A Taste for Vengeance Read online

  “We chose these wines because if you like them, you can get them in England,” Pamela said from the end of the table, tapping her glass with a spoon to gain their attention. “Before you leave, I’ll give each of you a brochure which tells you where to find these wines and other essentials like duck fat and walnut oil.”

  “And if we have time, we might also visit a friend of mine, Pierre Desmartis. He speaks a little English,” said Bruno. “His wine won the gold medal year after year at the big exposition in Paris.”

  The brouillade arrived and, as always in a fine restaurant, Bruno wondered what kitchen magic allowed them to produce nine plates, each with perfect brouillade, at precisely the same time.

  “Bon appétit,” he declared and took a tiny sip of the white wine, noting that Pamela had ordered a Jaubertie. He would allow himself a half glass of white and another half glass of red. That was all, since he would be driving. He’d be careful to taste and spit at the dégustations.

  “How was your visit to Château de Monbazillac?” he asked Nicole, who replied that she greatly admired the building but liked the wine even more.

  “I loved it when you served their wine with the foie gras but I had no idea it would make such a good aperitif,” she said.

  As their plates were removed, Bruno again wondered at the precision of the restaurant’s organization. He knew from friends in the restaurant trade that there was a rule of thumb that a good maître d’hôtel used to plan the time the diners were allowed between courses. A relatively large group such as theirs, who tended to take longer over each course, or a table with young children who were easily bored, were usually given a fairly short pause at lunch, between five and seven minutes. A romantic couple, staring into each other’s eyes, would be allowed ten to fifteen minutes. The timings were different at dinner, when it was assumed guests liked to linger over their food and there were usually more courses.

  Bruno used the interval to sketch briefly the history of the wine of Bergerac from Roman times, the destruction of the vineyards in the Arab invasion of the eighth century, the role of the monks in refounding the vineyards and developing the sweet wine of Monbazillac. In Bruno’s experience, the English loved to hear of the importance of their country in developing and expanding the French wine trade. From 1152, when Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, married England’s King Henry II, until 1453, when they were finally driven from their last bastions in the southwest corner of France, the English had transformed the French wine trade and become its best customers. The whole of what was now known as the Bordeaux wine region was in English hands, along with much of the Bergerac.

  Even before the Hundred Years’ War, when prices rose due to the heavy taxes the French kings imposed on the sweet wines made by the monks of Bergerac, the English offered the monks tax-free status if they moved to their side of the Dordogne River. It proved to be an excellent location for the wines that became known as Monbazillac. In the Médoc, in St. Emilion and in Bergerac the English established a system of self-government and quality control for the wine trade. The Consulat de la Vinée de Bergerac was founded by the English nearly eight centuries ago and existed to this day, Bruno explained.

  Dutch tourists, by contrast, enjoyed hearing of their importance for the wine trade in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Bergerac was a Protestant region, so many of the region’s winemakers fled to Holland and England to escape the religious intolerance of Louis XIV and established themselves as wine importers. The ones in Holland invented the concept of the brand. They urged the winemakers in Bergerac to begin stamping their barrels with the consulat’s symbol of a griffon’s claw and later, when they began pasting labels onto their bottles, inscribed them with special insignia like the pine tree of Château Tirecul la Gravière. To this day, the best of the Monbazillac vineyards are still entitled to call themselves Marque Hollandaise.

  “I know that you English think of your King John as a bad monarch, although he gave you Magna Carta,” Bruno went on. “But did you know that he invented the wine of St. Emilion? He granted land to peasants there on condition that they cut down the woodland and grew grapes.”

  Bruno was aware that he was, as the English phrase put it, singing for his supper. Pamela expected him to entertain her customers as well as guide them, and he took his obligations to her seriously. He also enjoyed talking about the wines of his region and sharing his fondness for them. But he felt more than recompensed by this very fine meal as the capon was put before him, the breast perfectly roasted and the confit making the thigh as juicy as it was tender. He saw with approval that the waiters were offering red wine from Tiregand to go with the fowl and took a sip.

