A Treachery of Spies Read online

  ‘I know. But that’s the point, don’t you see? Out of the cities, it’s the men who take to the hills who will do the most good. There are hundreds of them out there already. The Boche made his big mistake when he started shipping Frenchmen east for the slave factories. A lot of men who might otherwise have buckled down and collaborated are now living like bandits in the forest. If we arm them, we have an army, just waiting to fight, and they hate the Boche.’

  ‘Have you told anyone this?’

  ‘It was the first thing I put in my report. It’s the reason Pitt-Williams ordered me to leave. Someone had to come back and persuade the chinless wonders who congregate around your uncle that they actually need to do something.’

  ‘Did it succeed?’

  ‘I have no idea. If I never get sent back, we’ll know not.’

  They are at Baker Street. Laurence pulls in to the kerb. He has been postponing this decision and finds that, effortlessly, it is made.

  ‘Do you want to stay in a hotel?’ he asks. ‘Or would you like to sleep in a real bed with real cotton sheets and your own bathroom complete with water closet and bath? There’s a boiler, obviously. Hot water on tap.’

  Silence. A long silence. ‘You have such a thing?’

  ‘I have two: a maisonette with two bedrooms. It’s too bloody big. If you wanted to share it while you’re in London, you’re welcome. And while you’re here, you can help me find a way to make things easier for your coding in the field.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ORLÉANS

  Sunday, 18 March 2018

  12.00

  LAURENCE VAUGHAN-THOMAS’S HOME address is in Surrey, England, but for the duration of the filming at Radical Mind, he has rented an apartment at the expensive end of the Rue Parisie. One window looks out over the cathedral, and the other overlooks a narrow cobbled street that hasn’t changed significantly since the time of Jeanne d’Arc. By chance – or more likely, not at all by chance – he lives two streets away from Sophie Destivelle’s never-inhabited apartment.

  ‘Hello?’ He answers briskly as Picaut presses the buzzer. Age has pared back his voice, but there’s still a martial vigour that makes Picaut stand straighter.

  In his honour, she practises her English again, leaning in to the speaker. ‘This is Captain Picaut. We met earlier. I have a few more questions. May I come up?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Take the lift. Third floor. Green door.’

  She takes the stairs. At the top, pipe in hand, Laurence Vaughan-Thomas is waiting with the door open.

  ‘Captain, welcome. Forgive me. I am still somewhat … disconcerted by the morning’s news. Sophie was an extraordinarily courageous woman. I did not envisage this end for her.’ A Frenchman would sob on her shoulder. Laurence is red about the eyes, as if he’s had a recent bout of hay fever.

  She follows him into a so-English living room with high-backed armchairs on either side of the window, and an entire wall given over to calf-bound copies of Kipling, Shakespeare, Austen on one side and an eclectic selection of poetry on the other: Auden, Rilke, Emerson, Hilda Doolittle, Stevie Smith, Mary Oliver, Jean Atkin. A radio speaks tinnily from a corner: the BBC World Service, or something that sounds remarkably like it. He switches it off.

  On the marble mantel, a walnut music box stands open, a bowl of dried lavender in the centre, just as in Pierre Fayette’s house. The difference is that here, it is fresh enough for the scent to fill the room, bringing the aroma of the countryside into the city, balancing the lingering smell of pipe tobacco that lures her back to a forgotten childhood of elderly men, arguing.

  To either side is a clutter of framed photographs, and again, as in Pierre Fayette’s house, pride of place is given to a string of young Maquisard warriors leaping a wall with a mountain in the background.

  Here, though, opposite and balancing it, is a newer version of the same shot in colour – brighter, sharper, the tone cleaner – staged, one has to assume, for the Radical Mind marketing department, in order that they might encourage the big backers to part with their money.

  ‘They look good,’ she says.

  Laurence replies, ‘You’ll have heard they let us pick our own actors. I gather that was considered “courageous”, which is industry code for hopelessly naive. Nonetheless, I think everyone is now agreed that it was the right choice. Paul Rey was the hardest. It took an age to find the right mix of intelligence, brash bravery and erotic appeal to the womenfolk.’

