It was also fair to assume the mole was smart, and may already suspect her real purpose here at the facility. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t want to draw attention to themselves. So anyone whose answers to her questions were completely negative and dissatisfied would find themselves ranked at the bottom of her list. And likewise with anyone who appeared to be too happy, too eager to say everything was fine and dandy — though she couldn’t completely discount the few people that applied to, just in case the mole wasn’t so smart after all.
But mostly, Bridge was interested in those staff who fell squarely in the middle of her ranking. People whose answers were unremarkable and average, who seemed happy enough with their role at ‘Guichetech’ but admitted that yes, they could be happier, because that was human nature.
As expected, that covered the majority of people she’d spoken to so far at Agenbeux. But what the numbers couldn’t take into account was Bridge’s own reading of the staff. How each person behaved when answering, what it said about their personality type, and whether they just felt ‘off’. So much of that relied on instinct and gut feeling, and fortunately, Bridge’s gut had settled down a lot during the week. Giles had been right as usual, and despite her earlier paranoia she soon realised this job wasn’t dangerous. As the days passed she settled into the role, and actually started to relish the challenge of sniffing out a liar every day. She was even looking forward to interviewing the managers.
She’d also found she enjoyed being back in France more than expected. The food, the weather, the people…simply hearing the language of her childhood everywhere helped her relax. She knew herself well enough to guess that after a couple more weeks she’d go stir-crazy, but for the time being she understood why Izzy enjoyed coming back here every year. And now that the weekend was here, with her sister’s farmhouse only a couple of hours’ drive away, Bridge intended to take advantage and pay her an impromptu visit so she could see Stéphanie and Hugo. Fréderic would be there too, but he’d just have to sit and suffer.
A loud rapping on the office door startled Bridge from her thoughts. “Moment,” she said, logging out of the encrypted partition and closing the Dell. She raised the door blind to see Montgomery, smiling on the other side of the glass. She let him in, then walked around the room raising the window blinds.
“Not many left here last thing on a Friday,” said Montgomery. “Mostly us rosbifs, naturally. But even we have our limits, eh? So how’s it all going? You’ll be sending in a good report, I hope?”
“I’m sure you know I can’t discuss that, James. Besides, I have a lot of number-crunching to do. The Department does love its numbers. But I can say it’s certainly promising. I think we can all learn a few things from the way you and François are running things, here.”
Montgomery snorted. “Yes, I heard you had a lovely time last night.”
She paused midway through packing her briefcase. “I’m sorry?”
“Surely,” he said, smug and secure in his victory, “you didn’t think you could have dinner with a man like Voclaine and expect him to be discreet about it.”
Bridge was having real trouble figuring James Montgomery out. She’d hoped he would join her for drinks, so she could try to loosen his lips. As site manager, he doubtless knew much more about what went on here than he’d ever say officially, and might have seen things that seemed perfectly innocent to him, but to Bridge would be a sign of something unusual or noteworthy.
But contrary to her first assumption, Montgomery didn’t seem remotely interested in her, and failed to respond to the smiles and gentle flirting with which she’d laced their brief conversations. It was possible he simply didn’t fancy her, of course. Izzy had always been the more glamorous sister, with men falling at her feet even as she was oblivious to them, while Bridge needed to make an effort. But when she did, it normally paid off. Being a young goth had given her an independent and self-assured side that made her perfectly happy to be the first mover, and in her experience it was an unusual Englishman who didn’t at least flirt back when a tall Frenchwoman flung herself at him.
In his own way, though, James Montgomery was indeed unusual. His egotism seemed reserved purely for his work and status within the MoD, in contrast to Voclaine’s easy willingness to use his position as a licence to grope. Bridge had even begun to wonder if Montgomery was secretly gay, despite his wife and children back in England. Yet now he was talking like a jealous lover.
“We just had dinner,” she shrugged. “We didn’t discuss my work here, and besides, François had a little too much wine, so I put
