69

Kurt Vermulen had been talking to the mayor of Antibes when his cell phone bleeped loudly and a message appeared on its screen, telling him that he had a text. He apologized to the mayor, who indicated that he was not in the slightest bit offended, certainly not by such a distinguished guest as monsieur le général.

Vermulen jabbed helplessly at the telephone keypad before giving up, with a sigh that conveyed the absolute impossibility for a civilized man of keeping up with all the latest gadgets. The mayor chuckled sympathetically.

Alix took the phone from Vermulen’s hand, with a look of womanly amusement at the failings of helpless men.

“Here, let me,” she said. Her fingers moved expertly over the phone and a message flashed up.

“It’s Wynter,” she said. “He says he’ll be ready for drinks at the hotel at seven.”

Vermulen looked at his watch.

“Well, that’s not a problem for time,” he said. “But I’m still not happy about it. Are you sure you want to go through with it? He can’t complain if I meet him instead. Today, of all days…”

He looked out of the window of the mayor’s office. The town hall, with its sandy pink walls and white shutters, looked down on the Cours Masséna, right in the heart of the oldest part of town. Every day, the square was filled with market stalls selling freshly caught fish, or fruit and vegetables that had come direct from the farms up in the Provençal hills. The Cathedral of Notre Dame stood across the way. The sea was just a skipping stone’s flight away.

Alix slipped her arm through his and gave a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I can cope. That’s why I’m here, after all…”

Vermulen’s smile lit up his eyes with genuine affection. The mayor, seeing its sincerity, smiled, too.

“Yeah,” said Vermulen, holding Alix to his side, “I know. You can cope with just about anything.”

Then he looked at his watch again.

“Well,” he said, “I guess we better get going…”

“Bien sûr, mon général,” agreed the mayor.

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