by Brian Moore
‘The search warrant you are holding is a legal document. It has nothing to do with the right of asylum. We are trying to find and arrest a criminal wanted on a capital charge. We are going to make a search here.’
Father Joseph nodded. ‘In that case, Father Francis will show you through the house. Good day to you, gentlemen.’ He turned to Father Francis. ‘If you need me I will be in my study.’
‘Yes, Father.’
The search began in the large ground-floor reception rooms. Roux saw half a dozen robed figures pacing the loggia outside, heads bent in prayer or meditation. The loggia with its stone pillars could have been the cloister of a monastery, had it not faced a large Riviera-style swimming pool surrounded by poolside beach umbrellas and plastic lounging chairs. As the search continued through the dining rooms and the mansion’s kitchens, he was struck by the incongruity of a monastic community living in this setting of worldly affluence. And yet, the very presence of these monks had transformed and humbled the luxurious furniture, the ornate tiles, the wall sconces, the boiserie. The stone flower urns were empty in their niches, the walls were marked with yellowing spaces where paintings and mirrors had been removed. Affixed to the great bare wall of the landing leading to the first-floor rooms was an ugly modern statue of Jesus on the Cross, the Christ head hanging down as though in shame at being found in these surroundings.
Quickly, Roux directed his forces, each man moving along a different corridor as door after door was opened on empty bedrooms. They moved up to the small servants’ rooms on the third floor which were now monks’ cells. He noticed that, during their searches, Father Francis did not behave like a man who had something to hide. When they had finished in the mansion, the priest led them out to the stables that had been converted into the priory’s chapel. Roux, from habit and respect, dipped his hand into the Holy Water font and made the sign of the cross as he entered the nave. Two monks were kneeling in a vigil at the main altar. He gestured to Sergeant Picot who quickly made a tour of the sacristy and returned, signalling that he had found nothing.
When they came out of the chapel into the sunlight, one of the corporals came down from the loft above the old stables. Again, nothing.
‘Any other rooms?’ Roux asked and saw the père hospitalier hesitate.
‘There are some sheds at the other end of the vegetable garden. Tools, pesticide, that sort of thing.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Again, he saw the priest hesitate.
‘This way, then.’
Ahead, as they walked quickly down through the rows of vegetables, Roux saw, near the toolsheds, a building that seemed to be a small cottage. ‘What’s that, Father?’
‘It was the gardener’s cottage. We use it now and then during retreats when we have an overflow of guests.’
At the end of the garden, beyond the cottage, Roux saw the stakeout jeep guarding the gate of the rear entrance. He went up the path to the cottage. The door was locked. ‘Do you have a key, Father?’
‘I – I’m afraid one of the other monks must have it. Father Paul has been using this place to store potting soil.’
‘Can you get the key from him?’
‘I’m afraid not, not at the moment. He’s the one who would have it and he’s in Nice today, buying supplies for tomorrow’s retreat.’
Roux looked at Sergeant Picot who nodded, and went to the window of the cottage. Picot took out a knife, slid it under the window catch, then lifted the sash. He turned to the youngest corporal. ‘René, you can get through here, can’t you?’
The corporal wriggled through the narrow space. A moment later the door was open and Roux stood in the small living room, looking at three heavy suitcases and a small, worn leather trunk.
‘Whose are these, Father?’
Again, he saw Father Francis hesitate. ‘I’m not sure. Father Paul looks after this place.’
Roux signalled to Sergeant Picot. The suitcases were not locked. The first two contained male clothing, some prayer books, holy pictures and a much-used missal. And then Picot opened the largest suitcase. ‘Sir? Look here.’
Roux bent over the suitcase, then glanced back at Father Francis. The priest seemed astonished. Roux lifted out an SS deaths’ head insignia, then a Waffen SS motorcycle flag. ‘Whose are these?’
‘I – I have no idea. I had no idea they were – Colonel, I think I had better get Father Joseph.’
‘Do that, Father. And remember, I don’t want you or anyone else to pick up a telephone. Is that understood?’