  Pamela’s clients were arranging themselves in the minibus when Bruno’s phone signaled an incoming message. It was from Marie-Pierre, Prunier’s secretary, to say that Prunier was to host a working dinner in his conference room with Ardouin, the magistrate, J-J and some officials from Paris. It was to begin at eight.

  “Will do,” he texted back. “Who is providing the food?”

  “Police canteen” came the laconic reply. Bruno settled himself behind the wheel of the minibus to visit the first vineyard on his list. Ah well, he thought, at least I’ve had a memorable lunch. He noted that Kathleen had managed the seating so that she was alongside him.

  Chapter 12

  It could have been worse, Bruno thought, surveying the dishes of various salads, cheeses and plates of cold chicken. Even the police canteen can’t mess that up. But the baguettes had that uniform look that suggested they had come from a supermarket. Bowls of grated carrot, coleslaw and fruit salad betrayed a similar origin, as did the apple pie. Mineral water, apple juice and coffee were the only beverages.

  “Welcome, Bruno,” said Prunier, rising to shake hands from his place at the head of the table. Ardouin the magistrate sat on one side of him, J-J on the other, and a stranger beside him.

  “One of the people we’re waiting for is an American, the FBI man at their embassy,” Prunier said. “He has diplomatic status as a legal attaché and I assume he’s here to tell us something interesting.”

  The plane from Paris had arrived late, Prunier continued, but the officials would come as soon as they had checked in to the Ibis hotel behind the cathedral. He introduced the stranger, a shaven-headed and burly man of Bruno’s age, as a liaison officer sent from London by Scotland Yard.

  “Chief Inspector Moore, Denis Moore,” the newcomer said, standing to shake Bruno’s hand. He was wearing a dark suit, blue shirt and a tie of blue and white stripes with narrow yellow edging and some kind of crest. His handshake was firm without being crushing and the look from his blue eyes was direct.

  “I met him on the rugby field when he was playing for the Metropolitan Police,” said Prunier with a grin. “Like me, Denis gets his exercise as a referee these days. He’s with their Special Branch, the English political police.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” Moore said equably in serviceable French. He turned his gaze back to Bruno. “The commissioner tells me you played for the army.”

  “Not regularly,” Bruno said. “I only played when one of the starters was injured. I’m Benoît Courrèges, chief of police for the Vézère Valley, but everyone calls me Bruno.”

  “Quite a coincidence, all you rugby players together,” said Ardouin, rising to shake Bruno’s hand. “At least Bruno and I share a fondness for tennis.”

  It was interesting, Bruno thought, how men in a meeting always began by seeking some common ground, preferably around a neutral theme like sports rather than something potentially divisive like politics. Women, he had noticed, usually began by an exchange of mutual compliments on their dress, or with talk of their children. He could never decide whether this was something intrinsic to male and female natures or whether it was simply a social convention. But he knew that he always seemed to be attracted to women who broke this patter
n and who fit comfortably into male company, like Isabelle or Pamela. Florence, he suddenly thought, was one of the few who operated easily in either context. Perhaps it was something teachers had to learn.

  “I want to clear up some loose ends before our friends from Paris arrive,” Ardouin continued. “I presume we’re all familiar with the interim reports from forensics and from the pathologist. It’s unfortunate that they can’t be more precise as to whether the hanging was murder or suicide. We might have to ask for a second opinion from Bordeaux or even Paris.

  “Next, are we paying sufficient attention to this date-rape drug they were using? I know it was found in Madame Felder’s suitcase, but are we sure she brought it in or might it have been bought here or even planted? I see no report in the file on the inquiries among local drug dealers.”

  “The report will be ready tomorrow morning, but it’s inconclusive, I believe,” said J-J. “Forensics found no firm evidence of anyone else in the house so we don’t think it was planted. They did find some traces in the remnants of pepper sauce on the steak. It seems that was how it was ingested.”

