him.’
‘Why — you think there’s something there?’
‘Well, he’s wasted riding a bike, for a start. If that’s his real job.’
Caspar’s eyes went wide as he considered the implications. ‘Damn, you’ve got a devious mind, Rocco.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’
Rocco pulled in to the side of the road opposite the track, just short of the bridge. He and Caspar climbed out as Saint-Cloud parked in front and walked back to join them.
‘Who is this?’ he queried, as if noticing Caspar for the first time. He shrugged on a warm coat, the skin on his face pinched and white, and Rocco wondered how often he ever got out of the office on field trips.
He made introductions, but Saint-Cloud seemed barely interested. ‘Fine,’ he said, when Rocco told him Caspar was on the strength and would be looking into the Paris end of things. ‘Whatever you think is necessary. Clear payment with my office.’ He glanced at Caspar. ‘Just make sure you find me some names, you understand? We’ll drop the hammer on them. We need to stop this thing before it goes too far.’ He glanced around at the bridge and fields. ‘Is this it? This is your suggested attack zone?’ He shook his head. ‘Rocco, you disappoint me.’
Rocco bit his tongue. Losing his temper with Saint-Cloud would serve no purpose. He indicated the point where the road passed the mouth of the track. ‘I believe they’ll leave some kind of obstruction here to slow down the president’s car… work signs, something like that. But instead of using guns, they’ll come down the track past that shed, using a truck to drive the official car off the road here and over the edge.’ The shed’s pigeons, he noted, were looking at the three men with wary interest. No doubt they had learnt at an early stage that anything that flew was fair game for the end of a long gun.
Rocco led the other two to the brink of the gully and pointed down. The drop drew a faint oath from Saint- Cloud. ‘Once down there, there’s no coming back. They could do whatever they choose to finish the job. There’ll be nobody to stop them.’
Saint-Cloud looked sceptical. ‘Oh, you mean wine bottles filled with petrol? Like you said that farmer saw the film crew using? The idiot was deluded. Who throws petrol bombs anymore?’
Caspar frowned, unfazed by Saint-Cloud’s rank or position. ‘I saw Molotovs being used during a protest in Saint Denis a couple of months back. Pretty effective they were. Set a couple of cop cars on fire, broke up the CRS ranks, too, for a while.’ He looked down the slope and murmured, ‘If I was going to make sure nobody got out of a car alive, down there is where I’d do it.’ He shivered. ‘Nasty way to go.’
‘Well, thank you for that expert analysis,’ Saint-Cloud muttered. ‘Believe me, these disaffected groups prefer streets for their cowardly attacks, not open fields. Busy roads, traffic, people — and escape routes for when they run out of courage or ammunition. Out here, they’d be exposed… vulnerable and frightened.’ He turned and walked away across the bridge, stiff-legged and impatient.
‘What an arse,’ Caspar murmured. ‘On past experience, he’s right… but that’s just being blinkered. Makes you wonder how de Gaulle survived this long with him in charge.’
‘Because when it came down to it, others were providing the real protection,’ said Rocco. He felt surprisingly calm in the face of Saint-Cloud’s scepticism. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to win this one, not here and now. But that meant he’d simply have to prove he was right.
Saint-Cloud came back across the bridge, shaking his head. ‘No — I don’t buy it. The president is unlikely to come this way, and even if he wanted to, there’s no way we could let him come to such an isolated spot without full protection. Once any attackers saw that we were prepared, with no way out, they’d call it off.’
‘And go underground,’ Rocco pointed out.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But I have a better idea of where they might plan an attack. And it fits with what we know of their methods. Come on.’ He walked back to his car, leaving the other two to follow.
Saint-Cloud drove fast and efficiently, showing that he was not entirely without skills outside the office. They soon arrived on the outskirts of Arras, on a wide crossroads dotted with a handful of houses, a cafe and a depot supplying Camping Gaz. Saint-Cloud had parked on a piece of waste ground next to the cafe, and walked over to join them as Rocco pulled up.
‘See this?’ He gestured at the four roads in turn. ‘This crossroads is my concern. There is a possibility that the president will come here, to open a new library dedicated to the fallen of the two world wars.’ He pointed east, along a straight stretch of road. ‘He will have to come along this route, which is the quickest approach from the capital. Any other route takes him through too much traffic and narrow streets. But it makes this spot an ideal choke point for an attack.’
Rocco couldn’t disagree. It was ideal. Multiple routes in, escape routes out and enough nearby streets and dwellings to cause confusion and for attackers to get lost in. Anyone wishing to fire on the presidential car would be able to cause an obstruction anywhere here and simply hose down the vehicle as it went by. The technique had almost worked in Le Petit-Clamart last August, avoided only by the chauffeur’s driving skill.
But this wasn’t Le Petit-Clamart.
He wasn’t convinced. ‘So is he coming here, then?’
‘That is not for public consumption.’ Saint-Cloud seemed pleased, as if Rocco’s lack of dissent signalled a victory. ‘But we must be prepared. Should he decide to do so, I will arrange blanket coverage of the area.’ He gave a humourless smile, looking beyond them. ‘Anyone trying anything will suffer the same fate as the previous ones.’
By the time Rocco dropped Caspar off at the railway station, the light was fading. He went to his office to check for messages and found Berthier waiting for him with a note in his hand. He was scratching his head.
‘A man named Bellin rang for you. Sounded drunk or mad. Said something about his dog, and how he’s been marked.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what that means, but he wasn’t making much sense. Is that Bellin at the scrapyard?’
Rocco dialled the number on the piece of paper. ‘Yes. You know him?’
‘Unfortunately. He’s one of the lower orders around here.’
The phone rang ten times before Bellin picked up. He sounded stressed, his words pouring out in a mad jumble once he recognised Rocco’s voice. ‘You’ve got to help me — they’ve killed Oscar!’ His breathing was hoarse, as if he’d run a marathon and was at the end of his reserves.
‘Who the hell is Oscar? And who killed him?’
‘I don’t know… some men — a man… They don’t have the guts to come out into the open. You’ve got to come — please!’
Then the phone went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rocco dropped the phone and called across to Berthier. ‘Where’s Desmoulins?’
‘Out on a job. He’s due back at any time. Can I help?’ He looked excited at the prospect of going out on a call, but Rocco had to disappoint him. This could be a fuss about nothing, Bellin’s imagination overcoming rational thought. The dog might simply have run off, as he would have in its place. But if it hadn’t, he couldn’t place a man on desk work in the line of fire.
‘Get him to follow me to Bellin’s yard.’
He drove as fast as traffic would allow, wondering if this was a panic over nothing, or whether this might finally produce results. A name was all he needed, then he could make some progress. Soon he was bumping down the lane to Bellin’s yard, pulling to a stop clear of the entrance.
He took out his gun and slipped through the gates as he’d done before. The light was fading, throwing the junkyard into something resembling a horror movie scene of jagged edges and shadows. There were no lights on in the cabin and no sign of Bellin. He strode across the yard, slipping on the mud, and peered through the doorway. Empty.
The telephone handset was lying on the floor.
