Rolland reached into his blood-smeared tunic and removed a silver flask. ‘Here, drink some,’ he said. ‘It is brandy. Good brandy, not like the hospital disinfectant you are familiar with. And my battalion surgeon, he said these may help too.’
A small blister pack of tablets dropped onto the tabletop. Half of them had already been popped.
‘They will calm your nerves,’ he explained. ‘But should not dull your senses.’
Caitlin briefly wondered whether she might react to them, given her medical condition. Then she thought, What the hell, and downed two with a swig from Rolland’s flask. The liquor burned softly and warmed her upper body. As she handed back the brandy, a jet suddenly screamed through the air nearby, the noise arcing up from a distant whine to a deafening shriek in mere seconds. A very short time later she heard the unmistakable crump of air-dropped munitions detonating within a few miles.
‘So, things haven’t gone as well as I was led to believe?’
The captain took a long draw on the harsh-smelling cigarette. ‘I am afraid not,’ he admitted. ‘The situation remains… confused.’
‘Not as confused as me. Why don’t you try explaining – you could start with Baumer. He was one of yours, right, so is that why I was targeted?’
‘A double agent? No, I am afraid not.’
Caitlin’s head felt as though it had been wrapped in old towels soaked in chloroform. She had trouble concentrating and holding her thoughts. ‘But, what was he doing here at the fort?’ she asked, trying again. ‘Are you saying that Reynard… sorry, what did you call him?’
‘Lacan. Bernard Lacan, second-in-charge of the Action Division.’
‘Okay. Lacan then-you’re saying he’d sold out to the intifada?’
Rolland waved his hands in a frustrated manner, as if trying to shoo a fly. ‘It is not so simple, no,’ he replied. ‘You have been out of contact for a long time, Caitlin. Do you mind if I call you Caitlin?’
‘It’s not the worst liberty that’s been taken with me recently. Go on.’
‘Lacan was working with Baumer’s network, yes. But not just Lacan. And not just with one jihadi cell. It is difficult, Caitlin, this situation I must explain. Please bear with me. You will be aware of some of the history of the DGSE, your rival service, non?’
She leaned back against the arm of the leather sofa and pulled the blanket around to a more comfortable position. Outside, the rain began to pick up, strongly enough to wash much of the blood from the courtyard, she imagined. The pills hadn’t kicked in yet, but the brandy was having a soothing effect. Rolland used the opportunity to light up another cigarette as he continued.
‘Unlike your CIA, and despite its name, the Action Division does not maintain a standing section of paramilitary covert operatives. When such skills are required, it draws on what we call a “tank” of operators from the army, mostly the special forces and commandos.’
She nodded. The information wasn’t new to her.
‘Do you know the original battalion on which the Action Division relied, Caitlin?’
She searched her battered memory and came up with some fragment. ‘Some paratroop regiment?’
‘Very good,’ said Rolland, with a nod of his own. ‘Almost right. Le 11-iиme Bataillon Parachutiste de Choc- “the Shock Parachutist Battalion”, as you would say. It was first raised in 1946, then disbanded in 1963 because its officers were collaborators, supporters of French Algeria.’
‘Okay. That means they backed whitey, right? The pieds-noirs. Ancient history, but go on.’
‘Ancient for you, young lady, not for France. The Algerian war nearly destroyed us. It collapsed the Fourth Republic, brought back the Gaullists, and forever changed our view of France as une puissance musulmane. Do you know the phrase?’
‘A Muslim power,’ she replied. ‘Again, so what? A hundred years ago you wanted to lord it over the Arabs, because the Brits scarfed up all the good colonies for themselves.’
He favoured her with a lopsided smile. ‘I had been told you are a difficult woman.’
‘I prefer to think of myself as challenging,’ she quipped back.
‘Your American psychology betrays you, Caitlin. Une puissance musulmane does not just mean to wield power over the House of Peace. It means to hold that power in… how would you phrase it?… In agreement, in accordance – a sort of entente cordiale with the Islamic world itself. You and the British often described your filial bond as a special relationship. Indeed, that relationship extended across all of the English-speaking world. Your employer, Echelon, it was a perfect expression of that dysfunctional anglophone family, non? An alliance, a secret one, between the English-speaking powers, directed against everyone else. That is quite special, when you think about it. Well, our special relationship, our particular delusion, if you wish, was with the dar-al-Islam. Or so some thought.’
‘Captain,’ she said, as toxic rain began to patter against the windowpanes and the room became even gloomier, ‘you’re going to have to help me out here. I have a brain tumour and I’m having trouble putting two and two together.’
Rolland stood up and flicked on a light. He called out to one of his men stationed in the corridor and they spoke in murmurs for a moment before he returned.
‘Excuse me, Caitlin. I am expecting someone… Yes, I am sorry – it is the continental way of narrative. Much more elliptical than your own. Let me “bottom-line” it for you, to borrow from your own vernacular. Since the accommodation in Algeria, there has been a school of thought, a quiet but powerful clique within the state, which has believed that accommodation with Islam is the only way forward. At first this group was centred on the Quai d’Orsay, here in Paris, and they applied their doctrine within their own sphere, often in conflict with other actors in the state realm.’
‘Okay, so your Foreign Ministry was rub-fucking the Arabs. I have to say, this isn’t breaking news.’
Rolland uncapped the brandy flask and took a swig for himself before offering it to Caitlin again. She joined him. The pills, whatever they were, had begun to smooth her rough edges and another drink seemed like a good idea. Sitting on this magnificent old sofa, drinking fine spirits and chatting with the handsome French officer, she finally began to get some distance on the horror of the previous weeks.
‘I believe similar tensions existed between your own State Department and the military,’ Rolland countered. ‘It is the usual way between peacemakers and war fighters. But here in France, there was a complicating factor, which grew more complicated with every year.’
Caitlin nodded slowly. ‘Your own Muslim population.’
‘Quite so. Just as your country found that certain questionable policies and state activities initially carried out beyond your borders, say, in South-East Asia, tended to return home in one form or another…’