were none, and Prunier asked Moore to deliver his briefing.

  “Julian, General Felder’s son, went to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and spent eight years in the Parachute Regiment, during which time he tried but failed to secure admission to the SAS,” Moore began. “He left the army and then worked for his father’s company until four years ago, when he left to become a partner in a London property agency. His sister, Portia, is a patent lawyer in private practice, also in London. She is still in Houston, and her brother was taking a break at the Vail ski resort in Colorado. We emailed him and left a message with his hotel in Vail asking him to come to France to identify the body of his stepmother, Monika. If he agrees, there’s a flight to Paris that could get him to Périgueux sometime late tomorrow. But I haven’t heard if he’s agreed to do that. If not, we’ll get someone from Felder’s company to identify her body. So far we have zero information about any family she may have back in Germany, but I gather our German colleagues are making inquiries.”

  Moore paused and looked at Prunier. “Shall I go on or can we eat first? I haven’t eaten since I had a sandwich on the plane this morning and I’m starving.”

  “Let’s get some food,” said Prunier. He rose and led Isabelle to the head of the line, Hodge after her. Everybody except Bruno chose the chicken. Bruno thought about the lunch he had enjoyed and helped himself to some green salad, and cheese.

  “Not many rugby players are vegetarian,” said Moore, sitting down beside him. Bruno forced a smile. He’d been hoping that Isabelle would join him, but J-J, Isabelle’s old boss when she’d been a humble detective in Périgueux, seemed to have monopolized her.

  “Nor am I, usually,” said Bruno. “But I had a good lunch. Tell me, this Special Branch you work for, what is it you do?”

  “Special Branch no longer exists,” Moore said. “A few years ago we merged with the antiterrorist squad to become Counter Terrorism Command, which includes intelligence. We’re part of the police, which means that where the intelligence agencies don’t have the power to arrest and recommend prosecutions, we do so on their behalf. Special Branch was originally founded back in the 1880s to confront Irish terrorism, and that’s still part of our work. I’ll be briefing you about that.”

  “How come you speak such good French?”

  “I studied French at university. I always liked the language and our school arranged exchange visits every year. I spent time in Paris, Lyon, Nantes and Grenoble. I met my wife on the ski slopes near Grenoble. She’s originally from Perpignan. She and Isabelle have become good friends. Whenever her duties bring her to London, Isabelle comes to have dinner at our place.”

  Bruno put down his fork and looked at Moore with renewed interest. This was a part of Isabelle’s life of which he had no knowledge, this high-powered, international life she’d forged for herself since leaving the Périgord. And it made him think again of the dour and unimaginative school he’d attended in Bergerac, where no such international exchange visits were ever thought of.

  “I wish we’d had that kind of program at my school,” he said. “Have you always been in this antiterrorism unit?”

  “No, I’m one of the last survivors of the old Special Branch. I even spent some time on the IRA beat, which I believe is why I’ve been brought over for this, although I suppose Isabelle may have had something to do with it.”

  “I thought you had peace in Northern Ireland.”

  “So did I, and so we did, after a fashion, with a power-sharing government, but some of the old diehards don’t give up and many of them try to raise their kids the same old way, with the same old songs and legends of the holy war against British imperialism and Protestant invaders.” Moore smiled as he said this.

  Bruno went to get apple pie for himself and Moore. The tall figure of Hodge loomed up beside him.

  “Were you in the military in Iraq?” Bruno asked.

  “Yes, attached to the Third Infantry Division, but I wasn’t part of Thunder Run and I wasn’t even fighting,” Hodge replied. “I was in the Judge Advocate Corps, a military lawyer. Uncle Sam paid for me to go to law school, so I did nine years in the service before joining the FBI.”

  “Where did you learn your excellent French?”

  “My mom is French. She met my dad when he was at NATO HQ in Rocquencourt near Versailles. She brought us all up speaking French at home in Kentucky. After my dad left the service he became a county sheriff.” He grinned. “A bit like your job, from what Isabelle tells me.”

  * * *

  —

  After apple pie and coffee, Prunier tapped his water glass with a spoon and invited Moore to give his briefing.

  “As you probably all know, we have over the past twenty years seen a dramatic improvement in the security and political situation in Northern Ireland,” Moore began. “Most members of the original IRA support the new power-sharing government, in which former IRA leaders now sit alongside former Protestant militants. But the threat has not gone away. The province saw over fifty bomb attacks last year, the work of a new organization formed in 2012 and calling itself the New IRA.”

  Moore explained that this was an alliance of hard-line anti-cease-fire republicans. It included a Londonderry-based vigilante organization and former members of the Provisional IRA’s East Tyrone Brigade. These latter were the most ruthless and best-trained militants of the Republican movement and the ones responsible for the bombs that exploded in British cities, including the City of London, in the 1990s. In its first-ever communiqué, the New IRA said it had created a “unified structure, under a single leadership” and warned of further violence against its “age-old enemy Britain.”

  Moore paused and looked around the table before continuing.

