Chapter Thirteen
WHEN A senior officer, like Champion, confesses to being outwitted-that's the time to run for your life.'
The quote originated from a German: a Sicherheits dienst officer giving evidence to one of our departmental inquiries in 1945. Champion-like all other British S.I.S. agents captured by the Nazi security service-faced a board after the war, and heard his ex-captors describe his interrogations. Not many came out of such investigations unscathed, and very few such men were ever employed in the field again. Champion was an exception.
'I think it's yours,' said Champion. He picked up the red king and waved it at me. 'Unless you can think of something I can do."
'No' it's checkmate,' I said. I am a poor player, and yet I had won two games out of three. Champion swept the pieces off the small magnetic board, and folded it. 'Anyway, we must be nearly there.'
'Nice airport have just given us permission to land,' said the second pilot. I looked out of the window. The land below was dark except for a glittering scimitar that was the coast. We continued southwards, for even a small executive jet must obey the traffic pattern designed to leave jet-noise over the sea. Champion looked at his wristwatch. There would be a chauffeur-driven limousine at Nice airport, just as there had been at the quayside in Le Havre. There was no fuel crisis for Champion.
'You must have questions,' said Champion. "You never were the trusting type.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Why did you bring your queen forward? Twice you did that You must have seen what would happen.'
The limousine was there. It was parked in the no-waiting area. The cop had moved a sign to make room for it. The dark-skinned chauffeur was holding a boy in his arms when we saw him. The chauffeur's gigantic size made the child seem no larger than a baby. But he was a big boy, dressed in a denim bib and brace, with a red wool workshirt: all tailored with the sort of care that only the French expend on children's clothes.
'Has he been a good boy?' said Champion.
The chauffeur stroked the child's hair gently. Have you, Billy?'
The boy just nuzzled closer into the shoulder of the dark wool uniform.
It was a starry night. The air was warm, and the white-shirted airport workers moved with a spurious grace. What had these men of the south in common with the stamping feet and placid anxiety of the bundled-up dock workers we'd seen sheltering from the driving rainstorms of northern Europe.
I sniffed the air. I could smell the flower market across the road, the ocean, the olives, the sun-oil and the money.
'Bloody odd world,' said Champion, 'when a man has to kidnap his own child.'
'And his friends,' I said.
Champion took his son from the chauffeur. He put him on the back seat of the car. Billy woke for a moment, smiled at both of us, and then closed his eyes to nuzzle into the leatherwork. Gently Champion pushed his son along the seat to make room for us. He gave no instructions to the driver, but the car started and moved off into the traffic of the busy coast road. A roar of engines became deafening, and modulated into a scream as a jet came low across the road and turned seaward.
'You said you'd bring Mummy,' said the boy. His voice was drowsy and muffled by the seat Champion didn't answer. The boy said it again: 'You said you'd bring her.'
'Now, that's not true, Billy,' said Champion. 'It will be a long time. I told you that.'
The boy was silent for a long time. When finally he mumbled, 'You promised,' it seemed as though he preferred the dispute to continue, rather than be silent and alone. 'You promised,' he said again.
I thought for one moment that Champion was going to strike the child, but the arm he stretched out went round him, and pulled him close. 'Dammit, Billy,' said Champion softly. 'I need you to help your Dad, not fight with him.'
By the time we got to Cannes, the child's slow breathing indicated that he'd gone back to sleep.
You won't find the Tix mansion in any of those coffee-table books about the houses and gardens of the rich families of France. But the Tix fortune was once a notable one, and the house had been built without regard to cost. The quarry, two miles from it, had been the basis of the Tix empire, and even now in the summer, when there had been no rain for a couple of weeks, the yellow quarry-dust could be seen on the marble steps, the carved oak door and on the half-timbered gables.
A century earlier, the wealth from the quarry had built this great house, and created the village that had housed the men who worked there. But the riches of the quarry had diminished to seams that had to be mined. Eventually even the honeycomb of the mine's diggings yielded so little that it was closed. The village languished, and finally became a training ground where French infantry learned house-to-house fighting. But the mansion survived, its paintings and furnishings as intact as three great wars permitted.
The builder had made it face the entrance to the drive, a track nearly a mile long. It was a gloomy house for the dramatic siting of this solitary building on the desolate limestone plateau condemned it to dim northern light.
The electricity was provided by a generator which made a steady hum, audible throughout the house. The hall lights dimmed as we entered, for the power it provided was fitful and uncertain. The entrance hall was panelled hi oak, and a wide staircase went to a gallery that completely surrounded the hall. I looked to the balcony but could see no one there, and yet I never entered the house without feeling that I was being observed.
'Make yourself at home,' said Champion, not without some undertones of self-mockery.
The tiled floor reflected the hall table, where the day's papers were arrayed, undisturbed by human hand. The roses were perfect, too, no discoloured leaf disfigured them, nor shed petal marred their arrangement. It was as homely as a wax museum, its life measured by the pendulum of the longcase clock that ticked softly, and tried not to chime.
