Wolfnight, p.21
Wolfnight, page 21
“My dear it would take one press man, and in a pre-election period we just can’t risk it. Discrediting a cannibal nigger general … but Alberthe de Rubempré is one of us.”
“The point is well taken.”
“Where’s the Special Section?”
“Carcassonne; standby; six-hour alert for full readiness.”
“Ring the bell, would you? … now I want maps of this section: satellite maps.”
“The mineral-survey maps, sir?”
“I don’t care what they are. I want the details of every henhouse, bush and rabbithole in the area, is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“And get on to Carcassonne: I want the commandant of the Special Section available for briefing: am I clear?”
“Yes sir.”
Refreshed by a stimulating consciousness of energetic decisions being taken, the gentlemen could unbutton. Never having seen a shot fired, in anger or otherwise, zapping a few people by-paratrooper-interposed gave them quite an appetite, and a pleasure in reminiscence. Now when Jeannou Lacaze … my dear boy that’s where he started, commanding the demi-brigade of the eleventh Shock, at that time the secular arm, so to speak, of the Service. Rose to command the service itself. Meteoric: straight up vertically to Chief of the General Staff; the admirals were livid.
Now when we sent the Legion in to jump over Kolwezi …
My dear boy, I can’t be bothered learning their new nigger names, it’s all Congo-Bongo and Heart of Darkness to me. King Leopold the Second, absolutely lamentable and utterly deplorable but one can’t help admitting, those were the days. Nothing has changed you know.
I did spend some time as a boy in old Foccart’s office but really, you know, I never could muster up an awful lot of enthusiasm for all those Waggadoogoo places: really—Africa … Of course the Islamic slice off the top, but that’s not Africa, is it. I’ll say goodnight to you, shall I? Bless my soul; I was supposed to go to the Opera. Well out of that, at least.
I never do: nobody does but Japanese. Drop in, in the morning; I’ll fill you in.
“Now, mon Commandant, let’s make sure this is absolutely cut and dried. Here are the maps: yes, well, spare me all the technical witchdoctery. I had Monsieur Lamy here, he’s our expert interpreter dug out of bed, and as I was saying all in infra-red, however I’ll be brief. No no, man, the large scale one first—you’ve clearance at the military airfield over here: you’ll want a troop-carrying copter, won’t you? and what I want to consult you about is if as seems likely they’ve a cowboy or so on the roof here—Here—is it advisable to have a gunship? Don’t make it technical dear man.”
“Gunship no, qua gunship.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Not to be technical don’t want to knock the castle down do you?—no need for all that firepower. However gunship yes as source of light. Pin um down.” It was exactly like a conversation between Flora Finching and Mr F’s Aunt; the gush of amiable nonsense counterpointed by ‘Knock him down and chuck him out of winder’.
“You wouldn’t mind explaining?”
“Troop-carrier landing at that moment vulnerable. Troops issuing from doors, before they’ve a chance to deploy; at that precise moment when at close range. Hold gunship overhead at low altitude, steady. Umbrella. In itself highly intimidating and forceful presence: one. Anybody fooling around, hypothesize existence ground-air missile, something of the sort, firepower’s there to knock it over: two. Observatory unimpeded vision all azimuths, direct and coordinate a rapid assault: three. Less life lost that way.
“Four; as I have said, powerful source of light. Can floodlight landing area for your carrier, invaluable at night and especially on uneven, defended or booby-trapped terrain.”
“But you’re targeting your own men, it seems to me.”
“Infra-red,” said the commander patiently. “Furthermore powerful searchlight can be beamed on any fortified area—like these walls. Not to underestimate lightbeam power to intimidate and paralyse; never had a rabbit in your headlights?”
“But they’ll shoot at your light source, won’t they?”
“Like to see um try,” laconic.
“I see,” quelled for once; in fact himself a rabbit in a headlight.
“What’s your intelligence estimate on number and probable equipment opposition?”
“Imprecise,” unwilling to admit there wasn’t any.