  He laughs at the expression on her face. ‘He had five wives, all told. I’m reliably informed that his colleagues in the intelligence services called him Henry the Eighth minus one. It’s a lot to live up to. You’ll have time for tea?’ He is standing near the window, teapot in hand. Beyond, against the far wall, a round oak table is laid with a chequered cloth and linen napkins.

  He gives a wry smile. ‘My late mother was of the opinion that any good Englishman held himself and his house in a state of perpetual readiness in case the king should make a personal visit unannounced. All these years and I have never managed to shake off the fear that a royal visitation might find me wanting. These days, I’m sure there are talking therapies specifically intended to resolve this inner conflict, but I am much too old for that kind of extravagance. Do you take milk?’

  ‘No, thank you. Just black. No sugar.’

  ‘Goodness, that’s barely worth the effort. Still …’ She accepts cake and smoky tea, and turns back to the prints on the sideboard. They are cluttered, overlapping, more colour amongst them than Pierre Fayette’s equivalents. Here, once again, is the brilliantly blond Laurence in his youth, leaning on his plane.

  ‘Is that a Hurricane?’

  ‘Well done.’

  And later, older, leaning on a little open-topped MGB Roadster in British racing green. There are pictures of a red-haired girl, growing up: at school, at university. ‘This is Elodie?’ The woman is vivacious, dressed in a powder-blue T-shirt, jeans cut off mid-calf, sandals, painted toenails. Her hair is wildly buoyant, pulled back in a scrunchie. She is laughing. Beside her, relaxed, happy, one arm flung around her shoulders, is a young Pierre Fayette.

  She asks, ‘Which one is the elder?’

  ‘They were twins. Not identical, obviously, but born together.’

  ‘I’ve just come from interviewing Pierre Fayette. He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought you knew? Or perhaps it is too painful. They were as close as any two people can be.’

  ‘And yet now they don’t speak?’

  ‘Family is complicated, Captain. Those of us on the outside endeavour not to take sides and to support each of them. With luck, they will reconcile.’

  Picaut takes a picture with her phone and texts it to the incident room. Petit-Evard responds with a thumbs up. She says, ‘Are you close?’

  ‘I have no children, and I owe much to her parents. Elodie is both my apology for the past and a promise to the future. I paid for her education, or at least, the European parts of it. Paul Rey funded Stanford and Caltech.’

  ‘She’s clever?’

  ‘Very. You’ll meet her soon, I’m sure. She doesn’t throw her intellect around, but it’s there to be seen.’

  There are layers here that Picaut didn’t expect. She lifts the image of the wartime Maquisards from the mantel. ‘How well did you know Sophie?’

  She has asked this before and he has answered. Asked a second time, he reconsiders, sucking on the stem of his pipe. ‘I’m not sure any of us could claim really to know her. Paul, I think, knew her best.’

  ‘You kept in touch after the war?’

  ‘For a few years. Not recently. She contacted me a year ago, telling me that Elodie’s film was underway, and I agreed to help. I suspect in hindsight that may have been a mistake.’ He pulls a wry face. ‘The war was complicated, Captain. Many of us prefer not to remember our roles in it. I remain to be convinced that informing the younger generations of the blood spilled by their forebears is of benefit to anyone.’
r />   He is older than he seemed at the studio; his gaze is milky, his face a landscape of past remembrance. He gazes past her, staring at the wall, lost in times and places she will never know. Softly, not to intrude, Picaut says, ‘What was Sophie’s real name, do you know?’

  ‘I did once.’ He abandons restraint and lights the pipe. The first billow of smoke is sweet, and not unpleasant. ‘Emilia? No. Amélie. Amélie Fabron was the name under which she came to England, although that, too, may have been an alias and I think you will find very little record of it.’

  Picaut is already typing the name into her phone. She stops. ‘It was erased?’

  ‘I think so. Are you familiar with JJ Crotteau?’

  That name again. ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘JJ and Sophie were very close during the war. After it … some people wanted a fresh start. Sophie was one of those.’

  ‘We haven’t found any record of a Sophie Destivelle, either.’