The priest nodded and went out. Roux hunkered down in front of the small leather trunk. It was locked over a leather flap. He cut the flap off with his knife. The trunk was neatly stacked with cardboard files. ‘Corporal, get this up on the table. Sergeant, search the garage and grounds. You’re looking for a white Peugeot, late seventies vintage.’
When the sergeant went out, Roux sat down at the table. The first files told him everything. In the minutes in which he looked them over, waiting for Father Joseph to reappear, Roux realized that these were the record of forty years of effort to reverse the judgments of history and revoke the sentences imposed by the state.
At no time in all his years as a Carmelite monk had Joseph faced such a decision and felt so alone. It was as though this life that he had chosen, a life which, at the hour of his death, he might one day look back on with humility and gratitude, now seemed selfish and false. His years of prayer and self-denial, those years in which he had felt himself blessed with the joy of God’s love, had they been simply a turning away from his duty to his fellow man? He who had, from his boyhood, distrusted the political beliefs of his father and Sergeant Brossard, who had served twenty years under a conservative superior like Dom Henri, had he not in some sense condoned the actions of such men? As later, in the post-war period of change within the Church he remained silent when Dom Henri criticized those South American priests and nuns who fought for and suffered with the poor and the oppressed. This afternoon as gendarmes searched through the rooms of the priory, threatening the peace of the community left in his charge, he must face, at last, the ultimate consequence of his failure to speak out. To speak now, or to remain silent? To tell that colonel, yes, Brossard is staying here, he is not in the house at present but he will be back later, he plans to spend the night with us. He is a war criminal, a man I knew when we were boys, a person I have never trusted, a liar, a scoundrel. Arrest him.
Or again, to say nothing, neither helping nor hindering their efforts? To say nothing is to pretend I know nothing. Which is a lie. Which must I obey? My conscience or the rule of the Order? Alas, I know the answer. I cannot act selfishly to salve my conscience. To obey Dom Henri is to follow our rule, the rule by which we pledge obedience to God. I am a Carmelite monk. I must protect the Order against the scandal of Brossard’s arrest in this house.
‘Father Joseph?’
Francis, out of breath, worried.
‘Yes, Francis.’
‘They’ve found his luggage. It’s in the cottage. The first suitcase they opened was full of Nazi stuff.’
‘Nazi stuff?’
‘Flags, armbands, medals – he must have collected them. I said I would fetch you. The Colonel said we’re not to use the telephone.’
‘Who does he think he is?’ Joseph said. ‘All right. Come with me.’
When they reached the cottage, Colonel Roux was at the kitchen table, examining the contents of cardboard file folders. A small leather trunk sat by his elbow. The suitcase of Nazi trash, Joseph saw at once, on the floor near the door. The Colonel looked up at Joseph. ‘These are Pierre Brossard’s belongings, Father. Where is his car?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joseph said.
The Colonel turned to Francis. ‘Do you?’
Father Francis hesitated and looked at Joseph.
‘I am afraid we can’t help you,’ Joseph said.
‘Is he on the premises?’
Joseph was silent.
&nb
sp; ‘Father, these are indisputably Brossard’s files and belongings. We are now searching for his car. If it’s here, we’ll find it. And if it’s here, then it’s very likely that you’re hiding him somewhere on the premises. Now. Do you want us to pull this priory apart?’
‘There is no one here.’
Sergeant Picot re-entered the cottage, accompanied by a corporal. ‘No sign of it, sir. And nowhere they could hide it.’
Roux turned to Joseph. ‘Father, I don’t think it makes sense for you to continue to deny that Brossard has been here.’
‘I did not deny it. I said, because our Prior is absent, I do not feel competent to discuss this matter with you. I will have to seek his advice. If you will allow me, I will try to reach him by telephone. As I told you he is presently in Rome.’
‘No. I do not want you to use the telephone. We happen to know that Brossard is due to arrive in Villefranche today. We were told he was coming to this priory. Our information seems to have been correct. He came here but his car is not here at the moment. He may have gone out on some errand. We will wait for his return.’
‘As you wish,’ Joseph said. ‘May we go now?’
