by Brian Moore
‘Pierre, this door will always be open to you. Good to have you with us. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I’ll see you at supper.’
Father Rozier brought him up to a small room at the top of the house. ‘Can we help you with your luggage?’
‘I’m afraid I left it behind in Villefranche. It may be a few days before I can reclaim it.’
‘How’s that?’
‘When I arrived at the priory of St Michel des Monts this morning, I left my luggage there and went down into the town. When I came back up there was a gendarmerie jeep parked near the entrance. So I turned round and came on here. Without my luggage, I’m afraid.’
‘We can give you some night clothes, a razor, whatever you need for now.’
‘Thank you. I’ll ring Villefranche tomorrow and try to find out if my suspicions were correct. But in the meantime it’s better to stay away.’
‘Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?’
‘No, no. But may I use the telephone a little later? It’s on a private matter.’
‘There’s a phone one floor down, in the bindery. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘Not at all. Just let me know when you need it.’
When Father Rozier left he was at last able to lie down on the narrow monk’s pallet. He held his hands up, examining their tremor. Above him, framed in the narrow skylight, the pitiless blue Provençal sky. Sometimes it’s as though I see an eye in that sky, watching me, judging me. But what did I do wrong? Everything I do is to defend myself. What’s wrong with that?
He stared again at the rectangle of sky. Beyond that blue, beyond the invisible stars, beyond the sun, Who sees me, Who judges me, Who plans my fate? Was I right? Was that boy the same boy I saw in Aix? In the toilet, lying there in piss and blood with his cock hanging out; when I pulled his head up I only saw the face for a moment, before Max came running. I shot him in the back not knowing, because I couldn’t take that chance, could I? And I was right to shoot. He had a gun.
The gendarmes, that’s something else. If they’re waiting for me and I don’t turn up, sooner or later they’ll go inside and talk to Joseph. Who knows what he’ll say to them? They might search the place and find my suitcases, my files. I can’t even phone to find out. The priory phone will be tapped. Vionnet’s the one to call. He’s got to get me out. I’ve got to tell him what happened today. He’s supposed to protect me. Take a pill. I’ve got to calm down. Rest. Rest.
29
The Caves des Saussaies vineyard was located on the Route Nationale between Vaison la Romaine and Nyons, and consisted of a modest farmhouse, a garage, two bottling and storage barns and, at the entrance, a fading sign: Dégustation des Vins. The wine-tasting room was similarly modest, a small shed with a bar counter, a rack of glasses and some bottles of the vineyard wine, an inexpensive Côtes du Ventoux. Tourists were not encouraged to stop and sample it. However, from time to time when serious buyers were in the area, the owner, former Commissaire Vionnet, would drive over from Avignon to host a special tasting, for which Marie-Ange Caillard, the wife of Paul Caillard, the vineyard’s manager, was expected to provide hors-d’oeuvres.
The potential buyers this afternoon were from a supermarket with headquarters in Orange. They arrived shortly before 6 p.m. Commissaire Vionnet had been waiting for them since four-thirty and was in a testy mood. However, he put a good face on it, and set out to be charming. Marie-Ange brought in the hors-d’oeuvres, then she and Paul withdrew to the farmhouse kitchen.
‘It could be a big order,’ Paul told her. ‘I hope it goes well in there.’
But after fifteen minutes, the phone rang in the kitchen and when Paul answered a man’s voice, anxious, hurried, said, ‘Commissaire Vionnet, is he still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Paris. Can you get him for me?’
‘He’s busy at the moment,’ Paul said. ‘If you give me your number I’ll ask him to call.’
‘No. No number. Tell him it’s Inspector Pochon.’
Paul put the phone down and went into the wine-tasting shed. The Commissaire and the potential buyers were looking at some figures.
‘There’s a call from Paris, sir. An Inspector Pochon.’
He saw the Commissaire hesitate, then turn to the buyers. ‘I’m sorry about this. I won’t be a moment. Paul will help you with any questions about the wine itself.’