  He smiles, thinly. ‘JJ was always very thorough.’

  ‘Do you know who she became?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. We met once or twice in the forties before reunions became a source of shame, but she was always Sophie to us. You understand, we did not pry into each other’s lives. If you trusted someone to fight at your side, to give his or her life for you, then that was enough.’

  ‘And did you trust her in this way?’

  ‘Absolutely. Without question.’ This is true. She is beginning to get a feel for the times when one or other of these secretive men tells her something utterly beyond doubt. It sets everything else in contrast. ‘We have reason to believe Sophie didn’t spend much time at the apartment in Orléans,’ Picaut says. ‘Do you know of anywhere else she might have lived?’

  ‘I heard a rumour that she had a cabin of sorts in the mountains east of Saint-Cybard. I can’t confirm that.’

  Can’t deny it, either. Picaut pushes on. ‘Did you know she worked for the Deuxième Bureau, too?’

  ‘Or as we call them now, our colleagues in External Affairs? Yes, I knew. If you’re asking, did she make enemies after the war as well as during it, then of course, it’s possible, although I suspect most of them are dead. She was—’

  ‘An assassin.’

  ‘I might not have put it quite so bluntly, but yes. Some of us were relieved to relinquish our weapons at the war’s end. Some were not, but did it anyway. A rare few had found a vocation. Sophie was one of them.’

  Picaut waits. When he offers nothing more, she says, ‘We know you worked for MI6.’

  He gives his shy smile, and sucks again on his pipe. ‘There is a lot to be said for inter-agency communication.’ Smoke fusses past her; it is sharp now, and drags at her throat. She watches him through the haze, sorts through her questions, trying to assemble priorities. ‘Elodie called the film Wild Card – where does that name come from, do you know?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’ He spreads his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I truly have no idea. You’ll have to ask Elodie when her flight lands. Until then, it remains a riddle wrapped in an enigma inside a conundrum.’ Another smile. ‘Churchill. Speaking of Russia. Whatever one thought of him, one cannot deny that he had a good turn of phrase.’

  He stands, stiffly. He has said nothing, but it is clear she has outstayed her welcome. She sets down her cup and follows him to the door. There, he turns. ‘The first few hours are crucial to an investigation, so I’m told. Are you able to share such clues as you have?’

  ‘Probably not if I had any, but I don’t. Only that Sophie knew whoever it was well enough that she wound down the car window. And they were good with a gun. Without DNA or a ballistics match, we could have some trouble proving anything.’

  They shake hands. He says, ‘If you have any more questions, please don’t hesitate to come back.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She takes the stairs fast and lightly. Walking back to her car, she Googles Churchill’s quote and finds: I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

  A needle pricks at the back of her mind. She cannot imagine that Laurence Vaughan-Thomas is the kind of man to misquote anyone, especially Churchill. The question is whether it was deliberate or a sign of fractured composure.

  He hasn’t asked her how Sophie died, which, the more she thinks about it, seems surprising. She puts two question marks next to his name in her notebook.

  12.15

  Picaut walks the two blocks from Laurence’s apartment to her car. The rain has stopped, and she needs the fresh air.

  She calls the incident room as she goes. Petit-Evard answers, speaking over the hum of the air conditioning. ‘Nothing from the taxi drivers. None of them recognize her.’

  Picaut says, ‘So we still need to find out how she got to Pierre’s house. In the meantime, I want to know why Elodie Fayette changed her name. See if you can find a Duval among the Maquis. And while you’re at it, look for a cabin in Saint-Cybard registered to any of the aliases Sophie Destivelle might have used. Run through every combination of women’s names and surnames from the Maquis as a starting point.’

  ‘We’ve got another one, which isn’t Maquis. You asked about a Colt M1911 – the gun that Pierre Fayette has in his shed?’

  ‘I remember. Is it legal?’

  ‘Definitely. It was his father’s and the registration was changed when he died: all above board. But it’s not the only one. There’s a whole series that were registered at the same time to Laurence Vaughan-Thomas, René Vivier and JJ Crotteau. The last of them is registered to Amélie Fabron. I’m thinking it could be an earlier alias? One with more of a history attached, perhaps?’

