“So I’ve heard, but so’s America and I think I like being there better. Still, the coffee’s good, I just ordered some.” Lake gestured to the plush seating. “Sit, join me.”
“Thanks, I fueled up already. I have some questions about the schedule, though.”
The two men sat while behind them the Secret Service agents walked small circles, eyes moving constantly.
“Fire away,” Lake said.
“Just to confirm. Drive out to Chateau Tourville today, two nights there and two days of talks on the Guadeloupe thing, then back to Paris.”
“Right. You know anything about the place, Guadeloupe?”
“I don’t. The ambassador said something about pineapples.”
“Columbus is supposed to have discovered them there,” Lake said, “like no one in the history of the world had seen the damn things before. That man gets a lot of credit for a lot of shit, if you ask me.”
So not big on Italians, either, Hugo thought. The two men sat in silence as a waiter arrived with a silver coffee pot and two cups. The aroma of fresh coffee tempted Hugo into letting the waiter pour for him. He stirred in sugar, Lake took his neat.
“Anyway,” Lake continued, “Guadeloupe is tucked in amongst islands most people have actually heard of. Barbados, Martinique, Saint Lucia. Closer to Venezuela than America, but closer to us than the French. The island is its own French … what do they call it, department?”
“Department, yes.”
“Right. Along with a couple other pieces of rock right next to it, called Marie-Galante, La Désirade, and the Îles des Saintes. They are included in Guadeloupe and together have always had a chip on their shoulder.”
Lake spoke with authority and Hugo was surprised. The man knew an awful lot for an anti-French isolationist, even if he’d learned it rote from a textbook.
“A chip?” Hugo prodded.
“Long history of unhappiness with mother France, some of it recent. Hence the petition to tag along with us. Puerto Rico is nearby, I guess they like the look of that deal.”
“And, if I may ask, what do you care?”
“Me?” He winked at Hugo and lowered his voice. “Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Hell, maybe it’s a nice place to vacation and I could always use more of those. But professionally, politically, I care. I mean, what better way to promote democracy around the world than to have the people of an island like Guadeloupe exercise their voting power and become American?” He leaned forward. “And if we stick it to the French at the same time, even better.”
“I guess I’m just surprised that people care enough to have meetings and dinners and, frankly, for you to come all the way over.”
“Yeah, best I can tell it’s a matter of timing. The world stage is pretty quiet, in terms of actual events grabbing headlines, but at the same time tensions are high in North America and Europe thanks to the crappy economy. Plus, as you learn early in politics, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.”
“And Guadeloupe is squeaking right now.”
“Like a mouse with its balls in a vise.”
“Well,” Hugo said, “with that image in mind, shall we head out? You can ride with me, Rousek and Ruby can follow.”
“Sure thing.” Lake stood. “Think they’ll serve snails down there? For some reason, I’ve always wanted to try them. Probably just the garlic butter and bread, but still.”
Hugo smiled. “I’ll make a call. If they’re not on the menu, I can’t imagine it’d take long to catch a couple for you.”
Lake chuckled and slapped Hugo on the back. “Gonna take a leak before we go.” He beckoned to special agent Rousek. “Come on, Charlie, walk me to the head.”
Four
The professor approached the house at dusk, following the stone path that looped from the front of the minichateau to the back, where wide green lawns fell away into darkness to the right. It was, in the way of many old French houses, a burglar’s delight. Windows sat loosely in their frames and the doors were heavy but rarely locked. Owners, such as the Bassin family here, relied on remoteness and a history of safety to stave away any fear of thieves.
Too bad for them but good for me, the professor thought. Country boots, heavy but quiet, allowed a silent approach and therefore a close look into the house: a few lights on here and there but no one home, as expected. Watching a house like this wasn’t easy, but a routine had quickly established itself: on Friday nights the Bassin family would pile into their Renault and take the E54 out of the countryside and into nearby Troyes for dinner. The drive was twenty-five minutes one way and the meal no doubt two hours or more, which meant more than enough time to find the object that was the sole purpose of this trip.
The professor stood on the patio, a dark shadow beside the supporting beam of a pergola carrying crisscross strands of wisteria that in May would drape purple, sweet flowers over the worn stones of the terrace. Inside the house, the drawing room was unlit but lumpy shapes of furniture were visible, silhouetted by a glow that emanated from a room deeper inside the house.
A deep breath and then a hand on the latticed glass doors that led inside, pressure downward on the handle but no movement, no give: locked. Adrenaline flushed into frustration, but there were other doors on this side of the house and, if necessary, windows. This was supposed to be a quick and easy heist and, if all went to plan, one that might go unnoticed for days or even weeks, but if a rock had to fly through a window, so be it. Too much was at stake.
The next door brought relief, an unlocked side door that led into a mudroom. It smelled damp in there, and rows of boots and shoes sat on their low wooden racks beneath pegs laden with coats. Half a dozen umbrellas poked out of a ceramic planter at the far end, mostly black, but one was half-sized and pink for the young lady of the house. Two steps led into a tiled hallway that looked to split the house — this wing of it, anyway.
The professor ventured down the passageway, confidence growing, but froze as a voice called out from the drawing room, where the lights were now on.
Why wasn’t she at dinner?
Panic fought with anger, both quelled by a moment of stillness and deep breaths.
“Allo? Il y a quelqu’un?”
Retreat, thought the professor, I can come back another time, next week or the week after.
“Allo? Monsieur, whoever you are, I saw you outside and I’m calling the police.”
Which meant no retreat. How to explain the car tucked behind a hedgerow, a blatant if weak attempt to be surreptitious, let alone the nighttime entry?
One chance, perhaps: bluff.
“C’est moi,” the professor said, stepping into the large room, hands extended to the side and a smile to show no threat. “It’s just me.”
“Who are you?” Collette Bassin seemed more puzzled than afraid, but she held a cell phone in her hand. “Why are you in my house?”
“You don’t remember me?”
“No.” The woman’s eyes flickered down. “Why are you wearing gloves?”
“It’s cold outside. I get cold easily.” And I’m losing control of the situation. Calmly, the gloves came off, tucked into a back pocket, a gesture of friendliness and trust.
But the old woman shook her head. “Non, it’s not cold at all.” Her eyes moved back up to the intruder and she began to raise the phone.
“Non, please, you don’t need to call the police!” The professor started forward. “I was here a month or two ago, we talked about your family, don’t you remember?”
“I talked to a young lady, not to you. About my family, she was asking questions.”