The Grave Gourmet (7 page)

I
t took Capucine nearly an hour to drive to the “Pool,” but once there her meeting had been very brief. There was no love lost between the Police Judiciaire and the DGSE. The officer who had taken the call for the nonexistent agent succinctly summarized the situation: a certain Lionel Vaillant had called asking for Agent Arnaud Etienne. This Vaillant was a researcher in Renault's R & D department and based in the headquarters building in Billancourt. There was no Arnaud Etienne at the DGSE nor had there ever been. Also, the DGSE had no current interest in Renault and had no open dossiers involving the company at that time. Relaxing a little, the officer said he was sure it was a case of fraudulent impersonation of a government agent, which was a police matter, not a national security concern. Capucine signed a form certifying that the case was now the responsibility of the Police Judiciaire and that a follow-up report would in due course be furnished to the DGSE. The meeting was over in less than ten minutes. On her way out she was sorely tempted to make a surprise visit to Jacques. The two incidents involving Renault's R & D department and the DGSE just couldn't be a coincidence. She needed to talk to Jacques. It really did seem like something was being held back. But she was a good hour from Renault and wanted to interview the caller while the episode was still fresh, particularly before he had a chance to mull it over during lunch. Jacques would just have to wait.

She drove directly to the Renault headquarters on the assumption that Vaillant was highly likely to have the sort of job that would keep him in the office all day. When called by one of the eight matched receptionists he announced he would be right down.

When he arrived Capucine led him over to an ensemble of uncomfortable-looking steel-and-leather Bauhaus furniture at the farthest corner of the reception area, well out of earshot of the receptionists. She produced her identity wallet—badge on one side, ID card on the other. Vaillant recoiled, galvanized as if electrodes had been applied to his temples. He looked around wildly.

“Is this about parking tickets?” he asked, at the edge of panic. “I don't have all that many unpaid ones, really.”

Capucine smiled at him gently. “No, no. I'm Lieutenant Le Tellier from the Police Judiciaire. We don't deal with parking tickets. I never pay mine, either.”

“Then what's going on?” Vaillant's eyes searched the room in his nervousness, unappeased by her little joke.

“Well, it seems that you called the DGSE this morning, trying to reach a certain Arnaud Etienne. Is that right?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I gave Agent Etienne a tour of one of our installations last week. I had some additional information I wanted to give him, but the only number on his card was his cell phone. I didn't want to presume to use that so I looked up the office number. Surely there's nothing wrong in doing that. Is there? Is it some kind of breach of security? Should I have used the cell phone number?”

Capucine gave him a toned-down version of her little-girl smile and said nothing.

After a pause she asked, “And how was it that Agent Etienne was given a tour of your installation?”

“Well, he's the agent in charge of our security, of course. Monsieur Guyon—he's the
directeur
in charge of all of R & D—asked me to take him out to this test site and show him around the test vehicles. Monsieur Guyon called me himself,” he said with a show of pride, as if a direct call from on high not only established his status but was also full validation of any possible action on his part.

“It seemed reasonable that the agent responsible for security on Project Typhon would need to be fully au courant of the project's advancement.”

“And Project Typhon is one of your development projects, is that right?” Capucine asked smoothly.

Lionel checked, staring at her with a crafty look that was slowly replaced by one of alarm. “You must know all about Project Typhon. Don't you?”

Capucine was aware she had blundered. “I'm not here to question you on your projects. I'm here to talk about this so called Agent Etienne,” she said sharply.

Lionel became as sullen as an adolescent caught in a fib. “There's really not all that much more to tell. Monsieur Guyon called and gave me instructions to take someone on a tour of a site. Which I did. The gentleman asked some questions I couldn't answer during the visit. Once I had the answers I tried to call him. Voilà
.
I'm not sure I have anything more to add.”