“Ten to twenty? Light automatic arms?”
“It would be as well to count on quite that, perhaps. Armament presumably such as would be suitable for urban terrorism; such uh, as is mobile, concealable, unobtrusive. But they may have heavier stuff stowed away in that fortress. Libyan sources, uh.” These dear good Libyans come in handy whenever an unspecified boo-man is called for.
“Thirty men,” said the commander. “Arm a section automatic weapons, hold reserve section, bit more sophisticate stuff, ’n case called for.”
“Ah,” with appetite, “you have these things which make a terrifying bang. Paralysing gases,” relish growing.
“All that,” tight of lip. “Up to you. You want um stunned, or shot at?” One politician disconcerted, but only momentarily. A firm lead must be given to the military. Rapid recovery was made from the loud bang in the padded office. A man trained to show nothing, even when stunned.
“As I said at the beginning, mon Commandant,”—he hadn’t but they always say this, implying that your memory is bad, that you cannot hold the thread of an argument, that they are forebearing towards cases of slight mental deficiency, “let us understand one another. Our object is to immobilise. There is a hostage, whom it must be our priority to rescue unharmed. But this is a dangerous band, and may show fanaticism when cornered. Must be,” choosing the word, “dealt with. Circumscribed. Surgical strike,” a tasty cliché coming happily to the rescue. “Persons bearing arms against the Republic will be dealt with radically.” He was testing phrases, trying them out for eventual hearing by pressmen: a loathly, cynical crowd. Not Godfearing.
“Like to make that a little clearer,” said the commander, who was manoeuvring towards proper written instructions.
“Clearer, yes. Clarity before all things. Persons bearing arms shall be immobilised by such techniques as you see fit to utilise. Persons on the other hand using arms, ah, who fire, I say, upon you; authorisation empowering you to make use of the full extent, uh, of the means at your disposal.” Unbureaucratically, any bugger who shoots, you zap.
“Need clear legal charge,” insisted the commander woodenly. “Upon territory Republic here—not in Africa now. Due legal process applies. Gendarmerie in similar conditions—verbal summation to lay down arms—shot fired in air—shoot only to maim and only in self-protection. My men not trained this way. Told to hit, they hit. No protracted conversations in preliminary.”
“Quite, quite,” impatiently. “Numerous precedents, mon commandant—court would uphold you beyond question. Jacques Mesrine; public enemy; carrying grenade upon his person.”
“Make it written.”
The gentleman sighed, sat down at his desk, uncapped the gold pen, wrote upon the Republic’s paper with much pomp.
‘It is for the care of the State, and by my instructions, that the Commander of the Intervention Section has been given a free hand in the execution of his orders.’ Cardinal Richelieu, giving the famous piece of paper to Milady that cleared her of any assassinations her fancy might dictate, did only a little better. The gentleman would have felt much flattered by the comparison.
Castang had dozed, in his chair. He woke, and wondered what had woken him: everything was still. Alberthe was not a noisy or a restless sleeper; was lying quietly. No nightmares. Neither had he dreamt, that he could recall. He knew where he was, what he was doing, what he intended. He was not unnaturally strung up. Normal in fact. He looked at his watch: it was ten to seven, and he had woken at the time he usually did, at the start of an ordinary boring working day. It was as though he had had a nap on a train. Where was he going, and when would he arrive? He should be feeling more anxiety about that, and was faintly surprised to find himself so calm. This instinct was surely the right one; he must behave calmly, normally, as though nothing were amiss. His eyes a little gummy, it was true; his teeth needing cleaning. He had smoked more than he should.
He went and washed; he rang for breakfast. Small movements and a quiet voice awoke Alberthe: when he came out of the bathroom she was lying on her side, the large fine eyes open and looking at him. The morning waiter came in with the coffee and a casual good morning; he poured out a cup in this domestic, undramatic atmosphere and brought it over for her. She stretched out a bare arm for it and he recalled without emotion that she was naked. It was simply a fact. He had desired her last night; he didn’t, now. Why complicate things further?