  “It’s clear that the threat remains, and we have identified a number of former IRA militants living in France who may be prepared to offer assistance to old comrades. There are two former Provos, each of whom served time as convicted prisoners in Long Kesh and were later freed in the amnesty, who now live in the Dordogne. There are another three in the neighboring départements of Corrèze and Lot-et-Garonne. All of them, we believe, bought properties and now live on the proceeds of the drug-running and protection rackets that IRA members traditionally operated to fund their operations, along with a number of bank robberies.”

  Moore pushed a slim sheaf of papers across the table to Prunier. “Here are their names, current addresses, arrest records, fingerprints and photos. If the killing of Monika Felder and Captain Rentoul was an IRA operation, which is by no means certain, then we think those most likely to be involved are Damien O’Rourke, who runs a small construction business from his house just outside Montignac, and Sean Kelly, who runs a modest landscape and gardening company based at Eymet. Neither operation appears to do much business or bring in much money. Both men have Irish passports, although, coming from Northern Ireland, Kelly is officially a British citizen. They both have wives who were also active in the republican movement. We say these men are likely because we believe each of them h
ad met Rentoul when he was working undercover in the late 1980s and may have recognized him recently around here.

  “But I’m not yet convinced they or the New IRA were involved,” Moore concluded, with a challenging glance at each person round the table. “My question is this—if this was an IRA execution, why aren’t they boasting about it?”

  “It could be to protect these two men, O’Rourke and Kelly,” said Isabelle. “We think they were together in the vicinity of Rentoul’s house. When Inspector Moore emailed details of the two men last night, I put out the word. O’Rourke’s van was caught speeding by an automatic camera at Couze, on the way to Lalinde, two weeks ago. And on the same day, a Thursday, a market day in Lalinde, Kelly was also in the town, which as we know is near McBride’s home. His vehicle got a parking ticket. I think we should pick them both up for questioning and DNA tests.”

  “I agree,” said Ardouin. “Commissaire Prunier, I leave the details up to you and your men, but I would like to interview each of these men. Of course, as yet we have no grounds for arrest.”

  “Make it a tax inquiry; I can fix it with a friend in the fisc,” said J-J, referring to the specialist financial police. “They’re both small businessmen, they all have trouble with the fisc. We’ll take a look at their tax records and bank accounts.”

  “Both of them also had convictions for drug offenses before they were sent to Long Kesh,” Moore added.

  “Better still,” said J-J. “We can make it a drugs raid. I’ll see if our narcotics people in Bergerac have ever heard of them.”

  Bruno was already calling Louis in Montignac and was not surprised, from the background noise, to find him in a bar. Did Louis know an Irishman in the neighborhood with a construction business named O’Rourke and had he received any anonymous letters about him?

  “Damien, yes, I know him,” Louis replied. “Likes a drink. We had one or two complaints early on about his work, nothing serious, electricity installation not up to the norm, but he fixed that. And I’ve had letters claiming he likes to pay cash for part-time work, but you know how it is with taxes, Bruno. If he didn’t do that he wouldn’t be able to hire anybody. Why do you want to know?”

  “Keep it to yourself, Louis, but I hear the fisc might be onto him about those taxes.”

  “Merde, the poor bastard. Thanks for letting me know, Bruno. And I just did routine patrols again today.”

  Suddenly Isabelle was at Bruno’s side as he ended the call.

  “Who was that you were talking to?”

  “My colleague in Montignac, asking what he knew about O’Rourke. It’s all right, I only mentioned the fisc might be interested in him.”

  “Are you mad?” Isabelle glared at him. “Drunken Louis in Montignac was notorious even when I was based here. I wouldn’t trust him a millimeter. And did Louis know him?”

  “They sometimes drank together.”

  “Merde, Bruno, what were you thinking? How could you tell Louis?” She almost spat out the words, then turned to Prunier. “Can we get some roadblocks set up around Montignac? Gendarmes, police, whatever. O’Rourke might be getting a tip-off. And we’d better get some police to Kelly in Bergerac. We’ll have to hit them tonight.”

  Prunier glanced quickly at Ardouin, and Bruno could see him weighing the options. Prunier hadn’t got to be head of police of the entire département without knowing how to consider the politics as well as the law. On this occasion, Prunier had the added pressure of the presence of British and American counterterrorism officers. He gave a quick, decisive nod, as if to reassure himself before he spoke.

  “J-J, you get the police raid organized for Kelly’s place in Bergerac and I’ll get onto the gendarmes for Sarlat. Bruno, get me those two addresses and we’ll talk about this later.”

  Isabelle, always aware of the delicate protocol between police and magistrate, smiled sweetly at Ardouin. “Since time may be of the essence, may we assume that you approve, monsieur?”

  Ardouin looked at Bruno. “Can’t you simply call your colleague in Montignac, Bruno, and tell him to say nothing to anyone about this?”

