‘But if these files contain names of significant Stasi people in France, it must be in all our interests to expose them,’ Bruno began and then paused before continuing more slowly. ‘Is distribution not a political decision that an elected president should make rather than an intelligence agency? And what if the Americans know of these Frenchmen, some of them in important positions – they could blackmail them into spying for the Americans. What then?’
‘You can’t have it both ways, Bruno. You can’t expect the Americans to share secret material with their allies one minute and then accuse them of blackmailing Frenchmen to spy on France the next. I see your point but even if the Americans gave the stuff to Paris, would we ever know if they’d given everything, or held the best stuff back? We don’t know that they’ve given us everything about Stasi operations in Britain. In fact, some of my old colleagues strongly suspect that there’s some stuff about Stasi operations with the IRA and gun-running via Libya that may be missing, probably to protect Irish-Americans who were involved.’
A car door slammed in the small parking lot outside and through the window Bruno saw Fabiola and Gilles, already in their riding gear.
‘Time to ride the horses,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the drink, and the very illuminating conversation. See you at dinner. And do me a favour and decant the Ortus.’
‘I will indeed, and I’ve brought a bottle of David Fourtout’s red, as served at the Georges Cinq hotel in Paris,’ said Jack. ‘People tell me it’s the finest wine made in the Bergerac. And I’ve got a couple of bottles of Château Lestevenie brut chilling in the fridge and I’m sure you’d agree that’s among the best of our sparkling wines.’
‘Are we not fortunate that we have so many splendid wines that can compete for that title?’ Bruno said, grinning. ‘Yes, it may be the best of our white sparkling wines, but what about that lovely rosé brut from your friends at Château Feely?’
‘We must do a comparative tasting,’ Jack replied. ‘Enjoy your ride and make sure you’re back in time for the roast lamb. Jacqueline asked Miranda for it specially and I made the mint sauce – an English delicacy.’
‘Some French gourmets would suggest that’s a contradiction in terms,’ Bruno said, laughing as he left. ‘But don’t tell Pamela or Miranda that I said so.’
5
‘We’ll only take our four horses out this evening, the other ones have been working all day,’ Pamela was saying to Fabiola and Gilles when Bruno entered the stable. He embraced each of them in turn and Pamela hugged him just a moment or so too long for mere friendship and gave him a roguish glance before turning to put the bridle onto Primrose’s head. It had been some weeks since Pamela had last invited him to her bed and Bruno had assumed that their liaison – he could hardly call it an affair – had reached its end. But now he wondered – perhaps as Pamela had intended that he should.
‘I thought we should head up the ridge for a gallop, blow all the cobwebs away and work up an appetite for dinner,’ Pamela announced briskly as they saddled up, a plan which Bruno welcomed.
Although the heatwave continued, it was a perfect summer’s evening for a ride, a soft breeze helping the heat to fade from the day. Their shadows were beginning to lengthen as they trotted through the paddock and then walked the horses up the long slope to the ridge, the two sheepdogs loping on ahead. Balzac was loping along beside Hector who was pulling at the reins in his eagerness to run. Bruno saw Fabiola had the same problem, tightening the reins on the Andalusian she rode. Gilles brought up the rear. As always, he was riding the elderly mare, Victoria, although he was more and more comfortable on horseback and would soon be ready for a younger and less sedate horse.
Pamela paused when she reached the ridge and the others gathered alongside, all looking down at the valley and across to the hill of Limeuil, where the Dordogne and Vézère rivers came together on their way down to Bordeaux and the sea. It was a view of which Bruno never tired, enjoying the way that the houses and red roofs of St Denis clambered up the hill to his right. They were matched perfectly by the way Limeuil’s houses did the same on the left, with the small chateau of la Vitrolle with its apple orchard and vineyards between them.
‘Are we all ready?’ asked Pamela, and nudged Primrose with her heels and loosened the reins to let her run.
Beneath Bruno, Hector needed no urging and leaped forward after her, drawing alongside while still accelerating and then forging ahead. The Andalusian was at Bruno’s stirrup, and the echo of Balzac’s bay of joy at the prospect of a run was ringing in his ears. The two sheepdogs were silent, running easily at Pamela’s far side until the horses steadily drew ahead and Bruno felt his eyes narrow against the wind. It was exhilarating to be part of this racing unit of horse and man, moving in such perfect harmony as they sped along the two kilometres of the ridge.
It seemed to end too soon as the belt of woodland approached and Hector, by now three lengths clear of the others, began to slow of his own accord. He knew this ridge and its boundaries as well as