‘Just a moment,’ Roux said. ‘Sergeant, will you go with Father Francis? The gate opening is controlled from the telephone in his office.’ He looked at Joseph. ‘The Sergeant will answer any calls from the gate.’
Joseph ignored this. ‘Come, Father?’
Francis nodded. When both priests went out, Sergeant Picot following one pace behind them, Roux sat down again with the files. Somewhere, among these folders, could be the key to the years of flight and concealment. He opened the file marked ‘Pardon’ and began to read from a letter written by a Monsignor Gouet to Monsignor Le Moyne. ‘It must be understood that the pardon is not, administratively, a personal decision on the part of the President. Doubtless, the President is well disposed in this matter, but he will do nothing without first obtaining the opinions of the Interior and the Justice Departments.’
As Roux read these lines, the corporal came running up the path, carrying a cellular telephone. ‘For you, sir.’
‘Roux here.’
‘Robert, it’s Daniel. Something fantastic has just come in on my computer. You haven’t found him yet, have you?’
‘No, but he’s been here. We found his gear.’
‘Robert, leave your men in place. But for God’s sake, get down here yourself. Quick.’
27
‘But who’s going to re-imburse us for the loss of trade? It had nothing to do with us, this thing. We have customers coming this evening. We can’t afford to be closed.’
Inspector Sarrat turned away from the proprietor and looked at the two gendarmerie officers. ‘What do you think, Colonel? As far as the police work is concerned, we can be cleared up by tonight. Is there anything special you need?’
Roux shook his head. ‘No. That’s fine. I’d like to go down to the morgue now and look at the body.’
‘Of course. I’ll phone and tell them you’re coming.’
Roux turned back to Max Pellan. ‘So you knew him well? A regular, when he was in Villefranche?’
‘Yes, he was sort of a regular, but I just knew him as some old guy, retired, name of Pouliot, a cheapskate. He never talked about himself, not that I was interested.’
‘The envelope?’ Roux said. ‘Do you remember anything special about it?’
‘It was a registered letter,’ Madame Pellan said. ‘From Paris, I think. He was always here the day it came. He’d worry if the post was late.’
‘And the man he killed?’
‘Never seen him before,’ Max said. ‘He came in, ordered a beer, and went to the toilet while I was pouring it.’
Roux turned back to Inspector Sarrat. ‘And that statement you found on the body, will it be possible to let us have a copy?’
The Inspector took a sheet of paper from the pocket of his anorak. ‘I’ve already made copies for the reporters. Here you are.’
Later, as they drove up to the lower Corniche road, in the gendarmerie jeep, Daniel Dumesnil began to laugh. ‘No conspiracy there,’ he said. ‘Full co-operation from the police. Maybe we’ve misjudged them.’
‘It was the same thing in Salon,’ Roux said. ‘Inspector Cholet couldn’t have been more helpful. Whoever’s shielding Brossard is in Paris, high up, maybe even the Prefect. And saying nothing to these local flics. That manifesto. Read it to me again, will you?’
Dumesnil took the sheet of paper from his briefcase:
STATEMENT
COMMITTEE FOR JUSTICE FOR THE
JEWISH VICTIMS OF DOMBEY
This man is Pierre Brossard, former Chief of the Second Section of the Marseille region of the milice, condemned to death in absentia by French courts, in 1944 and again in 1946, and further charged with a crime against humanity in the murder of fourteen Jews at Dombey, Alpes-Maritimes, June 15, 1944. After forty-four years of delays, legal prevarications and the complicity of the Catholic Church in hiding Brossard from justice, the dead are now avenged. This case is closed.
‘But it’s not,’ Roux said. ‘Far from it.’
The body in the morgue was rolled out for their inspection. Roux bent to look at the face.
‘Luckily, our office got him on the computer file before our friends the Paris police could wipe him off,’ Dumesnil said.
‘Good. Who is he?’
‘Benrehail Ben Said, who goes by the name of Tomas Said, son of a Harkis sergeant who turned robber in Marseille and was shot by the police in a hold-up in ’74. The son followed in his footsteps and was arrested twice, working for Muhammad Remli, in Paris.’
‘A drug caïd,’ Roux said.