“Thank you. I slept; did you?”
“Some.” He went and drew the curtains. Daylight gathering upon gravel, a lawn, bushes and trees losing the last of their foliage. Except of course the beeches which clung obstinately to their brown dry leaves. A dull day. Raining. The clink of the coffee cup made him turn.
“Pass me the robe, would you?” She put it on with modesty, covering her legs as she swung them out. “I wish I had something to wear.”
“Ring up and ask; there’s nothing to prevent you. On the contrary, it’s the perfect way to approach the matter. Will your maid be afoot yet?”
“She had better be,” a small tart hint of the Baroness back in her voice.
“Here then,” lifting the phone. “Give me an outside line, would you?” He handed it to her. She looked at him; dialled.
“Paul? Of course it’s me; don’t be silly. Put me through to Isabelle, would you? … well, are you awake yet? Try not to be ridiculous. A very simple matter; I’m close by. Pack me a day dress and the usual shoes and things—and a coat; it’s raining—and fetch them down in the small car. It’s a country hotel; Paul will tell you the way. What’s all the bewilderment about?—just do as I say.” She sat back and reached for a croissant.
Richard would have that line tapped, unlisted or not. He would draw the obvious conclusions, and know where they were. He would intervene or he wouldn’t. Hopefully, he would have his wits about him and wouldn’t.
But let’s hope this doesn’t last too long. Or Lucciani will appear, disguised as a waiter.
As long as they realise that I’m not going to put up with any nonsense.
Tedious Old Fool. It was a tenet of faith throughout the PJ that calling the Prefect an ass was insulting to beautiful, charming and noble creatures. Very likely the viewpoint was held also in other branches of the administration, since undoubtedly the Prefect was boring. He was proud of knowing his subject. That was just it: he seemed to know every subject and the applicable adverb was always ‘exhaustively’. As a young man he had been hideously zealous, and in middle age he was still wearisomely earnest. Old he was not, but leathery of complexion and afflicted with that steely, curly hair that goes grey ahead of time. He was tall and dignified, with a lumbering gait, and on him the somewhat ponderous uniform provided by the administration (the Prefect is a civilian but since Napoleon has had always a vaguely military air) had the misfortune to look ill-fitting, with a little bulge where his stomach came: all his clothes looked secondhand. He was a throatclearer too as a preliminary to getting to the heart of things, a process listeners dreaded. He had been worrying Richard since early morning, having received alarming messages from Paris ahead of the official mail. ‘I feel I’m not in full possession of the facts’ was his most frequent burden.
“Nobody is,” said Richard.
“Murky.”
“Yes, well, it’s all the fault of Vibert really. This is his fief as you know, so that anything concerning him hereabouts would rebound twice as high; create twice the echo.”
“That is of course evident,” said the Prefect, put out at being treated as though he were a schoolchild.
“From then on in nothing is. The only person who could shed light would be Viviane Kranitz, and she’s dead, and that’s why, to some degree at least. Her fault too. My impression for what it’s worth is that she was one of those mulishly obstinate persons who can’t be budged and someone finally got exasperated. Will we ever know, now? She was very intelligent, extremely so, too much so for her own good; in that fatally narrow and over-specialised fashion. She was moderately pretty, but had immense charm, and must have been extremely attractive: as to that Monsieur Vibert is not going to tell tales. Madame Vibert … but not now that the woman’s dead: that has sealed every lip. She was supposed to be used as a catspaw, and realised it, and dug her heels in. How are we ever going to get the responsibilities sorted out—Kranitz—Rubempré—”
“This man Joinel.”
“Well, you know all about him.”
“Which is nothing. Every imaginable title, and all of them figureheads, while paradoxically the real basis of his power is in areas where you can’t get at him. He’s untouchable legally—I’ve talked to the Procureur …” Richard felt momentarily sorry for the Proc., an emotion that seldom came his way.