Marie-Ange saw the Commissaire come into the kitchen. He picked up the phone then looked at her.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m just leaving.’
She went into the sitting room which adjoined the kitchen. The television set was on, but the sound had been turned down. It was a football match. She had no interest in football but she sat on the sofa, pretending to look at the set. She could hear the Commissaire on the phone next door.
‘When?’
He was silent for a moment, then: ‘It was on television? And Nice Matin, how did they get hold of the letter?’
And then: ‘Where did you find these idiots? A seventy-year-old man and he picks them off like crows!’
He was silent again, and then he said, ‘The patron met this kid, don’t you remember? We sent him over to the apartment the night before he left Paris. The patron was worried about this very thing.’
He listened for a long moment. Then:
‘No, it’s too late for that. I’d better go home at once. He may ring me tonight.’
She heard him hang up and then he called. ‘Marie-Ange?’
She let him call twice. She didn’t want him to know she’d been listening in.
‘I have to get back to Avignon,’ he said. ‘I’ll go in and speak to them now. But tell Paul not to worry. I think the deal’s all set. They’re going to give us a six-month trial in their stores in Orange. Paul can show them round if they want to look at the vines. And thanks for the hors-d’oeuvres. Very nice.’
Later that evening, when the buyers had gone, Marie-Ange said to Paul, ‘I thought he was retired from the police?’
‘Of course he is. He took retirement in ’82.’
‘That’s funny. I heard him on the phone with that inspector from Paris. I didn’t understand what it was about, but it sounded like a police case. There’s some letter in Nice Matin that he’s worried about.’
‘No, no, he retired long ago,’ Paul said. ‘They’re probably looking into some old case.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Marie-Ange said. ‘And he was really worried. I could tell.’
30
They said nine o’clock and Pochon knew better than to be late. He sat in his usual place in this anonymous café, filled with tourists. He looked out across the Place de l’Alma at the buses coming down Avenue Président Wilson. Usually the contact arrived by the 63 bus, but tonight was different. He had said, ‘I’m in a red Peugeot 306 and I’ll pull in at the bus stop. Stay in the café until you see me.’
And here it was, nine o’clock, a warm summer night, the tour Eiffel floodlit across the Seine, everything normal, as if it was any night. But it wasn’t any night. Everything had gone wrong. And here on the stroke of nine was the red Peugeot pulling in just above the 63 bus stop. He got up, leaving his beer untouched, and went out like a condemned man, walking blindly into a red light as he hurried across the avenue. The contact had opened the car door and was watching him. When he got in, the little Peugeot took off fast, heading across the Seine.
The contact was the usual one, a man in his fifties, a lawyer, perhaps, cold and impersonal, with a dismissing voice. Now, he stared straight ahead, silent, driving fast.
‘You’ve read the papers, of course?’ Pochon said. He knew it was a stupid thing to say, but he had to say something.
The contact nodded.
‘The television got it wrong,’ Pochon said. ‘As per usual.’
The contact didn’t speak. They drove past the Invalides and the National Asse
mbly and turned into Boulevard St Germain. By then Pochon guessed where he was being taken. The patron’s apartment was on the Rue St Thomas d’Aquin. Pochon had never been there, but he knew the address because Commissaire Vionnet told him the Harkis kid had been brought there to see the patron, just before they sent him to Aix.
He was right about their destination. Rue St Thomas d’Aquin, Number 6. Fourth Floor, Apartment Number 5. An old building, discreet, lifetime tenants, carpet on the stairs, mahogany apartment doors. No lift.
As they climbed the stairs he saw the contact look at his watch. When they reached the fourth-floor landing the contact said, ‘We’re three minutes early.’ And hesitated. Then pressed the apartment bell. A uniformed servant opened, a man in his fifties wearing a formal yellow-and-black-striped waistcoat. He did not ask their names but nodded to them to follow. Pochon went along a corridor in which Roman busts sat in wall niches, past a big drawing room, with a grand piano, large oil paintings, heavy antique furniture, oriental carpets. On the opposite side of the corridor was a dining room, its long mahogany table set with one elaborate place setting, crystal glasses, decanter, flowers. The patron had not yet had his supper.
