Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The woman felt faint when she came to this time. The food supplied by the man had been plentiful and edible, with pasta and fruit, but she’d had no appetite beyond a slight nibble to show willing. It was obvious the men were looking after her for a reason, yet that made little difference to her situation.

She was still a prisoner.

She tried to work out how many days it had been since she’d been taken. It felt like a lifetime already, but she knew she was suffering the effects of dehydration and fatigue. She tried to relate it to her inner sense of time and the regularity of food, then by bodily functions. On the first night of captivity she had been provided with a hospital bedpan of uncertain vintage, and water to wash herself. But the trauma of being kidnapped and the ever-present fear at what might happen to her since then had played havoc with her system, obliterating any kind of feel she might have once possessed for her own body’s functions. It could have been anywhere between two and five days, although she couldn’t tell for sure.

Leather Jacket had remained all but mute, keeping his conversation to instructions about when to move, what to do, what not to do. He had not repeated his earlier threats, but she doubted that was out of kindness. His tone of voice seemed to be that of a man who was comfortable with himself and certain that he would not be disobeyed. A man doing a job.

The harsher threats might come later.

He was a soldier, she thought at one point. Or had been. But in post-war France, like the rest of Europe, soldiers were common enough, so what did that tell her?

She tried to judge where they might be, but she was finding it hard to marshal her thoughts. The stuffiness in the van was at times intense, until the man opened the door and allowed in some fresh air. But for all the good that did, in terms of seeing her surroundings, she might as well have been sealed in a cardboard box.

The van had been moved three times now, a mobile prison cell. But never far. A few streets, perhaps, or kilometres, she couldn’t tell. It started up, it moved, she was thrown around, and all the time the man sat in the back with her. He never answered her questions, never said anything to show her the slightest comfort. But then, he never actually mistreated her, either.

It was her one consolation. Surely, if he ultimately meant her harm, he would care little about how she fared physically or mentally. But did that mean she would be allowed to one day go free?

She felt greasy and grubby; the first from not being allowed to do more than cat-wash, the second from being thrown around on the dirty mattress and the metal floor of the van. And each time the vehicle moved, it set up a curtain of dust which she could taste even through the hood that was always over her head. As for her hair … she thought with a grim sense of the banal what a waste of money that had been. Going to Marcel, only to have these men throw her around like a parcel moments after leaving the salon, must rate as some kind of wicked joke. Maybe, she reflected sadly, that should tell her something.

Levignier thought long and hard before making his next two phone calls. The first was slightly risky and could blow up in his face. But news from a reliable contact had confirmed that Rocco was closing in on a possible source of information, and where he would be later that evening. In addition, Levignier’s own emotions were driving him to ignore the minimal risks. Partly it was the desire to win, and the awards that would bring if men like Girovsky kept their part of the bargain. He hadn’t set out on this plan out of a desire to be the loyal servant, expecting no reward for himself; the Pole had made it very clear what he could expect if Levignier played his part and the negotiations with the Chinese went as expected. But this particular idea had been fuelled by recalling an image of the person he was thinking of, who worked not two hundred metres away from his own office, several floors down. He dialled an internal number which got him the research section of the Ministry.

A woman’s voice answered. Cultured, smooth, like silk on bare skin.

‘Marcel Levignier,’ he said, his throat suddenly dry with excitement. ‘I have a job for you. It’s very important.’ He described what he wanted done, that it needed her attention right now and how he couldn’t entrust the task to anyone else. The agreement was immediate, if slightly wary, as he’d expected. She wasn’t, after all, a case-hardened officer. When he was asked about risk, which he’d also anticipated, he added smoothly, ‘Don’t worry. There’s no danger, I promise. It’s not that kind of job. But since you ask, I have arranged to have two of my men close by at all times, watching.’

‘So I just find out who this man is and what he’s doing?’

‘That’s all. You’ve been trained on constructing chance encounters?’ He knew the answer to that one.

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. Make the contact, talk, a drink, maybe coffee — somewhere public, of course, with lights. But be discreet.’

‘Of course. Is he likely to be suspicious?’

The basic training course for all low-level officers, he remembered, with its bullet points of steps to consider when making a first ‘cold’ contact. It was kids’ stuff, really, and he could have recited the questions she was asking like a rota. Still, at least she was remembering the lessons.

‘He has absolutely no reason. Trust me.’ He read out Pascal Rotenbourg’s address in Montrouge, and gave a detailed description of Rocco so that she couldn’t make a mistake, then said, ‘Go there at seven forty-five and wait. Be discreet, but when you see him arrive, check the area and see where he goes. Remember the training. The rest is up to you. Afterwards, ring me and I’ll tell you where to come. I want a personal report. This is not for paper or telephone.’

‘I understand.’ Her voice ended on a tone of uncertainty, but he ignored it. He knew why: a personal field report was a rarity, and lifted this task above the merely mundane.

He put down the phone, for a brief moment wondering if he hadn’t oversold the assignment or misjudged this person’s abilities. But the situation was too serious for hesitation; risks were necessary to achieve success, and he had to get Rocco out of the picture in a way that did not suggest Ministry interference in his police duties. Next he dialled another number and gave the man who answered the same address. He outlined what he wanted done.

‘How rough do you want it?’ the man asked.

‘As rough as you feel necessary,’ Levignier purred. ‘Rocco won’t be happy to see you, that’s for sure. But don’t let that sway you. Use your own judgement.’