Hands of the Traitor (28 page)

"You will need a good man to save you
now, monsieur. The bomb you placed on board the helicopter did its
work."

Matt woke up. "Did you say
bomb?"

"Ah, so the Englishman's French is
suddenly not so good." Captain Lacoste seemed to be rejoicing in
the news he brought.

"I understand you, monsieur," Matt
protested in French. "But I do not understand what you mean about a
bomb."

"It was a clever trick,
monsieur." Lacoste nodded to himself. "I have to admit it was
extremely clever. The little stick of explosive looked so innocent.
Was it intended for the
gendarmes?
"

"It
was
innocent!" protested Matt.

Captain Lacoste shook his head. "Then
why did you tell us it was dangerous?"

Matt had seen all this before -- from the
other side. This man was trying to lure him into saying something
incriminating, and he was pretty well incriminated to start with.
If only he could contact Ken.

The door to the corridor was
partly open but Captain Lacoste blocked any chance of escape. Matt
considered putting Lacoste's reactions to the test, but even if he
got away, Zoé would be left behind. These
gendarmes
were vindictive. Last night, Lacoste
said he and Zoé were guilty of murdering the guard. Now, it seemed,
the accusation had been a bluff, an excuse to hold them for
questioning in daylight. The accusation of a bomb might be another
bluff, but clearly Lacoste wasn't about to release them.

Matt thought about Major Monet flying off
with the small gold cylinder in his hands. Something must have
happened to the helicopter. It couldn't have been the gold
cylinder. The small cylinders didn't contain explosives -- not if
his grandfather had been right. The mad Dutchman and the crowd were
affected by breathing the contents. There'd been no report in the
papers of an explosion.

Matt kept his arm round Zoé's
shoulders. "When are we going to be allowed a phone call?" he
demanded.

"Monsieur, you will be facing charges
in front of the magistrate at ten o'clock. I am not sure yet what
they will be exactly."

Lacoste handcuffed them both to the
steel legs of the table and slammed the door shut.

"It's not the Bastille," Matt
whispered. "As soon as I can phone Ken Habgood, he'll fix us up
with legal help. It's all so stupid. But be careful what you say.
This room will be bugged and they're sure to be
listening."

The door opened. A young
gendarme
entered with an
even younger man in clerical black wearing the collar of a priest.
Matt stared at them and shook his head in disbelief. "What's this
then? A fancy dress parade?" They must take him for a
fool.

"Monsieur?" asked the
gendarme
.

Man nodded towards the boy in the
black suit and clerical collar. "What is he wearing? Something left
over from the Christmas party?"

The
gendarme
tutted. "This is Father Alban. He
has..."

"...Come to read me my last rites,"
interrupted Matt. "Thank you, but I'm in no mood for
games."

The
gendarme
turned abruptly and left the
room.

"Do you have something you wish to
say?" asked the schoolboy in the black suit.

"Plenty," responded Matt angrily. "But
I'd rather say it to your captain."

"My captain, monsieur? You mean my
bishop?"

Matt sighed. The world was going
crazy. "Let me put it simply. This place is wired for sound. You
get me to confess, then you pull out your warrant card and book
me."

"Confession is good,
monsieur."

"Not if you haven't done
it."

"You do not believe I am a real
priest." A look of realization spread across the youthful face.
"You think I am one of Lacoste's men in disguise."

"Of course."

"Oh, monsieur, you are too suspicious.
I know all about you. One of my parishioners talked to me after
early mass this morning. Madame Sophie Boissant. She is staying
with her sister Martha. She has told me about the two Americans,
and how you think they killed your grandfather in England. You are
innocent of the crime, I think." He raised his eyebrows as though
waiting for confirmation.

"Too right we're innocent. And you're
lying. Madame Boissant is dead -- thanks to Lacoste's
incompetence."

"You are wrong, monsieur. Sophie Boissant
has recently found peace with God, but she is not with him yet. I
can assure you she is very much alive."

The name of Father Alban seemed
familiar. But even if this turned out to be one of Lacoste's men
pretending to be the local priest, it wouldn't hurt to have their
account recorded on the tape that was sure to be running. Matt took
hold of Zoé's hand and outlined their story.

The young man shook his head when Matt
finished. "Monsieur, I swear on the name of my Lord and Savior,
Jesus Christ, that I am not one of Lacoste's men. I am exactly as I
appear to be. I am a priest. So tell me, do you have any
suggestions as to how I might help?"

Matt recalled how Lacoste had left his
keys on the table while waiting for the helicopter to arrive.
Perhaps the man was always careless. He shook his hands and made
the handcuffs rattle against the steel leg of the table. "I think
the chief has the key to our problems on his desk."

Father Alban looked blank.

"The key," repeated Matt,
looking down to his handcuffs. The French word
clé
had the same double meaning as it did
in English. Hopefully anyone listening would think he meant the
solution rather than a physical key. "He may have the key to our
problems on his desk."

The priest sighed. "I have to say that
there is nothing I can do to help you. Perhaps we will meet again
at the court of the magistrate."

Matt sighed. "Don't bother to
waste your time. We're not pleading guilty. We have
absolutely
nothing
to confess."

The boyish priest opened the door and
stood there. "We all have things to confess, monsieur." He left,
with Matt feeling angrier than before the visit.

