The Statement (19 page)

But even as he let these thoughts enter his mind he knew he could not do it. He would have to tell the Commissaire, and the Commissaire would veto it. The Commissaire had said, time and time again, that the Church should be his hiding place, that nowhere else would he be so safe. Especially now when the police are no longer on my case. Besides, if I run off to Normandy without telling the Commissaire that’s the end of his help for me. No, I have to go on.

He turned away from the sea. The carillon ended its peal. He shivered in the sun. Those bells. A funeral sound.

23

When T drove along the winding road that leads from the Nice–Monaco highway down to the port and resort village of Villefranche, it was night and he was worried. It was the beginning of the season. The hotels would be full. And they were. He was turned away, first from the Welcome on the seafront, then from the Versailles, the Bahía and the Provençal. It was after midnight when he found a room in a mean little place in a back alley in the narrow old streets behind the seafront. He hated such places. They drowned him again in a memory of Sète, and his childhood. No toilet in the room, no shower, no
télé
, nothing. A single bed, with a deep groove in its lumpy mattress where a thousand travellers had tossed and turned, as he did, all night long.

He had left his car in a car-park off the Place St  Michel, halfway up the village. He rose in the pre-dawn dark, shaved and dressed under a miserable single light bulb in the dirty bathroom at the end of the corridor, and walked up to the square where the cafés were just beginning to set up their outdoor tables and chairs. As he approached, a waiter sluiced water on the pavement. The pavement steamed. The sun was already hot. There was a kiosk next door to the café he chose. It offered newspapers, fan magazines, postcards and maps. He asked for a detailed local map. As he paid, he saw a stack of
Nice Matins
on the counter. He did not read the headline: he read the date.
Monday May 9, 1989
.

He sat at an outdoor table with a coffee and brioche. The map showed the Haute Corniche, above the Nice–Monaco highway. T left the brioche half eaten, paid his bill, reclaimed his car from the underground
parking
at Place St  Michel and drove out, following the map. Ten minutes later he passed the Hôtel Bristol, four kilometres from the priory. The Haute Corniche road was lined with elegant villas, hidden behind stone walls and groves of trees: quiet, no shops. But he could see this wasn’t the place to do it. Already, there was a constant coming and going of traffic, delivery trucks, private cars and tour buses. As the day wore on, the traffic would increase.

The priory came into view at last. Behind eight-foot-high stone walls a red-tiled roof rose up above a frieze of plane trees. There was no sign, other than a rusting iron cross, at right-angles to the entrance. There was nowhere to park without being seen, but he took a chance and drove on for a further fifty yards. He was in luck. A little opening at a bend of the road had a sign saying:
Vista Point
. A perfect place to lie in wait. He turned the car round so that it faced the priory entrance and sat staring at the heavy wooden gates.
May 9
. A horoscope’s a warning, isn’t it? I mean, it’s telling you what you’d better do and what you’d better not do. It’s telling you when your luck’s in and when it’s out. It doesn’t mean that some fucking disaster
is
going to happen to me today, not that, it’s telling me that on the 9th I’ll be forced into an action that could hurt me. It said
if possible
I shouldn’t go along with a proposal that others made to me.
If possible
. What’s that mean? Doesn’t mean I should walk off the job, does it? No, it’s a warning, yes, that’s it, a
warning
. And the warning says,
if possible
today’s not the day to do it. So, listen. If the subject turns up this morning and books in down the road, all I have to do is to heed the warning. Keep him in my sights. Follow him if he goes out today, but don’t
do it
today. Tomorrow’s the 10th. Wait till tomorrow.

But again, he remembered that rich old Jew in his St  Germain apartment, heard again that quiet voice:
You must kill him on your first attempt. You may not get a second chance
. And he’s seen me, already. Seventy years old, but he’s quick. Oh fuck. It’s only a horoscope. Some stupid bitch wrote it up in her office, what does she know?

Still.
This is no time to play the hero
.

24

When Captain Daniel Dumesnil came back to his office, just before lunch hour on the morning of May the 9th, Sergeant Picot handed him a slip of paper. ‘A Colonel Roux called from Paris, sir. He left this number. He asks if you can call him straightaway. A private matter, he said.’

‘When did he call?’

‘Ten-thirty, sir.’

He went into his office and shut the door. Private. I wonder? Robert is in charge of the Brossard affair.

He picked up the phone. A voice he had known since their training days: ‘Roux.’

‘Robert, it’s Daniel.’

‘Daniel, how are you? How are the kids?’

‘Fine, fine. And Claire?’

‘She’s in great form. She sends her love. And to Martine. Look, I’m coming your way.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. And I need your help. Specifically, I need four of your best men for two or three days. And transport.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. In the meantime, I don’t want anyone, and I mean anyone, to know I’m in Nice or why. Now. Can you fix me up?’

‘I’ll give you two of my sergeant-majors, and two corporals. They’re the best.’

‘Great. I need them now. Is that possible?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to send two of them to stake out a location in Villefranche. It’s a priory of the Carmelite Order on the Haute Corniche road. The person I’m looking for is old, probably driving a 1977 white Peugeot.’

‘Monsieur Pierre?’

‘Right. You have a photo on file. Show it to your men. If anyone who seems to fit that description comes out of the priory I want him followed. Out of town, wherever. They mustn’t lose him. Remember he’s a Houdini. And they must tell nobody, and I mean nobody, who it is they’re watching. Can you start the stakeout now? Our man may be on his way there today.’

Dumesnil looked at his watch. ‘If I’m to use my best team, I’ve got to take them off other jobs. I can’t guarantee a start before two o’clock.’