The servant now knocked discreetly on a door at the far end of the apartment before opening it to show them into a large library room furnished with leather armchairs and a sofa, its high walls lined with bound volumes and, in the centre of the room, a great teak desk littered with papers. In a corner, a small television set was turned to a news programme: the American CNN. The very old man sitting by the set clicked off his remote and stood up. He nodded to the contact, then waved them to the sofa and chairs at the far end of the room, under a large set of windows heavily curtained in red velvet.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming.’ His voice was soft and charming but Pochon felt a hidden chill behind the politeness of tone. He waited until the old man was seated before sitting down himself. Pochon was not one to be impressed but now he was eight feet away from a man he had last seen in ’61 in the main courtyard of the préfecture, when he, Pochon, was a young lieutenant. This old man was Maurice de Grandville, Paris Prefect of Police under General de Gaulle, who had proved his loyalty to the General by putting down a massive Paris demonstration by Algerians protesting de Gaulle’s policies in their country. It was a famously brutal police action, which, the press said, left two hundred Algerians dead. Pochon, who had been part of it, well believed this figure. He had himself, at the end of that day, seen his fellow flics toss dead bodies into the Seine.
But, of course, the ex-Prefect wouldn’t worry about that. This old man had all his life moved in elite circles, from his early years as a high official, working for Maréchal Pétain in Vichy, to an equally high position in the Resistance, when that seemed the better option. In the post-war years he had served as a minister in two successive French governments and had acted as the friend and confidant of presidents and premiers. De Gaulle, in gratitude for his ruthless loyalty, had kept him on as Prefect for six years after the Paris killings. Now eighty years old, with a record of past actions requiring judicial investigation, which, over the years, had accumulated thirty tomes of evidence, without his ever spending a night in prison, he had outlived the statute of limitations on his former deeds. Except for one, the one that had shadowed his long career. In the years of German Occupation, as Secretary General of the préfecture of the Gironde, he had facilitated his SS colleagues by organizing a series of French deportation trains which sent sixteen hundred people, including two hundred and forty children, to their deaths in Nazi extermination camps. For this action there was no statute of limitations. The crime against humanity.
Pochon looked at the old face, loose with the folds of age, at the hand stiff as a claw, a cigarette smouldering between the index and second finger, at the dark ministerial suit, the red dot in its lapel the boutonníre of a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Money had been paid over the years to Commissaire Vionnet, to Pochon, and to the man they had helped protect. Money had been paid to lawyers, perhaps to judges. Favours had been given and favours asked for, involving high civil servants and politicians of differing parties. All to protect this old half-corpse. And now, because of Pochon’s error, this old man, at the end of his life, was at risk as never before.
The old man’s hand went to his mouth and he drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘We know the news,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in discussing what has gone wrong. Incredible as it seems, you, Inspector, have sent two total incompetents to perform an action which would have seemed to me, on the face of it, to be relatively simple. The precautions we took to be sure that this action would never be traced back to us have now, I dare say, become the very facts that may destroy us. They will draw attention to my own case and this attention will certainly increase if the gendarmerie succeed in finding Brossard. A search warrant was issued recently without our knowing it, despite the fact that this would seem impossible in view of our connections in the préfecture and in the DST. This juge d’instruction trusts no one. Where is Brossard at present?’
‘I am not quite sure, sir. We are almost certain that he is under the protection of an “intégriste” group of clerics in Nice.’
‘You are not quite sure,’ the old man said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The Commissaire hopes to hear from him tomorrow morning at the latest. In the past, he has always informed the Commissaire at once, when he changes his address.’
‘The past is no criterion for judging how he will act tomorrow,’ the old man said. ‘He must be frightened. Or perhaps that is not the right word. He is a cunning criminal, with a criminal’s sense of danger, as he has proven clearly in the past two weeks. Now, I have two questions for you, Inspector. The first question is: Have you dealt directly with Brossard? Does he know you by sight?’
