His conference room had grand proportions and a brilliant crystal chandelier. Following a brief visit to his personal bathroom to adjust his grooming, he swept in, nodded to his staff and took his place at the head of the table where his briefing papers awaited.
One of his rituals of self-importance was to keep his people waiting in silence while he scanned their weekly status report. Each department head would deliver a verbal summary in turn, but Gatinois liked to know what was coming. His principal aide, Colonel Jean-Claude Marolles, a short, haughty man with a careful little moustache, sat to his right, rolling the barrel of his pen back and forth between thumb and forefinger in his typical skittish fashion, waiting for Gatinois to find something to criticise.
He didn’t have long to wait.
‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’ Gatinois asked, peeling off his reading glasses as if he intended to fling them.
‘About what, General?’ Marolles replied with a touch of weariness that set Gatinois off into a rage.
‘About the fire! What do you mean, “about what?”’
‘It was only a small fire at the abbey. Nothing at all happened in the village. It doesn’t appear to have any significance.’
Gatinois was not satisfied. He let his unblinking eyes settle on each of the men around the table in turn until he found Chabon, the one in charge of running Dr Pelay. ‘But, Chabon, you write here Pelay told you that Bonnet himself attended the fire and mentioned that an old book was found inside a wall. Is that your report?’
Chabon replied that it was.
‘And what was this book?’ he asked icily.
‘We don’t know,’ Chabon replied meekly. ‘I didn’t think it had relevance to our work.’
Gatinois welcomed the opportunity for histrionics. He took his inspiration from the chandelier, which reminded him of a burst of fireworks. Often, their work had the quality of watching paint dry. It was easy for them to get complacent. It was easy for him to get complacent. It had been a solid six months since the last noteworthy breakthrough and his frustration at the torpid pace of his assignment and his long overdue advancement to a larger ministry job was ready to boil over.
He started softly, seething, and let his voice rise in a smooth crescendo until he was bellowing loud enough to be heard down the corridor. ‘Our job is Ruac. Everything about Ruac. Nothing about Ruac is unimportant until I say it’s unimportant. If a kid gets chicken pox I want to know about it! If there’s a power cut in the cafe I want to know about it! If a goddamn dog shits on the street I want to know about it! An old book is found in the wall of Ruac Abbey and the first reaction of my staff is that it’s not important? Don’t be idiotic! We can’t afford to be complacent!’
His people looked down, absorbing the pounding like good soldiers.
Gatinois stood up, trying to decide whether he ought to stamp out and leave them sitting there contemplating their fates. He leaned over and slammed his fist onto the polished wood. ‘For God’s sake, people, this is Ruac! Pull your fingers out and get to work!’
FOUR
H. Pineau Restorations had its offices on Rue Beaujon, off Avenue Hoche just blocks from the Arc de Triomphe. It was a high-rent district that Hugo had chosen for its prestige value. To keep costs manageable he leased only a small suite of rooms for his staff headquarters. He lived in the 7th arrondissement with an elegant view of the Seine, and on a nice day, he would walk to the company puffing away on a cigarillo. He encouraged clients to come by so he could show off his tasteful assortment of antiques and pictures, not to mention his stunning red-headed secretary.
As a purebred cosmopolitan, he couldn’t bear to be separated from the heartbeat of Paris for more than the briefest time and he always felt a little blue when he had to visit the guts of his operation, housed in a low-slung metal building on a drab industrial estate near Orly Airport. There, the company took delivery of all manner of paintings, fine arts, books and manuscripts from across western Europe and beyond, and it was there he kept a staff of thirty, busily employed, patiently and lucratively erasing the effects of flood waters, fire and other human and natural disasters.
Hugo sprang out of his office when he heard Luc’s baritone voice resonating in the reception area.
‘Right on time!’ Hugo shouted, gripping his friend in a bear hug. Luc was a head taller, muscular and tanned from vigorous outdoor labour. Hugo seemed pale and boyish in comparison, trim and effete. ‘There, you’ve finally met Margot. I told you she was beautiful!’ And then to his secretary he said, ‘And you’ve finally met Luc. I told you he was beautiful!’
‘Well, he’s managed to make both of us uncomfortable,’ Luc said, smiling. ‘Margot, you’re a strong woman to put up with this guy.’
Margot nodded saucily in agreement. ‘My boyfriend plays rugby so I’ve got some insurance against his bad behaviours.’
‘And this is Isaak Mansion, my head of business development and my right-hand man,’ Hugo said, introducing the man in a suit and tie who had appeared at his side, a fellow with short curly hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
Isaak warmly greeted Luc and said slyly, ‘You don’t know why you’re here yet, do you?’
‘Quiet!’ Hugo said playfully. ‘Don’t ruin my fun. Go away and make us some money!’
In his office, Hugo sat Luc down and made a show of opening a fresh bottle of bourbon and pouring generous measures into a pair of Baccarat crystal glasses. They clinked and sipped a toast.
‘The place looks good, you look good,’ Luc observed.
‘How long since you were here, five years?’ Hugo asked.
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s pathetic. I saw you more when you were living abroad.’
‘Well, you know how it is,’ Luc mused. ‘Never enough time.’
‘You had a girlfriend last time we met, an American.’
‘Things blew up.’
Hugo shrugged. ‘Typical,’ and then without missing a beat, ‘God, it’s good to see you!’
They talked for a while about friends from their university days and Hugo’s complicated social life when Margot knocked discreetly at the door and informed Hugo that the police were on the line again.
‘Shall I leave?’ Luc asked.
‘No, stay, stay. This won’t take long.’
Luc listened to one side of a conversation and when Hugo hung up he sighed. ‘It’s always something. We had a break-in at my plant last night. My watchman was beaten silly. He’s in hospital with a cracked skull. They ransacked the place.’
‘Anything stolen?’
‘Nothing. The idiots probably didn’t even know we restore books. What’s the last thing an ignorant crook is interested in? Books! And that’s what they found, lots of them. Poetic justice, but they made a mess.’
Luc commiserated about the stress his friend seemed to be under but finally raised both palms towards the ceiling and said, ‘So? What’s the deal? What’s so special I’ve got to drop everything and drag my ass to Paris?’
‘I need to pick your brain.’
‘About what?’
‘This.’
Hugo went to his credenza and picked up a small muslin-wrapped parcel. They sat together on the sofa. Hugo cleared a space on the coffee table where he made a show of slowly unwrapping the book. The leather looked redder and more lustrous than the day Hugo had first seen it at the abbey. The haloed saint on the cover was more vividly three-dimensional. The silver bobs, corners and endbands along with the dual clasps had a touch of their period shine. And of course, the book was much lighter now, bone dry. ‘I got this in a few weeks ago. It suffered a lot of water damage but my people sorted it out.’
‘Okay…’
