The Geneva Trap

Chapter 44

The mas where the communards lived, twenty kilometres south-west of Cahors, must originally have been the residence of a minor aristocrat. There was still an ancient orchard in the walled garden next to the residence, and the house itself, though almost derelict when they had first taken it over, would once have bordered on the grand.

Marcel and Pascale, as a couple, had been allocated one of the large rooms on the first floor. It might once have been a grand salon, with its high ceiling and two tall shuttered windows that faced south towards the kitchen garden and the pretty meadow beyond. But like the rest of the house, it had suffered from years of neglect: the ornate cornice that ran around the ceiling was cracked and bits were missing where the damp had come through; the parquet floor had lost some of its pieces and the upright metal rods that held the shutters in place were brown with rust. But young and in love, Marcel and Pascale saw the beauty not the rot. They ignored the missing bits of cornice, they’d covered the holes in the floor with cardboard, and Marcel had put enough oil on the shutter bolts to mute all but the mildest squeaks.

Even this late in spring the evenings in the Quercy could be very cool, and with only one blanket for their rusty bedstead, the couple had made a ritual of jumping into bed together, huddling under the solitary blanket, and cuddling each other for warmth. But tonight when Pascale was ready to get into bed, Marcel remained standing, looking moodily out of the window, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘What is it?’ she asked, shivering in the bed.

‘We have a problem, I fear.’

‘We do indeed,’ said Pascale. ‘I’m freezing! And standing out there, you must be, too.’

Marcel took a last drag on his cigarette and chucked it out of the open window. It was not something one would do in August, when the grass lay parched and white under the scorching sun, but the spring had been unusually wet. He turned and looked at Pascale. ‘I’m afraid it’s not a joking matter,’ he said soberly. ‘I’m worried.’

‘Why?’

He looked at her. ‘Why do you think?’

Both were well trained enough not to speak carelessly, even though the chances of being bugged in this huge relic of a room seemed remote. So Pascale just nodded, indicating that she understood. Both of them had been on edge since Marcel had returned from Marseilles. He had told her all about the meeting with the North Africans, Antoine’s violence, and how they had brought back two Uzis.

Marcel came over to the bed and climbed in under the blanket. When he spoke it was in a whisper in Pascale’s ear. ‘I was in the walled garden, sharpening the blades on the mower. René and Antoine were talking by the garden shed. They knew I was there; that’s what I found odd. Because René was saying that delivery of “the package” had been advanced – it would happen tomorrow instead of next week.’

‘What package?’

‘I think it must be the explosives he was hoping to get from another source.’

‘Christ!’ Pascale exclaimed. ‘But why talk like this in front of you if they suspected you? And I still don’t know why they took you to Marseilles.’

Marcel laid his hand on her thigh and squeezed gently. ‘It was a test – like this business in the garden.’

‘How are they testing you?’

‘René knows that if I’m an informant, I’ll want to communicate the news of the package’s early arrival. Can’t you see – it’s the perfect trap? If I don’t try and contact Philippe then the explosives will go undetected once they’re here. But if I do make a move to contact him, René will know I’m a traitor.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

Marcel gave a wry smile. ‘It’s more what I have done, my darling. Or tried to do. I didn’t think I had a choice. Philippe warned us, as you know, never to use the mobile phone to contact him. But I decided it was worth the risk, and I could also tell him about the two machine-guns we got in Marseilles. When I came up here, though, I couldn’t find my phone. It was there –’ He pointed to the small pine cabinet on the far side of the bed. ‘But it was gone when I came up to look for it after lunch. I am sure someone has taken it.’

‘René?’

‘Perhaps. Or someone else under his orders.’

‘So you couldn’t alert Philippe. But why should René be suspicious now? It’s not as if you actually did phone Philippe; you didn’t have a phone.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t stop there.’

Pascale looked alarmed, and Marcel explained, ‘You remember how Philippe said that in an emergency we should leave a chalk mark on the big boulder by the main road?’

‘Yes. He said he would drive by at least once every twenty-four hours. If we left a mark he’d know the DCRI should move in at once.’

‘Exactement. So that’s what I planned to do. Late this afternoon I thought I would take a walk – and quite by chance it would take me by the main road…’

‘So did you?’ asked Pascale anxiously.

‘I was not allowed to.’

‘René stopped you?’

Marcel shook his head. ‘It was subtler than that. I started to take my walk, thinking I’d go through the woods and cross to the road under cover of them. Then little Fabrice came running out. “Come back,” he shouted, and when I turned round he said René needed me right away. When I got back here, René said he wanted me to clear space in the cellar for the delivery the day after tomorrow. So I went downstairs and moved all of two empty suitcases and a small box of books – it hardly required me to do that. Yet he’d sent Fabrice to make sure I came back to do the job. Why?’

‘All right, so he may suspect you. But he has no proof of anything.’

‘No, he doesn’t. So tomorrow I plan— ’

Pascale was already shaking her head. ‘Forget it. Tomorrow you mustn’t do anything. René will be hyper-alert. Let’s wait until the package arrives, then we can try and contact Philippe again.’

‘It may be too late by then,’ he protested.

But Pascale was adamant. ‘We’ll just have to take that chance.’