for the chateau. Carlos and Isabelle had shared the responsibility, but the patrols were mounted by gendarmes from Perigueux. They’d all have some explaining to do. The brigadier would have people tearing apart every wall to see what else may have been planted. So far as Bruno knew, only he and the brigadier were aware of the plan to shift the site until the security teams started redeploying last night, so the Domaine should be secure.
Bruno nodded to the sergeant and spurred forward to the gardens behind the Domaine, Gigi at his heels. The schedule called for the two ministers to meet at the Bordeaux airport and then to take two helicopters on the forty-minute ride to St. Denis. He checked his watch. They should be arriving in not much more than an hour. He wondered if Isabelle would be told to stay back at the chateau to clear up the mess torn by the security breach, or if the brigadier would want her here. His heart gave a gentle jolt at the thought of seeing her again so soon, and he felt a smile come to his face as he turned into the stable yard. It was empty except for two black-clad and heavily armed mobiles from the gendarmes. He reined in at their challenge and pointed to the brigadier’s metal badge on his lapel. They asked him to dismount and show his special security pass with his photo. Behind them a sizable pile of horse manure steamed just by the stable door, a pitchfork stuck into it. Gigi ambled up to investigate and then to cock his leg against it. They’d better get that cleared away before the choppers landed.
“Anybody else inside?” he asked, as the gendarmes saluted and returned his pass after checking it against a very short list of names.
“The brigadier and the female inspector and a Spanish advance team,” he was told. “Caterers are on their way, under armed escort. They’ve already been checked.”
Bruno put Hector into the stable on a loose rein and left Gigi there in the stall. Once he checked in with the brigadier, he wanted to ride the perimeter and check the patrols. That was the work he knew, rather than the internal security, and he wanted all the patrolling troops to see him and learn to recognize him before the choppers landed and they went on hair-trigger alert.
In the main salon of the hotel all seemed chaos. The brigadier glared at him and nodded while talking fiercely into one phone. Isabelle had a hand over one ear and a satellite phone in the other. Carlos was shouting in Spanish into a third, two armed and serious-looking aides flanking him. All wore the same enamel badge that the brigadier had given to Bruno. Isabelle turned and her eyes seemed to flash as she saw him. Her cane leaned against the conference table. Carlos ignored him. Two CRS men stood in the lobby by the far entrance door, another on the landing of the broad staircase and another by the door that led down to the vast wine cellars. Two more black-clad men wearing the enamel security badge and Spanish flags on their sleeves were carrying submachine guns so futuristic that Bruno had never seen one before.
“You heard about the security breach?” the brigadier called across to him, snapping shut his phone. Bruno saluted, an automatic reaction in this militarized atmosphere. “Yes, sir.”
“Checked the perimeter patrols yet?”
“Just the riverbank so far, sir. Can I continue?”
The brigadier waved approval, and with a final glance at Isabelle Bruno headed back to the stables, showed his pass again and mounted Hector. The manure pile was still there. He left at a walk, Gigi trotting behind, and then Bruno urged Hector into a trot as he rode up the main lane beside the winery that led to the largest vineyard and to the figure of a mounted man at the far end of the vines. Farther up the lane was a parked jeep with two paratroopers inside. He slowed as he approached and held his pass at the ready. They checked him and waved him on between the vines where the other horseman was approaching.
“We should never have given up the horses,” said the major, grinning at the sight of the basset hound as Bruno rode up beside him so they could shake hands.
“Better not let the brigadier hear you say that,” Bruno replied. “He’s on the warpath.”
“I can understand after they found that bomb at the chateau. The patrols are all in place, my men briefed, and the mobiles and CRS are on static patrol at the key points you suggested. I changed a couple of your dispositions because they sent us two armored cars from the Limoges barracks. I’ve got one at the main gate and another at the side of the gardens, commanding the route up from the river. They radioed in. So I’ve made sure everybody on the radio net knows that a horseman in police uniform is a friendly.”
Bruno nodded an acknowledgment and accepted the major’s invitation to ride the perimeter together. They had deployed just after dawn, the major said, and had found the brigadier’s security teams already in place at the Domaine and the winery. Since then, the only arrivals had been the brigadier’s car and the separate Spanish team.
The major put his binoculars to his eyes as a large bus turned into the gate of the Domaine. “What’s this?”
“We’re expecting the caterers,” said Bruno. “It’s in your brief, along with numbers, names and photographs. They’ve all been vetted, and I know most of them personally.”
“Let’s go down, then.” The major took the opportunity to spur his mare into a reluctant canter. Riding down a parallel row of vines, Hector easily overtook the other horse, and Bruno had dismounted at the bus by the time the major lumbered up. A gendarme mobile was in the bus, checking the ID cards and passes one by one. Bruno gave his rein to the major and climbed into the bus, nodding at the familiar faces from Julien’s regular restaurant staff and the extras from the Campagne hotel. No strangers were aboard and he’d known the bus driver for years and taught his two sons to play tennis. All cleared, Bruno climbed out, and the bus drove slowly up the tree-lined avenue to the Domaine.
Bruno and the major followed on horseback, pausing at small knots of two and three paratroopers to check that their radio communications were functioning and their orders were clear. The men were alert and cheerful, evidently respecting their officer, and even the gendarme mobiles and CRS officers seemed to accept his authority without resentment. Gigi’s appearance triggered the usual smiles, the men kneeling down to pat him and stroke his trailing ears.
“I’ll probably come out again, once the helicopters land and the meeting’s under way,” said Bruno. He checked his watch. The choppers should have taken off from Bordeaux ten minutes ago. “There’s not much for me to do inside.”
This time the salon seemed calm. The brigadier and Carlos were nowhere to be seen. There were large urns filled with flowers at the walls, pads and pencils and mineral water and glasses on the long conference table. The black-clad security men, French and Spanish, were still in place. Isabelle was standing at the passage to the lobby, talking to Julien, who was dressed as if for a formal wedding in pin-striped trousers and coattails. She smiled at the sight of Gigi and beckoned Bruno to join them.
“I’m not sure what more we can do, but it’s all been very last minute,” she said, her eyes shining in a way that said much more to Bruno than the brisk tone of her voice.
“The outside patrols are all in place and in good hands,” he said. “I just rode the perimeter with their commander. Not much will get past him.”
Isabelle’s radio buzzed, but there was just a crackling when she tried to listen. “Damn radios are all out of calibration since we had to move here. They were fine yesterday. I’d better check with the radio room.”
32
“Bruno!” came a cry from inside the Domaine. It was Isabelle’s voice. He turned and ran up the steps and into the salon, Gigi lumbering behind. She was standing by the table, the useless radio in her hand, pointing at a black-clad security man standing by one of the giant urns, a Spanish flag on his arm. Carlos was standing halfway down the steps, a cold expression on his face, another burly security man in black beside him wearing a balaclava and one more just emerging from the wine cellar behind her.
Bruno, baffled, scanned from one face to the other.
“I wanted to check the flower urns and he wouldn’t let me, and I looked at his face.” She tossed the radio aside in frustration at his slowness and reached for the gun under her jacket. “Think eyebrows,” she shouted as she pulled out her automatic and pointed it at the Spanish security man.
And then Bruno realized that he was staring at the Identi-Kit face of Fernando, but the eyebrows that had met in the middle had been shaved away. As Bruno reached for his own gun, Carlos leaped down the remaining stairs to grapple him, and the man coming from the cellar grabbed Isabelle’s arm from behind her and twisted it