‘Yes, sir. I worked with him in the days when you yourself were in the préfecture. Because of his past, he was trusted by right-wing groups in the days of the OAS. We used him as a paid informer.’
‘The Algerian years were a long time ago. Have you, personally, kept in touch with him since then?’
‘Yes, sir. I talked to him, in person, some five years ago.’
‘Then he knows you. Good. He would not see you as a possible assassin.’
And, at once, Pochon knew why he had been brought here.
31
‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’ Rosa said.
‘In a little while,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be in, in a little while.’
It was after eleven. He knew there was no point in his waiting up for Brossard any longer. He’ll never call this late at night. But where is he? Surely he knows that I’ve heard it on the news?
And then, at eleven-twenty, the phone did ring. He ran out into the hall to get it. It was Paris, again. He listened carefully.
‘No, I haven’t heard from him yet,’ he said. ‘He’ll call, but I don’t think it will be tonight. I’ll ring the priory in Nice first thing in the morning. He’s got to be there. Where can I reach you in the morning?’
‘They have me booked on a flight that gets into Nice at ten. That’s the earliest flight. All they said was, it’s up to you and me to finish it. By tomorrow night, if possible. Shit! Why me?’
‘You have no choice,’ he said. ‘They’re right, of course. He knows you. He’ll not run away from you. But first we’ll have to think how to get him out of that priory.’
‘If he’s there.’
‘He must be there,’ the Commissaire said. ‘Wait. I have an idea. The last time I spoke to him he asked if I could get him a passport. If I reach him tomorrow, I’ll tell him you’re going to arrange it for him. That way we can set up a meeting between the two of you. When do you land in Nice?’
‘The flight’s due in at ten.’
‘Call me then.’
32
The lamp, lit for so many hours over Colonel Roux’s writing table, now cast its yellow beam against a new cold light cutting into the r
oom in long strips through the half-opened shutters. The worn leather trunk sat at his feet and, on his left, methodically stacked, were fifteen children’s exercise books, and a dozen folders, filled with copies of letters, newspaper clippings, official forms, most of them yellowing and stiff with age. Several of the folders contained typewritten copies of letters written over a thirty-year period by the indefatigable Monsignor Le Moyne, letters of exquisite courtesy, filled with sycophantic phrases, devout injunctions and elaborate salutations, letters to the President of the Republic, to ministers of state, to the former Cardinal Primate of France, to the Secretary of State of the Vatican, to the Auxiliary Archbishop of Paris, to juges d’instruction, to prefects of police, to criminal lawyers, to former Resistance workers, to mothers superior of a dozen convents, to abbots of great monastic orders and to humble country priests.
Almost forty years of pleadings, of legal manoeuvrings, of delays and disappointments, from the early years when the subject of these letters was an unknown and unimportant wartime collaborator who, his supporters insisted, had suffered and atoned for his sins and now deserved to be forgiven for reasons of Christian charity and national reconciliation, a steadily persistent campaign which led to the triumph of a presidential pardon in 1971 and, one year later, because of the publicity given by Le Monde to that pardon, to a sudden interest in his case and the grave shock of a new charge of a crime against humanity, a charge that escalated and magnified the manoeuvres, the pleadings, the level of debate. The man who owned this trunk had not only kept copies of all letters and newspaper clippings relating to the affair, but had, in children’s exercise books, listed names and addresses of important religious and civil figures, the location of convents and abbeys throughout France. In a separate book, Roux found the names of certain abbeys set out, twelve or more to a page, accompanied by tiny hieroglyphics which, towards morning, he began to study, hoping to break their code. He was weary and confused for his reading had begun that evening, the moment he boarded the plane from Nice to Paris, and continued after a hurried supper with Claire. Now, in the grey light of dawn, despite the urgency of his task, he felt he must admit defeat. In this labyrinth of paper, there was no biography, no clear record of Brossard’s movements, no hint of why so many influential religious and lay figures had devoted so much time and effort to protect this criminal hiding from his fate.
