‘A fantasy, perhaps,’ said Pol, ‘but it might work.’
They were on the eleventh floor of the High Command headquarters, an ugly concrete building on the wooded hills above the city. The room was stifling and stank of latrines. Two days earlier the plumbing, lift-shafts and generating plant had been destroyed by plastic bombs smuggled in by some of the three hundred employees. The incident had amused Pol when he first heard of it. The explosives had been secreted on the girl secretaries in places which even the CRS were too delicate to search, and the detonators had been brought in disguised as biros. The engineers estimated it would take at least a week to repair the damage. A mobile generator was supplying emergency current for telephones and lighting. There was no sanitation, no air-conditioning; and eleven flights of stairs to be climbed twice a day, were beginning to destroy even Pol’s sense of humour. He was obliged to wash and shave in cold Vichy water, and the Venetian blinds had to remain drawn all day. This was because somebody in the building had taken the trouble to paint white crosses level with a man’s chest on the windows facing the hills, where a sniper would have little difficulty using a telescopic rifle. Pol did not know whether it were meant simply as a gesture to intimidate him; but twice the crosses had been scraped off, and twice they had reappeared. He now drew the blinds and tried to ignore them.
The Sûreté man was saying, ‘The Department is quite definite about it. The final veto even came from Paris. We can’t go along with you, Charles.’
Pol lunged out and pounded his fat fist on the desktop, his eyes sore with sweat: ‘But we’re halfway there! Two more moves and we have them in the bag!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the Sûreté man, turning his eyes to the floor. His hands shook with the effect of too many black coffees: ‘Your plan has been given every consideration, but the Department cannot sanction it. It’s too dangerous.’
Pol splashed an inch of whisky into the dirty glass, drained down half of it and sank back breathing hard: ‘I’m not suggesting a simple police exercise. Of course it’s dangerous! The people we’re dealing with are dangerous. Everything we do in this city is dangerous.’
‘But this is dangerous in a special way,’ the Sûreté man said patiently, ‘it could embarrass the Government and the local administration, that we cannot afford. Commandant Duxelles said so himself this morning.’
‘Damn Duxelles! He’s just a thick-headed policeman,’
‘He’s head of the Sûreté here. One should not speak too lightly of him. His decisions have to be accepted.’
‘Duxelles doesn’t make decisions,’ said Pol, ‘they’re made for him in Paris by a bunch of diplomats who know nothing about what’s really happening here.’
‘That may well be,’ said the Sûreté man, ‘but Duxelles is still responsible for the Department. I couldn’t possibly offer you my support without his authority.’
Pol grunted and relapsed into a moody silence. The Sûreté man went on looking at the floor. ‘And what about this Englishman?’ he said at last. ‘Supposing he gets killed?’
‘He won’t get killed.’
‘You’re taking a chance on that.’
‘It’s a chance worth taking. They wouldn’t shoot an Englishman.’
‘I hope not,’ said the Sûreté man, ‘we’ve got enough troubles without the British Government standing on our feet. What sort of fellow is he?’
Pol shrugged: ‘Insular, over-educated, rather stupid.’
‘I heard he was intelligent. He’s quite a well-known journalist, isn’t he?’
‘Well, intelligent perhaps, but not clever. Pas une fine mouche. These English don’t have a very catholic view of the world, you know. But at least he’s a genuine Englishman, not one of those people with Commonwealth passports. He’s a true gentleman.’ He used the word with a certain old-fashioned reverence. ‘That is the beauty of it,’ he added, ‘everyone still trusts an English gentleman.’
‘It’s as well they trust someone,’ the Sûreté man said grimly, ‘but your plan, Charles, is still out of the question. General Metz and the other commanders have political obligations here. If we go into something at this stage involving the Arab Front, we could swing the whole Army against us. It would be tantamount to political recognition.’
Pol roared and slammed the desk: ‘But we won’t have anything to do directly with the Arab Front!’
‘Perhaps, but if the full story ever leaked out it could precipitate a political scandal.’
Pol made a crowing noise and glared up at the motionless fan on the ceiling. ‘Political scandal!’ he muttered. ‘That’s all you policemen worry about! You’ve got a full-scale military revolt on your hands! Isn’t that a political scandal? What difference does it make if you get one more dirty editorial in Le Monde, when you have the big fish in the net? Is it going to spoil your chances of promotion?’ He swallowed the rest of his drink and poured himself another, licking the sweat off his upper lip: ‘I’m going ahead with it, anyway, whether I get your support or not.’
The Sûreté man nodded: ‘And who will you use?’
Pol gave a despairing shrug: ‘I shall use the barbouzes — those that are still alive. I have to do something to justify my salary.’
The Sûreté man shook his head and stood up: ‘It won’t work, Charles. And when it fails, understand that everyone involved — including this wretched Englishman — will get no help from any of the Departments. I have Duxelles’ word for that.’
‘Entendu,’ said Pol, finishing his whisky.
CHAPTER 2
Neil’s eyeballs felt like smooth heavy stones, and when he tried to open them the pain raced from his head to his spine, making him retch.
He could make out a white ceiling with
