“I’m starving.”
“There is an excellent restaurant, we passed it-”
“Yes, I saw.”
“We will go there. You are in France only one night, you must spend the time wisely.”
“Thanks. I’ve some stuff in my car; I’ll just go fetch it.”
“And shall I begin your bath.”
The bathroom was a compact space just off the hall. There was a small kitchen, and a small living space that looked more like an office than somewhere to relax. It had a look of organized chaos, some kind of order that only the owner of such a room could explain.
“You live here alone?” Reeve asked.
“Only since my husband left me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. He was a pig.”
“When did he leave?”
“October eleventh, 1978.”
Reeve smiled and went out to the car. He walked around the house first. This was real “Hansel and Gretel” stuff: the cottage in the woods. He could hear a dog barking, probably on the neighboring farm. But no other sounds intruded except the rustling of the oak trees in the wind. He knew what Marie thought-she thought the very secrecy of this place made her safe. But where she saw secrecy, Reeve saw isolation. Even if she wasn’t in the telephone book, it would take just an hour’s work for a skilled operative to get an address for her. An Ordnance Survey map would show the house-might even name it. And then the operative would know just how isolated the spot was.
There were two small outbuildings, one of which had been a bakery at one time. The bread oven was still there, the large wooden paddles still hung on the walls, but the space was used for storage these days. Mice or rats had chewed the corners out of a tower of empty cardboard boxes. The other outbuilding was a woodshed, and maybe always had been. It was stacked with neat piles of sawn logs. Reeve peered into the forest. A covering of dry leaves on the forest floor wouldn’t be enough to give warn-ing of anyone approaching the house. He’d have had trip wires maybe. Or…
Sudden beams of light flooded the shade. He blinked up and saw that halogen lamps had been fastened to some of the trees. Something or someone had tripped them. Then he saw Marie Villambard standing beside the house, arms folded, laughing at him.
“You see,” she said, “I have protection.”
He walked towards her. “They’re movement-sensitive,” he said.
“That’s right.”
He nodded. “All connected to a single source?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’d be easy to disable. Plus, what do they do? They light up the trees. So what? That’s not going to stop someone from advancing.”
“No, but it gives Foucault something to aim at. He stays out here at night.”
“He’s just one dog.”
She laughed again. “You are a security expert?”
“I used to be,” Reeve mumbled, going back into the house with his bag.
He changed into his spare set of clothes, wrapping his soiled shirt around Lucky 13. He wasn’t planning on staying here. He’d head off after dinner, find a hotel somewhere on the route. So he took his bag back out to the car and put it in the trunk, out of sight. Marie Villambard had put together a cardboard box full of papers.
“These are all copies, so I do not need them returned.”
“Fine,” he said.
“And I don’t know if they will tell you anything I haven’t.”
“Thanks anyway.”
She looked like she had something awkward to say, her eyes avoiding his. “You know, you are welcome to stay here tonight.”
He smiled. “Thanks, but I think I’ll head off.”
“You are sure?” Now she looked at him. She didn’t look like an executive anymore; she looked lonely and tired, tired of solitude and stroking Foucault, tired of long wakeful nights wondering if the sky would suddenly burst open with halogen. Tired of waiting.
“I’ll see how I feel after dinner,” he conceded. But he loaded the box of files into the trunk anyway.
“Shall we take my car?” she asked.
“Let’s take mine. It’s blocking yours anyway.” He helped her on with her coat. “It looked like a very nice restaurant.” Making conversation didn’t come easily. He was still getting over the feeling of being flattered that she wanted him to stay. She locked the door after them.
“It is an excellent restaurant,” she said. “And a very good reason for moving here.”
“It wasn’t sentimentality then?” He opened the passenger door for her.
“You mean because the house belonged to my grandparents? No, not that. Well, perhaps a little. But the restaurant made the decision easy. I hope they have a table.” Reeve started the engine and turned the car around. “I tried calling, but the telephone is acting up again.”
“Again?”
“Oh, it happens a lot. The French system…” She looked at him. “You are wondering if my phone is tapped. Well, I don’t know. I must trust that it is not.” She shrugged. “Otherwise life would be intolerable. One would think oneself paranoid…”
Reeve was staring ahead. “A car,” he said.
“What?” She turned to look through the windshield. There was a car parked fifty or sixty yards away-French license plate; nobody inside.
“
Reeve didn’t hesitate. He slammed the gearshift into reverse and turned to navigate through the back window. There was a logging trail behind him, and another car darted from it and braked hard across the road.
“Gordon…” Marie said as he stopped the Land Rover. It was the first time she’d used his name.
“Run for it,” Reeve said to her. He released both their seat belts. The men in the rear car were reaching into their jackets, at the same time opening their doors. “Just get into the woods and run like hellfire!” He was shouting now, pumping himself up. He leaned across her, pushed open her door, and thrust her out of the car. “Run!” he yelled, at the same time hitting the accelerator with everything he had and pulling his foot off the clutch. The wheels spun, and the car started to fly backwards, weaving crazily from side to side. The men were halfway out of the car when Reeve hit them with everything his own vehicle had. One of the men slipped, and Reeve felt his back wheels bump over something that hadn’t previously been on the road. The other man slumped back into the car, either dazed or unconscious.
Reeve looked out of his windshield. Men had appeared beside the car in front. They’d been hiding in the woods. He checked to his left and saw Marie scurrying away. Good: she was keeping low. But the men in front were pointing towards her. One of them headed back into the trees, the other two took aim at Reeve’s car.
“Now,” he told himself, ducking and opening his door. He slipped out of the car and started crawling towards the trunk just as the first shots went off. There was a body lying under the car, between the front and back wheels. Most of it was intact. Reeve patted it down but found no gun. It must have been thrown during the collision. He couldn’t see it anywhere nearby. Another shot hit the radiator grille. Would they hear shots at the neighboring farm? And if they did, would they think them suspicious? The French were a nation of hunters-truffles not their only prey.
The collision had thrown open the back of the Land Rover. He couldn’t hope to carry the box of papers, but snatched his overnight bag. They were closing on him, walking forward with real purpose and almost without caution. He could try the other car, there might be guns there. He was on the wrong side of the track to follow Marie, and if he tried crossing over they’d have a clean shot at him. His first decision had to be right. He knew what standard operating procedure was: get the hell away from the firefight and regroup. If you had to go back in, come from a direction the enemy would least expect.
