Marshal Hugo Allemand, though many years into retirement, was a fixture on Paris’s social and political scene. As had Jürgen Rostock, Marshal Allemand had parlayed a celebrated military career into a civilian life of luxury and influence. Subsequently Jack had little trouble finding the Allemand estate, a working horse farm an hour north of the city near Montmorency Forest.
Jack pulled his rental car up to an iron gate festooned with stylized fleurs-de-lis and pushed the intercom. “Oui?” a male voice replied.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” Jack asked. His grasp of basic French was serviceable, but he’d found that outside the country’s tourist hubs the locals preferred visitors either speak proper French or not try at all.
“Yes, I speak English,” came the reply.
“I’m here to see Marshal Allemand.”
“The marshal has no appointments scheduled for today. Please contact his secretary and she will—”
“I’m here about the marshal’s son, René.”
“The marshal has said all he cares to about his son’s disappearance. All press inquiries should be directed to—”
“His secretary, I know.” Jack placed his cell phone up to the intercom box and tapped the play button. After ten seconds Jack hit stop and said, “I made that recording less than eight hours ago. I’ll wait.”
The intercom was silent for a bit, then: “One moment, please.”
It took five minutes. When the voice returned, Jack was directed to follow the driveway to the main house, where he would be met. Once through the gate, Jack did as instructed until he pulled to a stop before a ten-thousand-square-foot French-Georgian-style mansion. The colonnaded front steps were bracketed by a pair of bronze stallions rearing back on their hind legs.
A fit-looking man in a black suit was waiting on the walkway. By the time Jack climbed out of the driver’s seat, the man was standing at his door. “I am Claude. Please raise your arms to shoulder level.”
Jack did so. Claude ran a magnetic wand up and down Jack’s body, then expertly frisked him before asking, “What is your name, please?”
“Jack.”
“Your surname?”
“Smith.”
Claude frowned at him. “Follow me, Monsieur Smith.”
He led Jack through the front doors, across a white marble foyer, then through a set of French doors to a solarium filled with hanging plant baskets. Marshal Allemand was seated at a white wicker table. He gestured for Jack to sit, then nodded at Claude, who took up his post beside the doors.
“Do you know how many people have come to me with proof my son is alive? How many conspiracy theories there are out there?”
“No.”
“Too many to count. If I find that you are playing that same game, I will do everything in my power to see you prosecuted. Do you understand?”
Jack had no doubt the marshal would carry through with his threat, regardless of whether Jack had broken any laws. “I understand,” he said.
“You are free to leave if you so choose.”
Jack turned in his seat so Claude would have a clear view as he took out his cell phone and held it up for inspection before placing it on the table before Allemand. “The recording is cued up. Just tap the play button.”
Allemand neither looked at the phone nor reached for it but rather kept his eyes fixed on Jack. “You told Claude this recording is from eight hours ago? Where were you at the time?”
“In a motel outside Zurich. Marshal Allemand, your son is alive. And he’s in trouble. I’m trying to help him. Watch the video. If you’re satisfied that’s René, we’ll talk. If not…” Jack shrugged. “I’ll sit here until the police arrive.”
Allemand placed his index finger on Jack’s cell phone, pulled it toward him, then leaned over the screen and tapped play.
For the next two minutes the marshal watched as Jack and René chatted over their pizza the night before. René hadn’t been aware of the recording. Marshal Allemand played the video twice more, then sat back in his chair. His eyes were moist.
“That’s my son,” he said, his voice cracking.
Jack nodded but said nothing.
“He looks different. Older.”
Jack replied, “He’s been through a lot, and he’s going to need a lot of help.”
“Explain, please.”
Worried about overwhelming the already shell-shocked Allemand, Jack gave him a condensed version of the story René had told them at the Wädenswil coffeehouse. He added his theory that René had been brainwashed. He left out any mention of the Lyon attacks and Jürgen Rostock until the end. At the mention of the German’s name, Allemand leaned forward, his face hard.
“Jürgen Rostock — René told you this himself?”
“He did.”
Allemand paused for a moment. Then, in a voice heavy with conviction, he said, “This much I know: René did not have anything to do with the Lyon attacks. That’s not in him, and I know my son.”
“I agree with you. I don’t think the kidnapping was about René at all. I think it’s about you. Is that possible?”
Allemand didn’t reply, instead asking, “Why hasn’t René contacted me?”
“He thinks you gave up on him. Rostock insinuated your business dealings led to René’s kidnapping.”
“That’s nonsense! You believe Rostock did this to gain leverage over me? If so, why hasn’t he approached me?”
“René went on the run. Rostock doesn’t have control of him. There’s a part of your son’s mind that knows it’s not seeing reality. He’s been trying to work it out for himself and I think the shock of being involved with anyone remotely connected to the Lyon attacks pushed him over the edge. You didn’t answer my question: Would Rostock have anything to gain over you by kidnapping René?”
“Possibly. What do you know about Rostock?”
“Just what I’ve read in the papers. He’s powerful, that much seems clear.”
Allemand half smiled. “Power is influence, and Rostock has that — far beyond German borders, and in wide circles. Do you know what happened to Rostock in Afghanistan?”
“No.”
“I’m not surprised,” Allemand replied. “Rostock has worked very hard to keep it out of the spotlight. In the spring of 2005, Rostock and his wife were visiting a reserve Heer battalion in Kabul. A suicide bomber rammed into their vehicle, killing Rostock’s wife and two of his aides. In fact, everyone in the vehicle except for Rostock died. He lost his left leg below the knee and most of the mobility in his right arm. It crippled him and cost him his career.”
“How so?” asked Jack. “He wasn’t a ground soldier. Those kinds of injuries wouldn’t disqualify him from service.”
“It’s what the attack did to his mind. He became erratic, politically belligerent, insubordinate. The Bundeswehr put up with it for almost a year and then quietly ushered him out the door.”
“Politically belligerent,” Jack repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Rabidly and publicly anti-Muslim. Not simply anti — Islamic terrorism, mind you, but a more all-encompassing, less discriminating mind-set, if you understand my meaning.”
Jack did. The anti-Islamic rhetoric René had used back in Zurich was similar to the political timbre of what Marshal Allemand was describing — essentially a kill-them-all-and-let-God-sort-them-out approach.
Allemand continued: “Rostock wasn’t without his supporters, of course, but to have someone of his stature and influence speaking out as he did wasn’t something the German government could tolerate.
“So he was forced out. Shortly after that, he formed RSG and backed away from the spotlight. When he was interviewed or asked about military affairs he was circumspect. Not a trace of his earlier belligerence.”