  Really, the boy has promise. Picaut says, ‘It’s the name Sophie Destivelle used when she first went to England. I want everything we can get on it.’

  ‘I’m trying. There’s precious little.’ There’s a pause. He says, ‘If our victim knew she was going to die, is it significant that she chose to leave us with ID for Sophie when it clearly isn’t her name?’

  Picaut says, ‘It must be. We just don’t know why. Well done.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She can hear him blush. In a thicker voice, he says, ‘Rollo’s gone to see a man about a dog. He says to tell you that Martin Gillard rocks a SIG Sauer, standard police issue.’

  ‘Rocks?’

  She can hear the grin. ‘Myself, I think he’s been watching too many American cop shows.’

  Picaut finds herself grinning and only afterwards notices that it didn’t tug at her face. Still cheerful, she says, ‘Keep an eye on Gillard. This doesn’t rule him out, but it doesn’t push him any higher up the list, either. Does Rollo have any other gems to share?’

  ‘He says you’ll want to know that Sophie Destivelle was working for the Deuxième Bureau in the eighties when JJ Crotteau was in charge.’

  ‘He’s jealous.’

  ‘And one day someone will explain to me why.’

  ‘You need another twenty years on the team for that. Tell him I’ll send him a selfie.’

  JJ Crotteau lives in a three-storey town house opposite a gated park, a few doors up from a celebrated school. The balconied windows face west, towards the trees and children’s play area. This is Orléans-chic and unless he inherited it, it did not come cheap.

  The door unlocks electronically as Picaut approaches. A leathery voice draws her in. ‘Captain Picaut, welcome. You find us at a loss. We just heard the news. Paul and then Sophie gone on the same day. It’s too terrible for words.’

  JJ Crotteau is waiting for her in the hallway, bent over, leaning on two sticks. In his prime, he was the biggest man Picaut had ever met: not overweight, but big boned, big voiced, a giant presence in any room. Now, although his voice still has its old power, he is stooped, as if his chest has caved in under the weight of such bigness, so that the only way he can look her in the face is to raise his head up and back; otherwise, he’d spend his life staring at his shoes.

  ‘Come in. You have met my gra
ndson, Conrad, and Martha, his daughter. Now is the time to meet the rest of the family.’ He shuffles ahead of her, through to a living room that is as French as Laurence’s is not.

  Instead of calf-bound books and tea set ready for the queen, a clutter of children’s toys is scattered through a room that boasts Picasso and Matisse on the walls. If there is a music box containing lavender flowers on a mantel somewhere, it is hidden and its telltale scent swamped by rich coffee. The remains of a late breakfast litter the table.

  On the other side of the table, a hawk-nosed man in early old age rises, fluidly. ‘Captain Picaut, you find us in the midst of a family reunion. Were my son here, we would be four and a half generations united under the same roof.’

  JJ reaches out an age-mottled hand. ‘This is my son-in-law, Edward Lakoff. You may know of him as Ted Lakoff, formerly a senator for Illinois.’

  Edward Lakoff, who married JJ Crotteau’s only daughter, is a dapper man, neat and strong with white hair swept back from a broad brow.

  A new piece falls into place. Picaut says, ‘You used to chair the Intelligence Select Committee.’

  ‘I am impressed, Captain.’ His eyes are blue-grey. Behind his glasses, they seem large in his head. ‘Not in this administration, of course – but in earlier, saner, times, I had that honour, thank you.’

  So three generations of this family served in the security services of one nation or another. And then Martha, fourth generation, decided to go into the movies. Picaut is digesting this change of tack when the door opens, and here is Martha herself, startlingly blonde, emphatically pregnant. There is something primordial about the two men’s response.

  Fondly, JJ says, ‘My great-granddaughter, who, as you can see, is on her way to bringing us a new generation of Lakoffs. We learned today it will be a boy. We shall call him Paul, in honour of our departed comrade.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Picaut says. And, to Martha: ‘You didn’t tell me you were related to the Maquis?’