‘Don’t worry about a thing.’ He hissed then asked loudly, ‘Where’s the general?’
Mila Daus stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, each hand resting on the opposing bicep. She was looking at the Bird, who’d flung himself down in a leather chair and was descanting on boar hunting in Hungary, a whisky in his hand. She looked up with sudden focus when Samson came in.
‘This is Mr May-lek,’ said Gaspar, ‘the general’s driver. Speaking of help, I let Hector go.’
‘Hector?’ she murmured.
‘He’s gone. It doesn’t matter. A servant.’
‘There will be no problem for lunch?’ she said, still without acknowledging Samson verbally, although her gaze had not left him.
‘I got it covered,’ said Gaspar. Out in the woods, Samson had wondered what Mila Daus was doing with this crude, parochial and not very bright individual. It was now clear. Gaspar ran things for his wife as a major domo and, when required, he did her dirty work. There was no hint of an equal relationship between them.
The Bird coughed. ‘Aymen is my driver and friend. He’s in banking. Lives in France.’
‘Actually, I am more involved in politics now,’ Samson said, not wishing to be tested too closely on banking.
She took this in with a nod. ‘How interesting,’ she said. ‘Which party?’
‘Le Front,’ replied Samson. ‘Le Front National but at the local level.’ He didn’t want to be caught if she tried out some names on him.
She moved closer. ‘But you are an immigrant, no? From which country? Algeria? Morocco?’
‘No, Madame, Lebanon. But I am French, as were my parents.’
‘But why are you involved in Le Front National if you are from a family of immigrants?’
He had offered his hand. But she neither took it nor returned his smile. ‘The truth is I am French and I feel French,’ he continued. ‘My parents taught me the value of work. Like them, I’ve worked hard and now I am very concerned about the state of my country and the millions who feel they have a right to rely on the generosity of the State.’
She didn’t react to this.
He smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘This is Mrs Gaspar, May-Lek,’ said Gaspar. ‘My wife.’
‘A pleasure!’ He gave a tiny bow and glanced at the Bird who wore his hangdog look. ‘I think we should be going, General.’
‘You seem familiar to me,’ she said to Samson. ‘I know you from somewhere.’ She moved closer, into the light of the recessed spotlight to get a better look at him. ‘Where have I seen you?’
Samson grinned. ‘Perhaps we have met before. Who knows?’
‘Aymen is quite the society man. He gets about, Mrs Gaspar,’ said the Bird.
It was now his turn to study her and he did so candidly, as though trying to place her. He thought she’d maybe had some work done around the eyes and mouth and that the frown lines had been smoothed. Up close, her extraordinarily pale skin looked thin, papery. The whites of her eyes had suffered some discoloration; brownish veins were showing at the corner of each eye. However, the pupils were youthfully unclouded and as unforgiving, no doubt, as when they settled on a victim in the Stasi prison. Her pupils oscillated slightly, both with scrutiny and calculation. ‘No,’ he said in conclusion. ‘I feel sure we’ve never met.’
Again she didn’t react. Maybe these silences were an error-forcing technique. He returned her a pleasant look and opened his hands accommodatingly. It was then that he understood that the only life in her face was to be found in the eyes. Her eyebrows and mouth, carefully delineated with make-up, hardly moved, even when she spoke, and they gave no hint of what went on in her mind. Her face was an icy mask. And there was something else. When she spoke to assert that she was never ever mistaken in matters of recognition, he noticed the smell of her breath, the smallest hint of corruption.
She took a step closer and began to speak rapidly in French, asking him where he lived. She knew the 14th arrondissement quite well. How far did he live from the Gare de Montparnasse? Did he frequent the famous Lebanese restaurant in the 14th? He replied no, he had never been to Chez Marc Libinais and, anyway, he preferred French cuisine to Lebanese. The restaurant that she referred to was in the 15th, and quite far from his apartment in the Rue Hallé, as was the train station, which was mostly in the 15th. He answered a couple of questions about his life in banking without hesitation but when she tried to return to politics, he said with good-natured exasperation. ‘It’s almost as if you were testing me, Madame.’
Samson had looked into the eyes of some bad people in his time, but this woman was something else. She made his flesh crawl, not out of fear, he reflected, but revulsion. It was as though her gaze alone was enough to poison a person. He had noticed Gaspar’s nervousness. The man knew exactly what his wife was about and Samson was sure that she absolutely terrified him.
‘It’s obvious that you have a busy schedule,’ said Samson.
‘Indeed, we shouldn’t detain you any further’ said the Bird, slapping his leg. He put his glass on the table and scrambled up.
‘The Nitro?’ said Gaspar. ‘What about the rifle?’
‘I’ll come back next week,’ said the Bird. ‘Get the trigger fixed and I’ll be pleased to take it off your hands.’
They bid Mila Daus goodbye, the Bird giving one of his weird salutes, and headed for the door, where Gaspar started up about the deposit. The Bird said that wouldn’t be appropriate just yet and they exited before he could protest further.
The Bird got in the car with a look of dark abandon. ‘In all my years, I’ve never met a more gruesome couple,’ he said. ‘To think they ordered the death of my dear friend, well, it makes me very angry
