“Kind of.” He half smiled and shrugged.
She stood up, folding her arms in that defensive move that all interrogators recognize.
“What happened to Andy?”
“He’s a politician. A leading man in Powell’s election team.”
“Powell’s the man they say is going to win, isn’t he?”
“They say so.”
“And somebody wants to stab Andy in the back with his membership card. I thought that had all finished with McCarthy.”
“It did.”
“So why the questions now?”
“So why no answer?”
She smiled and shrugged. “I expect you know the answer anyway. Yes, he was a member. So was I. So was Halenka, and she was the only reason he joined. He loved her desperately.”
“Did she love him?”
“Oh yes, she adored him. They were like lovers from a book.”
“I can’t remember, did they live together?”
“Yes. They had a place by the Musée de Cluny.”
“Now tell me about you.”
She shrugged amiably. “I do quite well. Two one-man shows. One here in Paris and one in Düsseldorf. I’ve got a cottage near Honfleur. I get by nicely.”
“No grand passion?”
“Why so sure?”
“Because you look contented and level.”
“Touché.” She laughed. “And you?”
“Much the same as I used to be.”
“You haven’t lost your French, anyway.”
“How about we have lunch together?”
“OK. I’ll get dressed. Help yourself to a drink while you’re waiting.”
He sorted through the pile of old 78s and it was still there. He put it on the player and sat in the wicker chair listening. It was Charles Trenet singing “Il pleut dans ma chambre.” He wondered if she might come back into the room when she heard it. She didn’t.
They held hands as they walked down the hill to find a taxi, and lunched at le Petit Bedou in the rue Pergolese. There had been a tension at first, but slowly she relaxed so that he was encouraged to ask her to dinner that evening. When she left she blew him a kiss from the taxi as it turned to cross the bridge.
He phoned the embassy and waited in the Ritz bar for his SIS contact. He came in twenty minutes later.
“Hayles. What can I do for you?”
“MacKay. I need a check on the records of Fresnes, May, June, July 1968.”
“What’s the prisoner’s name?”
“There’s two. One’s an American named Andrew Dempsey, the other’s a girl; Halenka Tcharkova.”
“What were they in for?”
“The student demonstrations.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Most students were released after a couple of days. These two were held for nearly two months. I’d like to know why. And I’d like to know if anyone used influence to keep them in or get them out.”
“Was the girl Russian?”
“Yes.”
“How long have I got?”
“As soon as you can. Two days at most.”
“Where can I contact you?”
“Hotel du Nord. Boulevard des Capucines.”
“See you.”
“Thanks.”
MacKay was impressed. He liked men who didn’t need the social flim-flam but just got on with the job.
The hotel lobby called him in his room to announce that a Mr. Hayles was in attendance. He asked them to send him up.
Hayles was opening his notebook as he sat down. He glanced quickly at MacKay and then started reading from his notes.
“Andrew Joseph Dempsey. American citizen, born 1947. Arrested 9 May 1968 on charge of causing affray. Charge later altered to conspiracy with others to incite public violence. Released 14 July 1968 with surety from Viktor Kleppe United States passport number 917432, point of issue New York.
“Halenka Alexandrova Tcharkova, Soviet citizen, born 1949, passport issued Smolensk. Two-year French visa starting date August 1967. Arrested 9 May 1968 for conspiring with others to incite public violence. Released 14 July 1968 on medical grounds. Three months’ pregnant. Handed over to Soviet embassy officials 14 July and taken direct to Orly where she was put on Aeroflot flight 409 to Moscow at 18.30 hours local time.”
MacKay smiled. It was a real policeman’s report but he guessed that there would be more to come. Those were the facts but there would be some chit-chat.
“First-class, Mr. Hayles. Did you get any background stuff at all?”
“Two items that might be of use. A warder from the prison was sent to check at Orly that the girl was actually put on the plane. There was a scene. The girl and Dempsey were very distressed and the girl had to be forcibly removed by Soviet embassy officials. Dempsey was restrained by the man Kleppe. The warder’s not certain but he had the impression that the Russians knew Kleppe well, and also that when Kleppe got angry at the scene he shouted at them in Russian.
“The other thing is that Kleppe was having an affair with a Dutch girl, also at art school here in Paris. It was generally known that he was very wealthy and a dealer in diamonds in New York. That’s all, I’m afraid.”
“Would you like a drink now, Mr. Hayles?”
“No thanks. I’ve got things to do. By the way, I’d guess that they changed the charge against Dempsey to keep him inside longer.”
They dined at Châtaigner and he took advantage of being her host to ask a few more questions, and she replied without discernible resentment.
“Yes, I remember several people saying that Halenka was pregnant, but I think it was just putting two and two together because she lived with Andy.”
“Did you ever meet a man named Kleppe?”
“Not that I can recall. What was he taking?”
“He wasn’t a student. But he had a student girlfriend. A Dutch girl.”
“Was his name Viktor?”
“Yes. D’you remember him?”
“No. I never met him. Just heard about him. Rich American. Some people said he was a crook or a gangster.”
“What was his girlfriend’s name?”
“Marijke something or other—van Aker or some name like that. A good painter. I’ve seen notices of her stuff in Figaro. I think she lives in Amsterdam. She paints the kind of stuff you used to like. Realistic.” She grinned. “Drops of water on rose petals and highlights on pewter jugs.”
“Maybe she’ll grow out of it.”
She reached across and touched his hand.
“I said something this morning that sounded all wrong. I want to apologize.”
“What was it?”
“I said for you
