morning, Bruno said to himself. A voice was calling for Isabelle from down the hall. It sounded like the brigadier. She headed along the corridor, trying not to limp and aware of his eyes following her, at one point putting out her cane as if about to stumble. Bruno forced himself to turn away, thinking she’d hate him to see her like this.
Suddenly there came an explosion and the sound of breaking glass and car horns. Isabelle tottered and half fell against the wall as confused shouting came from the stairway. Bruno ran to her, but she pushed him away, telling him to find out what was happening. He leaped down the stairs to the front entrance to find the door blocked by a knot of gendarmes and black-garbed security men. They were looking across the chateau’s park and its railings to the hotel parking lot across the road, where a plume of black smoke rose from a fireball in which Bruno could see the skeleton of Carlos’s Range Rover.
“Get the fire extinguishers,” Bruno shouted, grabbing the only one he could see. “Somebody call an ambulance and the pompiers.”
He forced his way through the throng of confused men and down the steps and ran up the long drive to the main gates of the chateau. He heard steps pounding behind him and saw Carlos, the only other man who seemed to have found an extinguisher, and they ran on together. The sentry box at the open gates was unmanned, its two guards tumbling from the hotel, each carrying a small hand-sized fire extinguisher in one hand and holding a soaked washcloth against his face with the other. As Bruno approached the searing heat from the burning vehicle, he understood their precaution even as he wondered how they were hoping to use the extinguishers with only one hand.
“Was anyone inside?” Bruno shouted.
One of the guards gestured wildly. Behind the neighboring cars, its windshield cracked by the explosion, the innkeeper had covered a heap on the ground with an overcoat and was reaching to turn on the tap of a garden hose. The water sputtered and then spurted out, and he pointed it at the overcoat and then lifted the coat to play it on the smoldering form beneath. The form moved, turned over and tried to get to its feet as Carlos turned his extinguisher on the car that sheltered the innkeeper and the charred security guard. The chorus of a dozen car horns played on.
Suddenly a throng of people seemed to be around them, foam erupting over the wreck of Carlos’s vehicle, the security guard who had been covered by an overcoat retching but evidently alive as he was helped to his feet.
Bruno looked at Carlos, arms on his hips and his back hunched, staring grimly at the glowing shell of his car, the emptied fire extinguisher between his feet.
“That was meant for you,” Bruno said.
“I know. Lucky we had one of those remote starters.”
Isabelle had now arrived on the scene.
“They know who you are and where you are,” she said to Carlos. “You must be almost as good a target as the two ministers.”
“Maybe just an easier one,” Carlos said, as an ambulance siren whined in the distance.
“Nobody leaves,” Isabelle said.
She was leaning on her cane, panting. Bruno tried to imagine the willpower that had brought her here so quickly from the chateau. The brigadier came running up.
“All the security teams, the hotel staff, any guests, anybody who could have set that bomb-I want them all double-checked,” he said. “Where’s that damn security chief when I need him? Bruno, please call J-J and tell him I need a forensics team and an explosives expert. I want a media blackout on this. If there are any inquiries, we’re to say a car simply caught fire with an electrical fault. I want no reference to Carlos or to the summit. And I want this wreck and any other damaged vehicles removed from the parking lot. I want it all looking normal within the hour.”
28
A form of panicked calm had descended over the chateau. The security guard had indeed been spared the full blast of the explosion thanks to the remote device with which he had started Carlos’s car. One of Isabelle’s aides was arranging for the delivery of a replacement Range Rover for Carlos.
England was an hour behind French time, Bruno knew, and he assumed Scotland would be the same. It would be a little early to call Pamela. And she’d said she would call him once there was news from the brain scan. Bruno had an appointment with the paratrooper major and the mobiles from the gendarmes in not quite two hours to walk the grounds and review the patrol system. So he had time to think about Isabelle’s supper. It would have to be something he could make quickly, and he’d cleared out most of his fresh food when he moved to Pamela’s. And in case some new emergency meant the meal had to be canceled, it had better be something he could easily save and warm up again.
The house would be cold; he’d have to make a fire. They had eaten foie and pork the other evening, so he was thinking steak or veal. He had some soupe de poisson in the freezer. He’d need bread for the croutons and some spring vegetables, and a visit to Bournichou’s boucherie for the meat, and at some point he’d have to pick up Gigi, who was evidently the star of the show.
He had time to get to the market, which on this day of the week was held in Le Buisson, where he knew he’d find Stephane selling his cheeses. Stephane pointed Bruno to Madame Vernier whose stall across the street carried spring onions, new carrots and navets, the small turnips Bruno loved, and even some early green beans. Instantly he decided on a navarin d’agneau, a lamb stew with fresh spring vegetables. It would take time, but it was a dish he enjoyed and he’d never made it for Isabelle. He bought his cheese and vegetables and a big boule of bread, raced back to St. Denis to buy the lamb and quickly went home.
Once in his kitchen, he splashed duck fat into a heavy iron pot and cut the boned lamb shoulder into inch- and-a-half chunks. While the callers on a Radio Perigord show were hailing the charms of foie gras, he browned the lamb on all sides and spooned off the excess fat. Then with the lamb on medium heat, he added his secret ingredient, a large spoonful of honey, and stirred to coat the meat. He sprinkled on some flour to soak up the juices and stirred again. He added a glass of dry Bergerac white wine, a can of peeled tomatoes, some crushed garlic and a bouquet garni, and then grated in a little nutmeg. He added salt and pepper and just enough water to cover the meat and brought it to a steady simmer.
Normally he would leave it for an hour, but before then he would have to see the troops who would be manning the cordons. He set the table for two, with some candlesticks and a vase into which he would put daffodils from his garden when he returned. He took the soupe de poisson from the freezer to thaw and then cut some slices from the bread so that they would harden by the evening, making them just right for the croutons. He washed the vegetables and left them ready by the counter.
With another twenty minutes before he had to leave, he went outside to feed his ducks and chickens and check on the fencing and his own potager. Up here on the ridge, and with no greenhouse to bring on his early plantings, his own navets and carrots were still two or three weeks from being ready, his potatoes and beans even further behind. His mache was in fine shape to make a salad, and he had some early radishes. He raised his eyes to the view across the slope to the low ridge ahead, and on to the ridges that rolled all the way to the horizon. He never tired of it and it never failed to lift his spirit. As he looked at the land spread out before him he knew there was one thing he had to do today that would make him feel better about himself, more worthy of this place and this view.
He used his phone to track down the number in Paris for Medecins Sans Frontieres, gave his name and rank and asked for the head of the press office. He was put through to a woman who gave her name as Mathilde Condorcel and asked what she could do for him.
“It’s about Annette Meraillon. She used to work for you, in Paris and in Madagascar. You probably saw the story in Libe today.”
“I saw it and I didn’t like it. We worked together here and she did a great job for us in Madagascar. If she’s going to get axed as a magistrate over this, we’d all be very glad to have her back.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Why not put out a press release that says just that and make sure that Libe picks it up. It’s the least they could do after the character assassination they did on her today.”
“That’s a very good idea, but why are you calling? Do you know her?”