He and Zoé sat together in
silence. A few minutes later, the young
gendarme
knocked at the door before kicking it
open. Matt wondered why he should have bothered to
knock.

"You are both to come with me," he
said in a voice that sounded over-dramatic. Perhaps he'd been
taking lessons from Lacoste.

Matt held back. Experience told him to
be cautious. "Where?"

"
Le toilet
." The remark seemed to amuse the young
man.

"Not before time," said Matt. "And we
want some coffee."

"But of course. Coffee, a baguette,
some fruit."

"Is that a joke?" asked Matt, standing
between the guard and Zoé. He was determined to protect her from
these familiar scenes of police procedure.

"No joke, monsieur. Captain
Lacoste wants to talk to you about the murder of an old woman. You
will miss your
petit déjeuner
if you do not hurry. The Captain will not be kept
waiting."

He wouldn't either. Matt knew
that the young
gendarme
was right.

They were taken to a large room
and given lukewarm coffee and two pieces of very fresh French
bread. A portion of apricot jam lay in a sticky mess in one corner
of the tray. The
confiture
must have been the young
gendarme's
idea of fruit.

Lacoste sat and smoked, watching while
they ate. "I am wondering how many murder charges I can stick on
you," he said, almost as much to himself as to Matt and
Zoé.

"You're too slow to understand what's
going on," snapped Matt. "I insist that you let us use a
phone."

"Insist?" The Captain stood up. Even at
his full height he failed to look imposing, but his sharp tongue
more than made up for what he lacked in inches. "Monsieur, you will
regret speaking to me like that. The case against you is becoming
more serious by the minute. You may be interested to know that my
men made a small mistake in the identification of the body of
Madame Boissant. I think perhaps we will be charging you with
involvement in the murder of her neighbor. In fact, I am sure we
can involve you." He blew a lungful of smoke across the room,
adding in a tone of mockery, "Monsieur!"

"You mean Sophie Boissant is still
alive?" Zoé put her hands to her face. "How did her neighbor
die?"

"It seems she heard someone knocking
at the empty house next door and came downstairs to investigate.
Neighbors on the other side heard the disturbance, but did not
realize what had happened until this morning. But it is of no
consequence. We will charge you with the murder."

"We were being held by your men at the
construction site when it happened," protested Matt.

Lacoste raised his eyebrows. "Records
can be flexible."

Matt glanced at the
gendarme
standing by the
door. The Captain intended to fix up a false charge in front of a
junior officer -- and the young man just grinned.

They would both do it, and
probably not for the first time. Collusion. Lacoste would do it for
vindictiveness; the young
gendarme
for progression.

Chapter
22

HE TRIED
to turn away from the light.
His head hurt and he felt sick.

"Wake up, Jason."

Someone leant over him, pulling at his
clothes. Hell, it was his father. Then he remembered. The green and
orange truck. The wild creatures inside. The man with the chains.
He struggled to get to his feet, panic pushing him up, but his legs
were powerless. "The Berlitzan oil! We used the Berlitzan
oil!"

His father leaned down. "You were a
fool to have that stuff with you."

Jason closed his eyes and tried to
swallow. His throat hurt where the chain had dug in. "I save your
life, and all you can do is moan. Who hit me?"

"I did."

No apology; no explanation. Jason got
his eyes fully open. "I told you not to breathe the
stuff."

"I didn't breathe it, but you did. You
tried to rip the panels off the truck with your bare hands. You
wanted to kill those animals."

Jason touched his throat. "It hurts
like hell."

"Have you got any more?" his father
demanded.

He couldn't help it. He
hesitated.

His father grabbed him by the shoulders,
shaking him roughly. "Bury it here, boy. We came to France to get
rid of Berlitzan oil -- not to start making a collection of the
stuff."

He pushed his father away and found he
could stand. "One hell of a crack you gave me. What did you
use?"

His father kicked a heavy stick lying
in the grass. "You were mad. Really mad. You picked up the jack
handle. You were going to kill me."

"Yeah?" He smiled. "My eyesight's
blurred, but I feel fine. I can remember being mad with
you."

His father pointed to the truck. "It
must be full of fumes in there. I think they've killed each other,
but keep away."

"The rest of the oil is still in the
cab. I promised some to Aziz."

"There's no way Aziz is having
Berlitzan oil."

Jason stared between the trees, trying
to focus on the hippy wagon. From the highway, it looked as though
it had been parked normally. The extensive damage to the front
would not be apparent to any passing driver, but the large patch of
engine oil on the ground said it was going no further.

"Don't give Berlitzan oil to Hammid
Aziz, boy." His father sounded as angry as ever. "How many
cylinders are there?"

"Nine. No, eight. We've just used
one."

"
Eight!
You got
eight
frigging cylinders?"

From inside the truck came a sound of
someone moving. Jason turned. He'd not thought about it before, but
this was how it would always be. The contestants would fight to the
end, but there would have to be one survivor. Like a Destruction
Derby of old automobiles, the end would come, but one would remain
alive. Always someone left.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket,
but the display had been broken and the phone was dead. "Aziz will
help us ----

in return for a couple of cylinders of
Berlitzan oil. I vote we get the hell out of here."

As they turned to leave, Jason glanced
back to see a large figure scramble through the broken glass into
the cab of the truck, holding a chain. A Volvo station wagon slowed
as it approached them. The man driving wound down the window while
the woman passenger waved a route map excitedly.