He heard Roux hesitate, then: ‘Two o’clock will be fine. Our man may not surface before then and if he does, he’s likely to go to ground in the priory. I’m on my way. If you start the stakeout at two, I hope we can get inside the priory by four. Villefranche is, what? Ten minutes from Nice?’

‘Seven kilometres.’

‘Good. And remember, Daniel. We’re walking on eggs.’

‘Church property. Right of asylum. All that?’

‘Yes. But I have a search warrant.’

25

The priory of St  Michel des Monts on the Haute Corniche above Villefranche, had, until 1930, been called the Villa Del Lago. In that year its owner, a textiles millionaire, died and willed his property to the Carmelite Order. The house, a thirty-room mansion in the Mediterranean style, was surrounded by two acres of formal gardens and the property included riding stables and a swimming pool. The Carmelites converted the stables into a chapel and erected a cross over the roof but left the villa untouched. It now housed eighteen contemplative monks, under the direction of a prior, Dom Henri Arminjon, a native of Nantes, who was the author of several works on mystical theology. The Carmelite Order, following the wishes of the villa’s late owner, opened its doors four times yearly for two-week retreat periods, which were planned especially for businessmen.

Now, as he drove his little white Peugeot through the entrance gates, he hoped that no retreat was in progress. For, in that case, he would be obliged to stay out of sight in the gardener’s cottage at the end of the estate. However, retreat, or not, this was one place he was sure of a welcome. The Prior, a dignified and distant figure, intimidated him, but was a man he could look up to, revered by the Chevaliers as a saint in the making.

And so, cruising the little Peugeot along the gravelled drive which led to the pink splendour of the mansion, he began to hope that here, at last, he might risk a longer stay.

The
père hospitalier
, whose name he did not remember, came down the marble steps, smiling, waving to him.

‘Monsieur Pierre! How are you?’

‘Hello, Father.’ He got out of the car and they shook hands. ‘How nice to be here again. Your garden is beautiful this year. Are you having a retreat?’

‘Not at the moment. But our next one starts the day after tomorrow. So, I’m afraid I can’t put you up in the main house. It will have to be the gardener’s cottage.’

He smiled gratefully at the priest. ‘Oh, God bless you, Father, that will be perfect. And more private, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, indeed. I must tell Father Joseph you’re here. It’s just a formality, I’m sure, but he would want to know. Our Prior is in Rome at the moment, so Father Joseph is in charge.’

The gardener’s cottage was at the far end of the estate in the middle of a vegetable garden. He took the key which the
père hospitalier
had given him and unlocked the door. A small grass snake lay immobile on the stone step leading up to the sitting room. He turned and went back to his car to get the car jack as a killing tool. But when he returned the snake was gone. This incident reminded him that he was not armed. After what happened in Salon I should carry a gun at all times, even in the safety of this place.

He took the revolver from the glove compartment of the car and put it in the deep pocket of his overblouse, then laboriously carried his three suitcases into the cottage. The last suitcase, containing his mementoes, was so heavy that he had difficulty lifting it up the steps. It was not locked and now he opened it and stared at its contents: Iron Crosses, Afrika Corps caps, SS insignia, Nazi flags and banners. I no longer need the money I used to make from these. The sensible thing would be to get in touch with that dealer in Lille. Kids find this stuff romantic. Offer him the lot at an overall price. Sell it to the skinheads, that’s what he’ll do. Fair enough.

He heard a noise outside, shut the lid of the box, went to the window and looked down the rows of vegetables. A monk, his long, clay-coloured robe hiked up to his knees, was hoeing near the compost heap. He saw the monk straighten up, as a wooden gate creaked open and Father Joseph Cartier came into the vegetable garden.

Joseph. Coming to see me?

The almoner of the priory, Father Joseph, had been his classmate at the beginning of the thirties in the St  François de Salles day school in Toulon. Their fathers, sergeants in the regular army, had served in the same regiment in World War I, and were devoted readers of
L’Action Française
. Both had enrolled their sons in the Catholic boy scout movement, both were vociferous denunciators of the corruption of the Third Republic by Jews, freemasons and communists. Because of all this, he and Joseph Cartier should have been like brothers. Yet they had not been best friends. And now, as he watched him come up the path to the cottage, he could not be sure that Joseph was on his side. The Prior was his protector in this house. Joseph, shy and distant, seemed in every sense a contemplative, frail, taciturn, his mind turned towards God.

But it was Joseph he would have to deal with today. He went to the door of the cottage, opened it and came out into the sunlight, smiling, his hand extended in welcome. Joseph either did not see this gesture or ignored it, bowing his head slightly in greeting, his hands remaining deep in the folds of his habit.

‘Ah, Pierre.’

‘So you’re in charge now, Joseph,’ he said. ‘What does that feel like?’ He laughed, to show that this was not a serious question. But Joseph chose to answer it.

‘It’s a responsibility I’d prefer to avoid. Especially now that you’re here.’

Joseph turned and looked back down the rows of the vegetable garden. The monk, hoeing there, was out of earshot.

‘We’ll be starting a retreat here, the day after tomorrow,’ Joseph said. ‘There will be strangers, laymen, in the grounds. It’s perhaps not a good time for you to visit.’

So that’s it. The Cardinal’s men have talked to him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’ll stay out of sight, I promise you. To be honest, though, I have very few choices left. Last week, the Jews sent someone to murder me. I was spared, thank God. But our enemies are closing in on me. I need friends, as never before.’

He waited, watching Joseph. That instinct that had never failed him in the past did not fail him now. Joseph had turned against him.

‘Our Prior, as you know, is presently in Rome,’ Joseph said. ‘I don’t expect him back for another week. Therefore I’ll have to make this decision myself.’

‘Of course. But, as you know, Dom Henri has always supported me. We share the same beliefs about the state of the world. I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse me now.’