  “And the origin of the rope?” Ardouin went on.

  “Available in any hardware store. And the dead man’s garage was also a workshop. There was similar rope there and in the trailer at the log pile. Some of it was used to tie bundles of branches together, presumably for kindling.”

  “What would have been the minimum number of people needed if the dead man were rendered unconscious and then hanged?”

  “I would think three, and they’d have to be strong,” said J-J. “And they’d have to know the area well, perhaps by keeping the place under observation for a day or so. We’re looking at all recent arrivals at hotels and rental agencies, but that’s a long shot. With airports at Bordeaux, Bergerac and Limoges, Ryanair alone is bringing in over a thousand people a day from the U.K. and Ireland. And they may have come via Belgium or Holland, traveled to Paris by train and then rented a car.”

  There was a knock on the door and a uniformed officer showed in one very tall man, who must be the American, thought Bruno before his heart gave a skip at the sight of Isabelle, dwarfed by her companion. Her hair was a little longer than when he’d last seen her, but her look of fierce energy was unchanged. Her presence came as a complete surprise. In view of the international aspects of the case, Bruno had been expecting the brigadier. But it made sense to include Isabelle; she had been seconded from Eurojust to coordinate counterterrorism efforts among European member states. The bulk of her work concerned Islamic militants, but the IRA would also be in her purview.

  “Bonsoir, messieurs,” she began, with that smile Bruno knew so well. “Apologies that we’re late. May I present Monsieur Jason Hodge of the FBI, who is currently a legal attaché at the American embassy.”

  She then introduced each of the Périgueux team and the Scotland Yard man by name. Since she had worked with them before, Isabelle greeted Prunier, J-J and Bruno with a bise on each cheek. Ardouin and Moore each got a handshake.

  “General Lannes sends his compliments, but in view of my liaison role with international colleagues and my familiarity with the region, he asked me to take his place,” Isabelle said, effortlessly taking control of the meeting. “Thank you for arranging this dinner, Monsieur le Commissaire, and might I suggest we begin with some new data from our American friend?”

  “Fine,” Prunier replied. “Help yourself to drinks or coffee, everyone. Let’s hear what our American friend has to tell us and then perhaps Inspector Moore might brief us and then we should eat. This will probably be a long evening but let me say you are both very welcome.”

  Isabelle took a seat at the head of the table, facing Prunier. Hodge sat beside her, taking a laptop from his case as well as a transparent folder filled with papers.

  “You’ll each be getting this digitally but I also have a printout of the report made by the FBI into the ambush on Thunder Run Alley on November 30, 2004,” Hodge began, speaking slow but excellent French. His deep, slow drawl reminded Bruno of Western movie heroes he’d enjoyed. “I should explain,” Hodge went on, “that Thunder Run was our name for the road where a surprise attack into the center of Baghdad by armored vehicles of our Third Infantry Division took place on April 7, 2003. That was the attack that toppled Saddam Hussein and ended the war.”

  Maybe it had ended one war, Bruno thought, but it had launched another. Hodge’s remark suggested to Bruno that he had been in the U.S. military and had probably served in the Iraq War. Hodge now began reading from a document, apparently translating into French as he went.

  “A convoy carrying eighteen million dollars in U.S. currency was being taken from the secure zone at the airport to the treasury of the Iraqi interim government under Prime Minister Allawi,” Hodge began. “Because of pressing demands elsewhere on coalition military forces, the convoy was being escorted by an experienced team of twenty civilian paramilitary contractors. They were all British ex-military and equipped with armored cars and Humvee jeeps with mounted heavy machine guns and their personal weapons, under the command of former British army captain Rentoul.

  “The convoy was ambushed first by the detonation of explosives hidden at the roadside and then by rocket-propelled grenades. The escort vehicles at the front and rear of the convoy were badly damaged with serious casualties. Four of them were injured and three killed, including Captain Rentoul. The convoy was pinned down by heavy fire and the armored truck with the money disappeared. The money was never recovered.