A servant appeared from a room that I later learned was Champion's study. This was Mebarki, Champion's Algerian secretary. He was about fifty years old, his eyes narrow, skin pigmented, and his white hair cropped close to the skull. He pulled the door closed behind him and stood in the recessed doorway like a sentry.
Champion carried his son, sound asleep, in his arms. A man in a green baize apron helped the chauffeur with Champion's cases. But my attention was held by a girl. She was in her early twenties. The dark woollen dress and flat heels were perhaps calculated to be restrained, as befits the station of a domestic servant who does not wear uniform. But in fact the button-through knitted dress dung to her hips and breasts, and revealed enough of her tanned body to interest any man who knew how to undo a button.
'Anything?' said Champion to the white-haired man.
'Two Telex messages; the bank and the confirmation.'
'In gold?'
'Yes.'
'Good. It's a pity they have to learn the hard way. In that case tell the warehouse, and let them collect them as soon as they like.'
'And I confirmed lunch tomorrow.' Mebarki turned his cold eyes to me. There was no welcome there.
'Good, good, good,' said Champion, as his mind turned to other matters. Still holding his son, he started up the stairs. 'I'll put Billy to bed, Nanny,' he said. 'Come along, Charles. I'll show you your room.'
The servants dispersed, and Champion took me along the dark upstairs corridors of the house to my room.
'There's a phone in your room: dial two for my room, one for my study, and ten for the kitchen. They'll get you coffee and a sandwich, if you ask.'
'It's a plush life, Steve.'
'Goodnight, Charlie. Sleep well.'
My 'room' was a suite: a double-bedroom, ante-room and sitting-room, with a fully stocked cocktail cabinet and a balcony that overlooked a thousand acres of scrub. There were books too: carefully chosen ones. I was flattered by the care shown in choosing them, and affronted by the assurance that I'd; arrive.
I picked up the phone and asked for tea and ham sandwiches. 'Tea with milk,' I said again. It was the nanny who answered. S
he replied in English. It was English English. 'Have cold chicken,' she suggested. 'They don't eat ham here-they're Arabs.'
'I'll come down to the kitchen,' I said.
'No, I'll bring it up,' she said hurriedly. 'Cheese or chicken?'
'Chicken.'
'Stay there. I'll bring it up.'
I walked out on to my balcony. There was still a light burning somewhere in the lower part of the house, and there were the mixed smells of capsicums being scorched in the style of Arab cooking, and the sweet smell of incense.
I was still on the balcony when the girl arrived with the tray. I watched her as she put it down on the bedside table. She'd unpinned her hair. It was corn-coloured and fell on her shoulders in an attractive disarray. She was tall and sum, with high cheekbones., a generous mouth and blue eyes. She seemed to sense that she was being watched, and she looked up suddenly and smiled, as if reading my carnal thoughts.
'You're English, aren't you?' The voice was home counties, but it had been a long time away from home.
I nodded.
'First Englishman I've seen in an age,' she said.
'No shortage in Nice.'
'These people won't let me borrow a car,' she said. 'Just because I dented their lousy old Fiat. And you change twice on the bus-I tried it once, and once was enough, I'll tell you!' She turned down the cover on the bed and tucked it in, with the quick nervous movements of a trained nurse. 'The maid should have done that before dinner,' she explained. 'No, I'm trapped here.' She smoothed her skirt over her hips as she straightened her body, and looked at me. 'I used to go for walks but I twisted my ankle, and there are mine-shafts out there with no fencing or warning notices or anything-just like the French-you could fall right down them and no one would even know about it.'
'And no cabs?'
'On my salary-you must be joking.' She gave me a knowing smile. It was the sort of smile that only beautiful young girls know about: a provocative smile from moist open lips, as sweet as fresh cream. And as ready to turn sour at the first sign of thunder.
I smiled. She walked across to the balcony where I stood. 'It's fantastic weather for this time of year,' she said. The sky was purple, and from somewhere over the hill there was a glow of red neon, Like an electronic sunset switched on all night Even before she put her arm round me, I felt the warmth of her body and smelled the cologne. 'I think I'm going to like you,' she whispered. She reached around to clasp her hands in front of me. Then she pressed her body against my back. 'I'm going to Like you very much.'
'Why?' I said.
She laughed. 'You're a cool bastard.' She blew on the back of my neck and then gently bit the lobe of my ear. 'I'm lonely,' she said finally, when she grew tired of the game.
'Not tonight,' I said. 'I've got a headache.'
She chuckled, and gripped me more tightly.
'Why don't you drink your tea?' she asked. 'It might start your blood circulating.'
'Good thinking,' I said. I took her wrists and gently broke free from her tight grasp.
I went across to the bedside table where she'd put the tray. It was an impressive spread. There were hand-embroidered napkins, solid silver cutlery and some spring flowers in a vase. The tray was set for two. I sat down on the edge of the bed and poured two cups of tea, and added milk. I heard a rustle of silk; by the time I turned round, with the cup and saucer in my hand, she was stark naked, except for a string of pearls and a heavy gold bangle that denoted her blood group.
