“And the CWC employee who suggested all this…?”
“Kosigin,” said Marie Villambard. “A Mr. Kosigin.”
“How do you know?”
“Your brother found out. He interviewed a lot of people under the pretext of writing a book about Preece. He spoke to scientists, government agencies; he tracked down people who had been involved in the original project. He had evidence linking Preece to Kosigin, evidence of a massive cover-up, something concerning every person on the planet.” She lifted her cigarette. “That’s why I smoke, Mr. Reeve. Eating is too dangerous, to my mind. I prefer safer pleasures.”
Reeve wasn’t listening. “Whatever evidence my brother had has gone to the grave with him.”
She smiled. “Don’t be so melodramatic-and for goodness’ sake don’t be so silly.”
Reeve looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“Your brother was a journalist. He was working on a dangerous story, and he knew just how dangerous. He would have made backups of his disks. There will be written files somewhere. There will be something. In an apartment somewhere, or left with a friend, or in a bank vault. You just have to look.”
“Supposing the evidence has been destroyed?”
She shrugged. “Then the story is not so strong… I don’t know. Maybe it is impossible to find a publisher for it. Everywhere we look, in every country which uses these chemicals and pesticides, we find some government connection. I do not think the governments of the world would like to see this story published.” She stared at him. “Do you?”
He stayed silent.
“I do not think the agrichemical conglomerates would like to see the story appear either, and nor would agencies like the CIA… Maybe we should all just get back to our ordinary lives.” She smiled sadly. “Maybe that would be safer for us all.”
“You don’t believe that,” he said.
She had stopped smiling. “No,” she said, “I don’t. It has gone too far for that. Another good reason for smoking. I am like the condemned prisoner, yes?”
And she laughed, the terror showing only in her eyes.
She had some information she could give him-copies of documents-so he followed her in his car. They left the city traveling towards a town called Saint Yrieix. This is all I need, thought Reeve, more driving. The road was a succession of steep ups and downs, and a couple of times they found themselves stuck behind a tractor or horse trailer. At last Marie Villambard’s Citroën Xantia signaled to turn off the main road, but only so they could twist their way along a narrow country road with nothing but the occasional house or farmstead. It was a fine evening, with an annoyingly low sun and wide streaks of pale blue in the sky. Reeve’s stomach complained that he’d been shoveling nothing but croissants and coffee into it all day. Then, to his amazement-out here in the middle of nowhere-they drove past a restaurant. It looked to have been converted from a mill, a stream running past it. A few hundred yards farther on, the Xantia signaled left, and they headed up a narrower, rougher track made from hard-packed stones and sand. The track led them into an avenue of mature oak trees, as though this roadway had been carved from the forest. A couple of roads leading off could have been logging tracks. At the end, in absolute isolation, stood a small old single-story house with dormer windows in the roof. Its facing stones hadn’t been rendered, and the shutters on the windows looked new, as did the roof tiles.
Reeve got out of his car. “This is some spot,” he said.
“Ah, yes, my grandparents lived here.”
Reeve nodded. “He was a timberman?”
“No, no, he was a professor of anthropology. Please, come this way.”
And she led him indoors. Reeve was dismayed to see that security was lax. Never mind the isolation and the fact that there was only one road in and out-the house itself was protected by only a single deadbolt, and the shutters had been left open, making for easy entry through one of the windows.
“Neighbors?” he asked.
“The trees are my neighbors.” She saw he was serious. “There is a farm only a couple of miles away. They have truffle rights. That means the right to come onto the land to search for truffles. I only ever see them in the autumn, but then I see them a lot.”
There was a bolt on the inside of the door, which was something. There was also a low rumbling noise. The rumble turned into a deep animal growl.
“Ça suffit!” Marie Villambard exclaimed as the biggest dog Reeve had ever seen padded into the hall. The beast walked straight up to her, demanding to be patted, but throughout Marie’s attentions its eyes were on the stranger. It growled again from deep in its cavernous chest. “His name is Foucault,” Villambard explained to Reeve. He didn’t think it was time to tell her he had a cat called Bakunin. “Let him smell you.”
Reeve knew that this was the drill-same with any dog-don’t be a stranger. Let it paw over you and sniff your crotch, whatever it takes, until it has accepted you in its territory. Reeve stretched out a hand, and the dog ran a wet, discerning nose over the knuckles, then licked them.
“Good dog, Foucault,” Reeve said. “Good dog.”
Marie was rubbing the monster’s coat fiercely. “Really I should keep him outside,” she said. “But he’s spoiled. He used to be a hunting dog-don’t ask me which breed. Then his owner had to go into hospital, and if I hadn’t looked after him nobody would. Would they, Foucault?”
She started to talk to the dog-Reeve guessed part Alsatain, part wolfhound-in French, then led it back to the kitchen, where she emptied some food from a tin into a bowl the size of a washbasin. In fact, as Reeve got closer, he saw that it was a washbasin, red and plastic with a chewed rim.
“Now,” she said, “my thinking is that you need a bath, yes? After your first-class journey.”
“That would be great.”
“And food?”
“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.