  “A subsequent inquiry by U.S. military police with FBI support looked at the possibility, despite their casualties, of this being a carefully arranged theft by some of the contractors, possibly with Iraqi help. This was judged unlikely because Captain Rentoul was a marked man. He had provoked a riot just a few days before this when he killed four Iraqi civilians in a car which he believed was a suicide vehicle. The civilians turned out to be a father with his three children in the backseat. The Iraqi government wanted Rentoul’s head and he was about to be shipped out when the Iraqis made an urgent request for cash to pay police wages. Rentoul’s team was available, and he volunteered to escort the convoy at no more than three hours’ notice, hardly long enough to plan and set up a fake ambush and robbery. His body was badly burned but he was identified by his boss, former British general Felder, from the ID tags around his neck, his watch, and later from dental records supplied by the British authorities.”

  Hodge looked up from his reading.

  “We never closed the case,” he said. “But there was little to go on and the ambush was clearly no fake.”

  In bundles of hundred-dollar bills, Hodge explained, eighteen million dollars weighs almost two hundred kilos. He invited them to imagine sixteen stacks of bills, each a meter high. Naturally, the Americans had the serial numbers and subsequently found some of them on the bodies of Muqtadar al-Sadr’s Shia militia fighters, some others circulating in Dubai, and the largest amount that was recovered, thirty thousand dollars, was found in the home of an Iraqi government official who was in the pay of Iranian intelligence. More of the bills began to circulate through Hezbollah circles in Lebanon, which again were funded by Iran. The U.S. investigators therefore assumed this had been an organized robbery by Shi’ite militants who had very close Iranian connections, and were probably acting under Iranian orders.

  “So we stopped thinking Captain Rentoul could have been culpable,” Hodge went on. “Frankly, we dropped the ball. Other crises came up and we moved on, and wrote off the money.

  “Then last night I was informed of the new questions about Captain Rentoul’s fate by Commissioner Perrault here,” he said, glancing at Isabelle. “We can no longer conclude that he died in Iraq and obviously we now have to question the identification of the body made by General Felder. So we dug out the tape the military police made of that interview.”

  Hodge clicked some of
the keys on his laptop and the room heard an American voice identifying the date, time and nature of the interview. This was followed by a cultivated English voice saying: “I’m afraid neither I nor anyone else could make a positive ID of this corpse. It has been badly burned, charred and reduced to about half life-size. The watch on the left wrist appears to be similar to the one I have seen worn by Captain Rentoul and his initials are engraved on its back. The ID tags are his. Maybe dental records would give you certainty but all I can say is that I think it’s Rentoul and I’m terribly saddened by his death. He was a close friend and colleague.”

  Hodge ended the digital recording and looked around the room.

  “So we checked on General Felder. Thanks to information provided by the French authorities, we confirmed that he is currently in intensive care at the Anderson Cancer Center of the University of Texas in Houston. He has been there for the past four months and his family have rented an apartment to be near him, and where he can stay between treatments. He has terminal cancer of the esophagus and his doctors have suggested that after the next and last round of treatment his family should consider removing him to a hospice to ease his passing. When I say ‘his family,’ I should add that the apartment is rented by his two adult children and their mother, General Felder’s first wife, who still uses his name. His current wife, Monika Felder, was in Houston frequently but always chose to stay in a hotel. Relations between her and the two children do not appear to be good, according to medical personnel at the hospital. She never visited her husband when the others were there, and vice versa. Usually whenever she was in Houston, at least one, and sometimes both the children would take off for a break or simply to go about their business.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Isabelle interrupted, with a harsh laugh. “That is either very sophisticated, very French, or there is something strange about those relationships. How do they arrange their visiting hours? Or are they keeping an eye on one another as the rich old man dies?”