Children of War (24 page)

‘I thought you Americans were his big supporters.’

‘Some are, those who want quick results and big headlines. There’s a growing number of us who think this could be a much longer kind of war and we need to be a lot more subtle in the way we wage it. What about you?’

He shrugged. What would a high-flying diplomat want with the views of a village policeman? ‘There’s always a problem with balancing short-term results and long-term concerns. Break a man today and his sons make you pay for it later.’

‘Not many politicians look that far ahead,’ she said.

‘I’ve noticed.’ They had reached the edge of the parkland, where the scattered trees began to thicken into the woods that climbed all the way up the slope. Oaks, chestnut and walnut trees mainly, good country for wild boar. He led the way to the side, away from the wild woodland.

‘Thanks for steering Deutz away when Gilles turned up,’ he said.

‘The Brigadier took care of it, but I don’t think it was Gilles that set Deutz off. It was Fabiola. He kept asking who brought her here.’

‘Professional rivalry?’

She shrugged and they walked on in a silence for a while. Bruno broke it by asking her whether she’d ever worked in the Arab world.

‘A few liaison visits to Saudi and Jordan, one tour in Iraq, that’s all. I don’t speak it. Why do you ask?’

‘You seemed surprised about what happened to Sami in the Algerian civil war.’

‘It’s like when you read about the Taliban shooting girls who’re learning to read and burning their schools. Unless it’s one girl you can see and identify with it doesn’t stick, unlike
those wretched photos of prisoners in Abu Ghraib that went all round the world. They defined us.’

‘And you’re worried that Deutz could define us all over again?’

‘Yes, and then wondering if we really know what we’re doing. There’s a line of poetry about ignorant armies that clash by night. That seems to sum us up.’

Bruno glanced at her, surprised by her frankness as much as her views. He’d assumed she’d follow the Washington conventional wisdom. But he understood her snatch of poetry. He’d been in armies like that, like the mess in Bosnia when he’d been attached to the United Nations peacekeepers with an ill-defined mission and no coherent chain of command. But he’d also been in good units with good leaders, clear goals.

‘Isabelle told me you were in that secret war in Chad, fighting the Libyans.’

Startled that she knew of it, and wondering how much else Isabelle had told her, Bruno glanced at her. She was watching him with polite interest rather than with an inquisitor’s gleam in her eye. With some distant memory of stern lectures on security before the Chad operation, he tried to brush the topic aside. ‘Nothing very secret about it, mainly a training mission. We were teaching the Chad troops to use modern weapons while they taught us how to move in the desert.’

Nancy shrugged and nodded, then looked at her watch, and said, ‘Sorry, just checking when I can reach somebody in Washington.’

Bruno tried to remember the time difference, six or seven hours. It would still be four in the morning at the CIA or White
House or wherever she was planning to call. ‘I presume they’re pressing you to deliver Sami,’ he said.

‘I think we’re getting more out of him here. It’s a matter of persuading people of that despite the politicians and the talk-shows.’

‘So you’re on our side,’ he joked, wondering if she’d smile. He was also wondering why she’d brought up Isabelle’s name. Nancy did not strike him as the sort of woman who did anything by chance.

‘Just temporarily on your side,’ she said, and her smile looked genuine enough, coming with a twinkle in her eyes and a rather impish look that suited her. For a moment it gave him a sense of what she must have looked like when she was a teenager. ‘So don’t count on it lasting.’ She took his arm companionably and they strolled in silence for a few paces.

‘I hear you met Deutz before?’ he said.

‘Yes, when he went over to Quantico, where our psychological people are based. They didn’t like him. Apparently he was rather too confident of his French charm succeeding with the women. One of them nearly brought a sexual harassment case, so then it took a lot of phone calls to get him into Guantanamo.’

‘I thought our government didn’t approve of Guantanamo.’

‘It doesn’t, officially, but at this level we can all be flexible. Did you read all of that report Deutz wrote?’

‘Yes, there was nothing about Guantanamo in there.’

‘No, but it was clear that he knew our smooth-talking Imam, Ghlamallah.’

‘I must have missed that.’

‘First rule of academic papers: always read the footnotes and
the acknowledgements,’ she replied. ‘Ghlamallah is thanked for his cooperation and insight. Reading between the lines, it sounded as though he saw Ghlamallah as one of his tame Imams. You know Ghlamallah was in Saudi Arabia, working with them on their de-tox programme?’