‘That’s right. This kid was believed to be one of Remli’s hit men. Turned informer, but Remli doesn’t know about it. Paris let him go after three months.’
‘So he’s a professional. Hired by this Jewish group. That’s odd, isn’t it? Why are they hiring professional killers and giving them Jewish names and documents? It doesn’t add up.’
‘I agree,’ Dumesnil said. ‘I rang the DST before you came down from the priory. They’ve never heard of this group. And they’re pretty au courant in these matters. I got the same answer from the Wiesenthal Centre. Absolutely unknown.’
‘Let’s go back a little,’ Roux said. ‘You’re Brossard, you’ve just killed another would-be assassin. You know by now, whoever this group is, they’ve followed you from Salon and they know you’re staying at the priory in Villefranche. If you’re as smart as Brossard you’ll realize the assassin picked you up when you arrived at the priory this morning and followed you down to the old town. Brossard shot him around one-fifteen, according to the owner of the Bar Les Antilles. Brossard may then have driven back to the priory and seen your men in uniform, waiting at the turn of the road.’
‘The stakeout wasn’t in place until one-forty-five,’ Dumesnil said. ‘So, maybe he didn’t see them. Maybe he didn’t go back to the priory? Or do you think he’ll try to sneak back in there later today? He might. And he won’t see a stakeout this time.’
Roux shook his head. ‘We’ve lost him, Daniel. I know it. Let’s keep the stakeout in place for another twenty-four hours. But I’m taking Brossard’s files back to Paris tonight. I’ve got a lot of reading to do. And I’d better be quick.’
28
The building was on the Boulevard Jean Jaurès, just off the narrow winding streets of the old town of Nice. It had been put at the disposition of the Fraternity of St Donat by the Mayor of Nice, against the advice of the Bishop, who warned the Mayor that Dom Olivier Villedieu, the Prior General of the Fraternity, had chosen to follow Monsignor Lefebvre, the former Archbishop of Dakar who believed that, with the abandonment of the Latin mass and the changes that followed Vatican II, Rome was no longer the true Church. As a result, the Fraternity’s house on the Boulevard Jean Jaurès was largely inhabited by priests improperly ordained in the eighties by Monsignor Lefebvre at his headquarters i
n Econe, Switzerland, in open defiance of the Vatican. And while few clerics or laymen had followed Dom Olivier and Monsignor Lefebvre in open rebellion, the Fraternity had certain sympathizers. Among these were the Chevaliers de Ste Marie, an order in which Dom Olivier held high rank.
So, now, and always, the Prior General was, for him, a brother in arms. More than that, Dom Olivier had, over the years, openly proclaimed to other clerics that: ‘To shelter Pierre Brossard is not a question of sheltering someone under the Church’s laws of asylum. Pierre must be helped and protected because he is the victim of a plot by enemies of the true faith.’ Thus, Dom Olivier and the priests of the Fraternity of St Donat were in a special category. There was no question of their heeding the Cardinal Primate’s instructions. Here he would be welcomed as of old.
And the welcome was immediate. Embraced by Father Rozier, the père hospitalier, he was then led into the printing shop to be embraced again by Fathers Paul and Guy-Marie. And then, at last, up two flights of stairs to the cluttered study where Dom Olivier rose from his desk, peering at him through eyes weakened by cataracts, and then, recognizing him, came forward, arms extended to hug him in a brotherly embrace. ‘Pierre! God bless you. How are you?’
‘Well enough, thank you, Father. And you? You’re looking well yourself.’
‘God is good,’ Dom Olivier said enigmatically. He was known to suffer from prostate cancer but it was not something he talked about. ‘So, you’re still playing at hide and seek?’
‘Exactly so, Father Prior.’
‘Do you know that we pray for you nightly, Pierre? You’ll need our prayers now, more than ever.’
‘Very true, Father.’
‘Yes, I’ve been reading about this woman judge in Paris. And Delavigne! What a coward he is, what a disgrace! I must say his actions confirm everything Monsignor Lefebvre has said about the perfidy of Rome.’
‘Alas, Father, his edict is having an effect. I’m being turned away at every door.’