  “I already told him that, but I’ll stress it.” Bruno called again but got a busy signal. He kept trying while Prunier and J-J went ahead with the arrangements for the raids. As the others in the room carefully avoided his eyes, Bruno was left feeling like a bumbling amateur making a fool of himself among professionals.

  Chapter 13

  Prunier led the way, the blue light flashing atop the van as he raced along the autoroute from Périgueux with Moore beside him and another police car behind, leaving Bruno lagging behind in his van. Bruno had spent the ride over chastening himself for calling Louis. He knew he had been showing off in front of all that top brass and, above all, showing off for Isabelle, demonstrating the wide networks and local knowledge of a simple village copper. I should have realized that Louis would probably be half-drunk by this time of an evening, and could never keep his mouth shut. Merde, merde, merde, he said to himself until he finally caught up with them at the first roadblock, at Auriac-du-Périgord, just north of the town of Montignac. It was manned by gendarmes from Sarlat.

  “All quiet, sir.” The capitaine in charge saluted as he reported to Prunier. “Our colleagues from Montignac have the house and yard surrounded but they are staying out of sight. They report no lights on, no sound of a TV and a builder’s truck is parked in the yard. And gendarmes from Terrasson have roadblocks on the other access roads to the autoroute.”

  “His wife drives a blue Peugeot 204,” said Prunier. “Any sign of it?”

  “First I’ve heard of it, sir. There’s a garage but it’s closed. It could be in there.”

  “When did you get these roadblocks established?”

  “About ten minutes ago, just thirty minutes after we got your call.”

  “Good work, Capitaine, and thank you. Please ensure that all the other roadblocks have the details of the blue Peugeot.” He read out the license plate number, then led the way through the town to the road that ran alongside the River Vézère toward Les Eyzies. O’Rourke’s house and yard were part of a group of new buildings between the road and the river, close to the big new supermarket complex. They waited in their vehicles by a supermarket for one of the gendarmes on watch to come and guide them to O’Rourke’s house.

  “When we get there, I’d better knock and see if they’re home, sir,” said Bruno. “In municipal police uniform, I don’t look too threatening.” He loosened his gun belt and handed it to Prunier. “Here, now I don’t even look armed.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Bruno,” Prunier said, removing the gun from the holster and handing it back. “Take it, just in case. What will you say if he’s there?”

  “That we’ve been sent a warrant by the fisc and he has to come with us to Montignac to answer some questions.” Bruno put the gun into one of his trouser pockets.

  “That’s pretty thin.”

  “Better than announcing a drug raid. That would make anyone nervous.”

  “Go ahead, take your van and keep the lights on so he can see the police municipale sign. Take care.”

  Bruno drove slowly to the house and parked with his lights on, just short of the barred metal gate that closed the entrance. Beyond the gate the yard was filled with stacks of bricks, heaped sand, gravel and scaffolding, all dominated by what looked like an old wooden barn of the kind traditionally used to dry tobacco. Its entrance was now closed by sliding metal doors, at least three meters tall and padlocked with a heavy chain. A flatbed truck with ladders leaning against its sides was parked beside the barn.

  Bruno could see it all clearly since his approach had triggered a motion detector that turned on a floodlight. Beyond the brick wall that sealed off one side of the yard he saw a small wooden gate and pathway that led to the house. It was a single-story structure that could have come from a kit, with a
shallow tiled roof, French windows to the right of the front door and two conventional windows to the left. It did not seem an impressive advertisement for the skills of the builder who lived there. Bruno could see a garage behind the house.

  He opened the gate and walked slowly toward the house, wondering whether a hardened Irish terrorist was waiting for him with a gun. There was no reply when he rang the bell repeatedly, or when he went to the back of the house to knock at what seemed like a kitchen door. He went to the garage, triggering another motion detector, but he was able to see through a side window that it was empty.

  Prunier joined him at the front of the house and shone a flashlight on two impressive locks. The back door was equally secure. The double sliding French windows, however, looked as if they had only the usual internal lock. Prunier directed his flashlight to the glint of a steel bar, holding the doors firmly closed.

  “Didn’t we hear the sound of someone crying for help?” Prunier asked.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Prunier took out his own gun, crossed to the two small windows, smashed the lower pane and reached in to undo the catch. He brushed away the loose glass, turned to Bruno and said, “After you, Bruno.”

  Bruno clambered in, catching the scent of female perfume. He found the light switch by the door. He was in a bedroom with an unmade bed, pajamas and other clothes scattered around. The wardrobe doors were open, revealing gaps, as though clothes had been hastily removed.

  “Police,” he called out, but there was no reply, only the vague echo of an empty house. He looked in the kitchen, saw the remains of a meal on the table and a pot of what looked like stew on the stove, still slightly warm. He went back to find the living room, turning on lights as he went, bent down to lift the locking bar and opened the French windows.

  “Empty, but they were just here,” he said as Prunier entered, followed by Moore. He showed them the warm pot in the kitchen. Moore found a room that seemed to be used as an office, with a desk, a computer and several filing cabinets, the drawers open and some files sticking out. Then Prunier’s phone rang.