‘No, and I don’t know what you mean by de-tox.’

‘De-toxification, using Islam to persuade jihadists of the error of their ways.’

‘Does it work?’

‘In some cases, but it’s slow,’ she said. ‘The fact is, we’re groping in this world, so we’ll try anything.’

‘I don’t think we’re groping with Sami. I mean, he’s doing his best to help.’

‘That’s why it’s so frustrating to sit around this place while the tribunal gives him Rorschach tests or whatever they do. I’ve got a whole lot more mugshots sent over that I can’t wait to try on him. As it is, I’m going stir-crazy here.’

She stopped, let go of his arm and turned to face him. ‘You know this area. Where should we go for dinner? Your favourite place, my treat, or at least, Uncle Sam’s treat.’ Her face had that impish look again.

‘Well, there is one thing I was hoping to do this evening, if the Brigadier lets me out,’ said Bruno, smiling. ‘It might make it easier if I’m taking you. But it will be very noisy, very French, a lot of people, many of them good friends, and a lot of wine. It’s the
vendange
supper at the local vineyard, to celebrate the end of the harvest. And I should warn you that Gilles will probably be there, if he finishes writing in time. Have you ever eaten fresh-roasted wild boar?’

The smell of roasting meat grew stronger as Bruno and Nancy walked down the long avenue, already lined with parked cars, that led to the Domaine. Bruno had little choice but to leave his Land Rover by the entrance gate, a long stroll from the winery where the
vendange
party was being held. It gave him time to explain to Nancy how the vineyard had been saved from financial trouble by the Mayor’s plan to raise cash by selling shares to the citizens of St Denis. Since shareholders, who included Bruno, were given discount prices, they then from self-interest and loyalty became the best customers.

‘The party’s late this year, so the grapes will already have been pressed,’ he explained. ‘They had to rush the picking because of the weather. So you won’t be able to taste the fresh grape juice.’

‘And is the wine you make here good?’ she asked, turning her head to look at him as they talked, and sounding genuinely interested.

She was looking splendid, with that easy style that comes from deep self-confidence. Nancy was wearing a red roll-neck sweater, a leather jacket and jeans tucked into knee-high brown boots. Her dark hair fell in natural curls, flattering her rather square jaw with its slightly prominent chin. Except for
her generous lips and eyes that were lively with intelligence, Bruno would have thought it a face too strong for beauty. But there was something special about her, perhaps the proud way she carried her head or the way she took part so easily in the male world of politics and security. Whatever it was, he knew he’d remember this woman.

‘Tell me when you’ve tasted it,’ he answered her. ‘It will be last year’s wine and I think Julien usually does better with his whites, but it’s all very drinkable. It may not compare with the fine wines you drink on the diplomatic circuit in Paris.’

‘Some of the embassies, you’d be surprised,’ she said, grinning. ‘And if you knew what we used to drink in college, you’d be appalled.’

‘Do you know Bergerac wines?’ He raised his voice over the growing sounds of revelry as they approached the winery.

‘You bet,’ she said. ‘Isabelle made a point of serving them at her place. That was the first time I had foie gras with Monbazillac. And there was another, a red that she said was one of your favourites, named after some baron who was always drawing his glove to challenge people to duels.’

‘Château de Tiregand,’ Bruno said, smiling, and privately touched to think of Isabelle shopping around the wine
caves
of Paris to find wines to which he’d introduced her.

They rounded the corner to see the golden stone of the inner courtyard turned into a rosy pink by the glow from the giant firepit on which the boars were roasting. When the twilight gave way to the dark of night, Bruno knew the whole scene would turn a rich red as the ashes smouldered. He felt the strange sensation stealing over him of time slipping, of the modern France of high-speed trains and computers giving way
to a scene that was almost medieval or perhaps even older. The setting of stone and fire and meat roasting over an open fire could have taken place in this valley in days when men carried swords and wore chain mail and kept guard against English raiders, or millennia ago when they wore furs and painted prehistoric beasts on the walls of caves.

‘Wow, we could be back with the knights of the round table,’ said Nancy, squeezing his arm. ‘This is great. You ought to sell tickets.’

He shook his head. ‘This is just for us locals. It’s all done by volunteers. For this to work, people need to know each other.’

‘Then I’m honoured,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’ She paused. ‘I just realized, there’s no music.’