'Damn!' she said mildly. 'I wanted to surprise you.' She flipped back the counterpane and climbed into my bed stretching her legs down into the crisp starched sheets with a sound like tearing tissue paper. 'Oooh! The sheets are cold!'
'You want a chicken sandwich?'
She shook her head. She seemed little more than a child, and, like a child, was suddenly sad. 'You are angry?' she asked. 'Have I shocked you?'
'No,' I said.
'Be nice to me,' she pleaded. 'If you want me to go, I'll go. But be nice to me.' She was tanned, except for the places that would be covered by a small two-piece.
I gave her the cup and saucer. 'You want sugar?'
'You're very English,' she said. 'You don't want it yourself, but you can't bear to turn it away. No, no sugar.'
'Was this Mr Champion's idea?' I said. I turned to watch her as she answered.
She sat up in bed to drink her tea. 'You're his best friend, he said.' A drip of tea had dribbled down her breast When she rescued it with her spoon she looked at me and giggled. She raised the spoon to my lips, and when I accepted it, giggled again.
'Was it his idea? I persisted.
'Yes, but I told him I'd have to see you first.' She stretched her long tanned arm out, to run a fingertip down my back. 'My name is Topaz,' she said. 'It means yellow sapphire.' She was in her early twenties, with educated speech and calm confident eyes. Forty years ago, girls like this had converged upon Hollywood; now they can be found wherever there are yachts or skis or racing cars, and men to pay for them.
'So he's going to pay you?'
'No, darling, I do it for love.' She chuckled as if that was the greatest joke in the world. Then she drank her tea greedily and put her tea-cup down on the table at her side of the bed. 'Put your arms round me for a minute.'
I did so.
'I get frightened here,' she said in a whisper. 'I'm serious now, I really am.'
'Why should you be frightened?'
These bloody Arabs arrive by the dozen and then literally disappear!'
'Now, come on, Topaz.'
'I'm not kidding. They arrive in cars in the night, and then next morning there's no sign of them.'
'Oh, yes.'
'I'm serious!' she said angrily. 'Footmarks on the hall carpet, and funny noises in the night Sometimes I wonder if it's worth the money.'
'Why are you telling me all this?' I said.
'I don't know,' she admitted. 'Because you're English, I suppose.'
'But Mr Champion is English too, isn't he?'
She screwed up her face in deep thought. She was either the greatest actress I'd ever seen in action, or she was speaking right from the heart. I looked at her heart with more than casual interest. 'Not really English,' she said finally. 'They laugh and joke together in Arabic. I don't call that being English, do you?'
'You're quite right,' I said.
Her arms reached out again. 'Do you wear an undervest?' she said. It was a rhetorical question. 'It's a long time since I met a man who wears undervests.'
'I can always take it off,' I said.
'Yes, take it off.' She had probably been telling me the truth, but I knew enough about Champion not to dismiss the idea that she might be the greatest actress in the world.
I looked at her. What was she: a housekeeper, a cast-off girlfriend of Champion, a nurse brought here just to look after Billy, or a spy planted to check out what I might say in my sleep. Or did she play some other unsuspected role in this strange household where no pork was eaten, and where the night air smelled of burning incense.
I said, 'It's just that I've stopped believing in Santa Glaus, reincarnation and love at first sight.'
'And which of those am I supposed to be?' she asked. 'You want me to go? If you want me to go, say so.'
'A man can suss out Santa,' I said, 'without stuffing his presents back up the chimney.'
Chapter Fourteen
THE N562 ROAD from Grasse deteriorates after Draguig nan. From its sharp hairpins you can see the Mediterranean on a fine day, or at least the shiny new autoroute that swings inland at Cannes and goes past Aix and Avignon. That-if you have the right son of car, and keep your foot on the floor-will take you to Paris within five hours.
But to the north of that 'route sinueuse' is a barren region of scrub and rock that the French Army have possessed since the early years of this century. There are no autoroutes there. In fact, the local people will tell you that there are no roads there at all, although they themselves drive north. The rain
coated policemen and armed soldiers who huddle around the zone mlitaire barriers wave the grey corrugated vans of the grocer, the butcher and the baker through the cordon, except when the gunnery ranges are in use. Champion's black Mercedes was well known to the sentries. Champion had a local resident's pass, for the Tix mansion and the quarry were dose to the military zone, and the most direct route was through the barriers.
The chauffeur showed the pass to the sergeant of gendarmerie. The sergeant leaned into the car and stared at all three of us before handing the papers back. There was a buzz as the window was raised, and the car rolled forward into the military exercise zone. With a rattle of gravel we passed over, the junction of the communications roads. Soon we reached the reinforced surface that the army built to withstand the weight of the AMX 50s, brought up here to 'the Atelier' for testing under battle conditions.