Yesterday's Spy

Chapter 14

The N562 road from Grasse deteriorates after Draguignan. From its sharp hairpins you can see the Mediterranean on a fine day, or at least the shiny new autoroute that swings inland at Cannes and goes past Aix and Avignon. That — if you have the right sort of car, and keep your foot on the floor — will take you to Paris within five hours.

But to the north of that ‘route sinueuse’ is a barren region of scrub and rock that the French Army have possessed since the early years of this century. There are no autoroutes there. In fact, the local people will tell you that there are no roads there at all, although they themselves drive north. The raincoated policemen and armed soldiers who huddle around the zone militaire barriers wave the grey corrugated vans of the grocer, the butcher and the baker through the cordon, except when the gunnery ranges are in use.

Champion’s black Mercedes was well known to the sentries. Champion had a local resident’s pass, for the Tix mansion and the quarry were close to the military zone, and the most direct route was through the barriers.

The chauffeur showed the pass to the sergeant of gendarmerie. The sergeant leaned into the car and stared at all three of us before handing the papers back. There was a buzz as the window was raised, and the car rolled forward into the military exercise zone. With a rattle of gravel we passed over the junction of the communications roads. Soon we reached the reinforced surface that the army built to withstand the weight of the AMX 50s, brought up here to ‘the Atelier’ for testing under battle conditions.

Even in fine weather it is a grim place. Like all such military establishments, it is an example of decades of neglect interspersed with panic spending. The buildings at the north-western tip were built by the Germans during the war. It is a walled compound, with guard towers and ditches. The emplacement area, which the US Army built in 1946, included a cinema and swimming-pool that are still in use, but a more important legacy from the Americans is the line-up of artillery stands, where the big guns are anchored during the firing trials.

The heart of the Atelier is to the south of the plateau. It is called the Valmy complex. It was built in 1890, and the name of the great victory for French artillery is carved in stone above the main entrance. It’s a curious-looking place: probably designed by some architect who had waited all his life for a chance to use poured concrete, for almost every wall is curved. It stands amid the stone barracks and the metal tank-hangars like a set for some old Hollywood musical, and it’s not difficult to imagine lines of dancers kicking their way along the curved balconies, tap-dancing on the prow, or poking their smiling faces out of the circular windows.

‘Stop a moment,’ Champion told the driver.

‘They’ll move us on,’ he replied.

‘Go and look at the plugs or something,’ said Champion. He turned to me. ‘Quite a place, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘That’s the research block.’

I pushed the button to lower the window. The clouds were scudding low over the superstructure of the block, tangling in the aerials to make it look more than ever like a ship at full steam.

‘Real research?’

‘Missiles, atomic artillery … some interesting heat-seeking ideas, and one of the best electronic countermeasures research teams in the West.’

‘And what are you interested in?’

‘What are we interested in, you mean.’

‘That’s it.’

Champion had his gloved hands locked together. I noticed him pinching his fingers to find the place from which the tips were missing. I wondered if it gave him pain. ‘I wouldn’t pass anything to the bloody Russians, Charlie.’

I didn’t answer.

He looked at me to see how I’d reacted to his promise about not working for the Russians, but I didn’t react in any way. Champion wiped the back of his glove across his mouth as a child might after an indiscretion. ‘The Arabs will pay for the best anti-aircraft defence that can be bought … defensive weapons, Charlie … you’ve been good not to ask before, but you deserve an explanation of what you are doing.’

‘I’ve never had one in the past.’

Champion smiled grimly. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Fuses? Working drawings? One of the research team, is it?’

‘They’ve taught you to think wholesale,’ said Champion. ‘Is that the way the department would do it?’ He didn’t expect an answer. He looked through the rain-specked windscreen to watch the driver prodding the engine. The bonnet closed, and Champion spoke hurriedly to provide an answer before the driver came back inside the car. ‘You know what I’m trying to say, Charlie. If you’ve got any doubts about what I’m doing, for God’s sake tell me.’

‘OK.’

‘Not just OK, Charles. Promise me!’

I smiled. It was not like the Champion I used to know. ‘Scout’s honour, you mean? Will it make you feel more secure if I say I won’t betray you?’ I asked him.

‘Funnily enough,’ said Champion irritably, ‘it will.’

‘I’ll give you a contract,’ I offered. ‘And then if I shop you, you can sue me.’

Then even Champion saw how ridiculous it was to seek assurances from men who were professional betrayers. ‘You killed the men at the quarry,’ he said. ‘Admit it!’

The driver opened the door and got in. I nodded.

The car turned away from the Valmy complex, and took the main road west. There is a large hotel only ten miles down the road. Crowded into the smoke-filled bar there were civilians from the administration and from the laboratories. In the restaurant sat a few off-duty artillery officers in uniform eating lunch. Three of them had wives and children with them.

Champion pushed his way through the noisy men at the bar and ordered drinks. He had dressed to be inconspicuous here — a short brown leather jacket and a stained hat. He made some joke to the bartender and the man smiled. We took our drinks to a battered wooden table under the window, and an old woman put a checked tablecloth on it and set the cutlery for four. She gave a nod of recognition to Champion. We had come a long way round by road, but as the crow flies Champion was almost a neighbour.

‘One of the lab workers will be here,’ said Champion. ‘An old-time Communist, he thinks I make regular trips to Moscow. Don’t disillusion him.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

‘The test firings begin next week. He’ll let you have whatever he can get hold of, but we might have to lean on him.’

The waitress brought three beers, and the menu. Champion tapped the plastic menu on the edge of the table and said to me, ‘Remember what I told you, Charlie. I’m trusting you.’

I reached for my beer and drank some. It seemed unlikely that Champion trusted me, for he’d told me countless times that a spy should trust no one.

Champion stared at the menu. ‘Choucroute! It’s a long time since I last had choucroute garni,’ he said. He pursed his lips as if he was already tasting it. But he didn’t order sauerkraut, he had fillet steak and imported asparagus.