‘Not now, when people are greeting and talking and tasting the wine. But there’ll be dancing later, after the food.’

The courtyard was half-filled by four long rows of tables, lit by ranks of hurricane lamps and candles in glass jars. Places were set for thirty or forty people at each one and one large crowd was milling around a makeshift bar where big jugs were being filled from barrels of wine. A second crowd was standing back from the heat at the great fire as men with wet towels round their hands wrestled to lift one of the long metal spits. The weight of the wild boar bowed it slightly as they carried it to another set of tables where two men in white aprons were already carving the first of the roasted boar.

‘Where the hell have you been, Bruno?’ called Stéphane jovially, waving one of the big carving knives.

Raoul clapped him on the shoulder, put a wet towel in his hand and barely giving him time to introduce Nancy to Stéphane, led the way to the third boar. Bruno helped lift the
beast from the blasting heat to carry it, still dripping fat, to the carving tables. He apologized to his friends, saying duty had called him away. He was sorry to have missed the usual ritual of building the fire, stuffing the boar with thyme and sage, sewing up the belly and then sliding the beast onto the roasting spit. Usually it was Bruno who concocted the bucket of marinade, herbs, wine and honey. They applied it with long brushes made of thick branches of rosemary tied around a pole. It always reminded Bruno of a witch’s broom.

‘I was going to save you a wee dram, but they finished off the bottle,’ said Dougal, coming to give Bruno a welcoming hug. Dougal had launched St Denis’s new tradition of baptizing the beasts with a splash of whisky just before they were placed atop the fire. The men who had built the fire and dressed the boar then finished the bottle.

Dougal took Bruno’s arm and turned him aside. ‘When can we get the insurance inspectors into Le Pavillon?’

‘Up to the Gendarmes,’ Bruno said. ‘Trust me, it will be taken care of.’

Julien approached, bringing two large water glasses filled with wine. Bruno took them and turned to find Nancy and saw her standing with Fabiola and being introduced to Pamela, Florence and Annette, a young magistrate based in Sarlat. He was pleased to see that Yveline, the Gendarme officer, had joined them. Her unpopular predecessor, Capitaine Duroc, had seldom bothered to attend any of the civic festivities that meant so much in the life of St Denis. Bruno excused himself from his friends and went to join the women and hand Nancy her glass.

‘I’m celebrating,’ said Pamela, kissing him enthusiastically.
‘My brace is finally off and Fabiola says I can start riding again tomorrow. When do you get a day off to come and see the new horse I’m hoping to buy?’

Nancy seized the cue and began an animated discussion about horses, but Bruno noted that as soon as Pamela spoke, Nancy withdrew a fraction, observing Pamela in the way cops were trained to do. Watchful more than curious, there was a cool detachment in Nancy’s gaze. Bruno thought Isabelle might have told her of Pamela as the Mad Englishwoman, that old nickname for her that the people of St Denis had first coined before they came to know her.

Nancy and Isabelle must have been closer than he’d assumed, Bruno thought as he felt a friendly hand grip his arm to draw him to one side. Hubert de Montignac, whose local wine shop regularly made the Hachette list as one of the best
caves
in France, handed him a glass of red.

‘It’s the new one Julien and I started making last year, leaving the juice in the vat with the skins,’ Hubert said. Bruno had hoped the wine would benefit from Hubert’s expertise. ‘We kept it six months in a barrel. What do you think?’

His eyes still on the unspoken interplay between the women, Bruno sniffed; the smell of fruit was stronger than usual but there was a deeper note in the scent, a hint of maturity. He sipped, and opened his eyes in surprise. It was markedly better than the reds Julien had made in the past.

‘That’s a good wine,’ Bruno said. ‘It can’t just be the barrel. There’s more Merlot in this.’

‘Half and half Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon, plus about five per cent Cabernet Franc; it’s what we plan to make this year.’

It had been a good harvest, Hubert went on. Having invested most of his savings in the town vineyard, Bruno was delighted to hear that St Denis was now producing a wine of which he could be proud. Bruno led Hubert back to the women, who were still talking enthusiastically about horses, and Hubert began pouring another bottle of his new red for them to try. Bruno excused himself to make a brief tour of the crowd, shaking hands and kissing cheeks and ducking questions about the explosion at Le Pavillon. He was looking for the Mayor. Finally he found him coming out of the door to the Domaine’s big kitchen, carrying a big pot filled with roast potatoes.