“A bit like Monseigneur Lefevre,” he offered. Clouds gathered on the Jovian brow, and he went on hastily. “I mean only an ex-archbishop, that’s nothing much, but how are you to condemn him for heresy?—he is old, obstinate, traditionalist and orthodox to the old line. Condemning everyone else for heresy: we’ve politicians like that, and they Split the Party. Vibert is one of these fence-sitters, a bit right of centre but the area is kept deliberately vague; a pragmatist who dislikes the ideological approach. Rubempré is much further to the right but still in a pragmatic way, representing financial and industrial concepts.”
“But,” said the Prefect with a shrewdness unexpected, “made more complex and obscure by her Jeanne d’Arc syndrome.”
“There she found common ground with the Kranitz woman,” agreed Richard, “but from what I’ve seen of her,” cautiously, “Rubempré is much less rigid and upon occasion opportunist. Kranitz was the one ready to die for France—that, perhaps, is just what she did,” pensive. “Joinel, furthest of all to the right and your pure dug-in reactionary, could make common cause for a while with the Rubempré interests, which are financially indispensable, and shared sympathies with Viviane Kranitz, though it wouldn’t last long: to her he’d be a wooden old back number, incapable of moving with the times. Did she knowingly accept the rôle of leading Vibert into the fold?—yes, probably. But accept this scenario of a kidnapping to hold the waverer’s feet firmly in the path—I feel certain not. Joinel may have come to see her as a hindrance too great for his projects and decided to sacrifice and discredit her simultaneously. He certainly got Vibert detached with uncommon speed from the entanglement. Did he have her killed?—surely not. That must be the doing of some young fanatic—there’s a nasty fringe of young thugs—enrolled under this idiotic Free Poland banner that the man Kranitz is waving, certainly with the indulgent complicity of the right-wingers in the States: I say nothing about CIA support, as was seen in Chile.”
“We won’t go into that,” said the Prefect, firmly. “And those are the people holed up there in Rubempré’s country house—if we follow your reading, that is …”
“A momentary agglomeration; the bees swarmed in a muddled instinctive way where the queen ought to be, once they found the queen missing. She had a gang of zealous young devotees: traces of them have been seen, disguised as Palestinians, or Libyans, or whatever. Free Bolivia, or Free Guadeloupe—anything you like as long as it’s a series of outrages that will harden the populace into believing that what we need is a hardline right-wing government which will Put Down Terror.”
Richard thought that the old imbecile must have his bellyful by now, but he was still not satisfied.
“Added to, and hardened, by stray elements from Germany, Spain—who knows?”
“It’s conceivable. This house would be a concentration point, clearing house, call it what we please she’s a princess, and a princesse lointaine; there’s a romantic thread twined through all this.”
“Now will you kindly explain to me the conduct of your subordinate which appears to say the least shot through with aberrations?”
“It’s under control,” said Richard coolly, “we know where he is, and where she is: he won’t do anything without our—call it guidance.”
“But his motives?”
“Are mixed like most people’s. But he’s a good man, and has two sides to his head. He’s out of line, naturally, but we have to recall three things.”
“That it’s his wife, to be sure, much can be forgiven him but—”
“That it’s his wife,” coldly, “and that his flat, containing wife and small child, was the one shot up in this simulated terrorist rampage. Further, that he has been the investigating officer throughout and feels strong personal commitment and responsibility. Further, that he is rightly anxious to avoid embarrassment or unwanted highly undesirable publicity to the department—and to your office, Monsieur le Prefet. The woman Rubempré was due to be released directly the agreement of the Procureur and the instructing judge could be obtained. Her deposition—since it cannot be termed a confession—is on my desk.”
“Being illegally obtained has no evidential value,” haughty, not to say chilly.
“But enables justice to pinpoint the true authors of a kidnapping and a homicide taking place on my territory, and yours, Monsieur le Prefet,” imperturbably.
There was another flash of intelligence; or was it humanity?
