Pol stuck a thumb in his mouth; he was silent for a moment. ‘Monsieur — Mademoiselle — you are quite right. My motives are somewhat personal. You will excuse me if I bring up a subject that may be a trifle embarrassing for you both. You, Monsieur Hawn — look back for a moment to the day, or night, when you first gained your manhood. Your first girl — at the university, or in a back street while you were doing military service.’ He turned to Anna, his lips parted to show two large white teeth. Her answering expression was puzzled rather than embarrassed.
‘You, ma chère — you look back too, and remember. Your first love. Your first dazzling experience. Perhaps it was exciting, unexpected, unsatisfactory, even absurd. But you will not have forgotten it.’ He took a long drink of whisky. ‘My friends, it is my misfortune that I look back to the day when I lost my manhood. 29 July 1944, to be precise. In a prison cell in Lyon where I was being asked those rather awkward questions which I did not answer. But my interrogators did not even bequeath me the dignity of being able to die for my country. I was merely robbed of my couillons — which was probably no great loss to the flower of French womanhood. And for my silence Old Long-Nose de Gaulle pinned a little medal on my chest. But he could neither restore to me my virility, nor wipe out my hatred for the people who had destroyed it. That is why a certain Doktor Mönch and all his living colleagues are of such intimate interest to me.’
Anna spoke: ‘But it wasn’t that old man on the hill who interrogated you, was it?’
‘Not personally, ma chère.’ Pol smiled indulgently. ‘They used specialists for that kind of work. People like Mönch were more important — and like all pen-pushers, they didn’t like to dirty their own hands.’ He patted his vast thighs. ‘But this is all academic. Let us get down to the business of day — only not here. Here we are merely in danger of drinking too much whisky and attracting attention. Let us meet tonight for dinner. I suggest we drive to a pleasant little spot fifty kilometres from here. It has a bar, which is unprepossessing, and a restaurant which is almost invariably empty and which serves suckling pig and a very pleasing wine. It is called La Busia, on the road to Logrono. We meet there, upstairs, at nine o’clock.’
Without waiting for their agreement, he hauled himself to his feet, drained his whisky and waddled across the floor. Hawn opened the door for him. When he was gone, Hawn said: ‘So he just walked in, like the man from the Pru?’
She nodded. ‘But no briefcase. Just the bottle of whisky.’
‘Didn’t he have any explanation?’
‘He said he would wait for you. Tom, are we being set up?’
‘We’re certainly being paid, and that implies a price. But one thing we can’t hold against Pol — he’s being honest with us, or as reasonably honest as a man like that can ever be. He’s using us to sniff out his quarry. What he then proposes to do about it is something we don’t yet know. But what I do know is that Mönch is obviously scared of him. And at this stage, the last thing we want is Pol, or one of his friends, getting rid of that wretched old German before he’s able to earn his six thousand dollars.
‘Pol told us in Venice that he was following the same path as us — that he wants to expose the Western oil companies who traded with the Nazis. Now I’m not so sure. Mönch talked about an organization called Jacques. We can assume that Pol is part of that organization — that perhaps he even runs it. In which case our paths are not the same — although he’s still picking up the bills. Angel, that fat man could lead us into a lot of trouble. Interesting trouble. The point is, will he be able to get us out of it?’
CHAPTER 13
It was dark and crowded inside, with a smell of tar and old sherry. There were hams hanging from hooks in the ceiling, their cured skins the colour of dull red mahogany. Men were playing dominoes and reading the sports pages of the evening editions. Nobody paid any attention to Hawn and Anna as they made their way up a twisting iron staircase to the restaurant. It was more like the dining-room in a private house: the furniture was heavy, pitch-black, the lighting dim. A pair of swords hung crossed on the wall. The room was empty except for Charles Pol.
As in Venice, their host ate with his fingers. He had three helpings of suckling pig, and ordered copious wine, while the conversation remained evasive, prosaic. He did not invite questions, and skilfully avoided answering them when they were put to him. Anna drank a lot, probably because she was nervous. Pol clapped his hands, and a little boy, pale and dark-eyed, hurried in with cheese and coffee, and a local liqueur that tasted of olives.
Pol wiped his fingers on the tablecloth. ‘Now, my dear Monsieur Hawn, we have eaten well. We have drunk good wine. We are no doubt in the mood for confidences. Let us talk of the German, Mönch. Why has he decided to flee? Using my money to facilitate his escape?’
To Hawn the question seemed rhetorical. ‘Because we both think that you’re a member of an organization called “Justice pour les Anciens