Capucine's friendly girl-next-door manner vanished. “Look, Lionel,” she said, using his given name for the first time. “Either you cooperate here or you'll cooperate at the Quai des Orfèvres. Keep this up and I'll march you out of here to my car. Show the slightest signs of resistance and I'll be happy to cuff you in front of these charming ladies,” she said, inclining her head at the battery of receptionists, most of who were now bobbing up and down to peer at them over the top of the counter like ducks in a fun-fair shooting gallery.

“I'm sorry,” Lionel said, deflated. “I don't know why I'm being blamed for anything. What I told you is the truth. Monsieur Guyon did call me himself to tell me to take a DGSE agent around the site. So why shouldn't I have done it?”

“And why would an automobile development project possibly be of any interest to the DGSE?” Capucine asked.

“You really don't know about Project Typhon, do you?” Lionel shook his head in amazement.

“And are you in charge of it?”

“Good Lord, no. Of course not. I just run a small subproject.”

“And did this Etienne actually tell you he was a DGSE agent?”

“You mean he wasn't? Of course he was. Monsieur Guyon himself told me an agent was coming.” Lionel paused. “He gave me his card. Look, it says so right on it.” Lionel dug in his pockets and finally found a card with a stylized French flag over the words
MINISTÈRE DE LA DÉFENSE
—
DIRECTION GÉNÉRAL DE LA SÉCURITÉ EXTÉRIEUR
. The card looked perfectly authentic except for the single phone number listed. The prefix “06” was used for cell phones throughout France, and no agent would put that on his card.

“I'll keep this, if you don't mind,” she said.

Lionel nodded meekly.

“So why did Guyon ask you to show a DGSE agent around? Why didn't he take him himself?”

“I have no idea. At the time I thought it might be because Monsieur Guyon thought I was good at public relations. I took it as a pat on the back. Now I guess it just makes me look dumb.” He paused. “Look, I have no idea what's going on here, but whatever it is I really have nothing to do with it. Nothing.”

A
s Vaillant disappeared into the elevator Capucine went to one of the receptionists and asked to be connected to Monsieur Guyon on the house phone.

She asked his secretary if Guyon was available. After a pause his secretary came back on the line and said, “I'm sorry. Monsieur Guyon won't be able to see you today. He's tied up in meetings. He suggested you call tomorrow or the day after and perhaps he could find an opening next week.”

“Oh,” Capucine replied sweetly, “please tell him he doesn't have to bother. I'll be sending a squad car this afternoon to have him brought down to the Quai des Orfèvres.”

“Just a minute, please.”

“Madame, monsieur asks if it would be convenient for you to come up now. It seems a meeting has just been cancelled.”

Guyon met her at the door to his office, his expression flipping back and forth between disdain and fear like an old-style neon sign. “Well, Lieutenant, what is urgent enough to warrant your barging in like this?”

Capucine stared at him levelly for an instant. “It would appear, monsieur, that you ordered one of your staff to show an individual around one of your installations claiming that that individual was an agent of the DGSE. The individual had nothing to do with the DGSE. What do you have to say about that?”

Guyon's face drained of color. “I understood you were with the Police Judiciaire,” he stammered. “What does the police have to do with this?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Well, an agent phoned…Agent Etienne phoned me and asked for an appointment. He had been assigned to take charge of security on Project Typhon and quite naturally wanted to meet me. So, I met with him here and briefed him on the latest developments. Then I suggested he look at the current prototype in a test car. A physical demonstration would make it easier for him to understand.” Guyon paused, the sound of his voice giving him confidence.

“But you see, Monsieur Guyon, this man Etienne was not employed by the DGSE at all.”

“That's impossible. What makes you think that?”

“It's quite simple. One of your staff, a certain Lionel Vaillant, attempted to call this Agent Etienne to give him additional information. Vaillant called the DGSE directly, not his cell phone, which was listed on his card, and since the DGSE had never heard of Etienne they called us.”

“That's ridiculous. Agent Etienne's direct line is on its card as well as his cell phone. Bound to be. Here.” Guyon opened the central drawer of his desk, rooted around, came up with a card identical to the one Vaillant had given her, and looked at it carefully. “You're right. There's just a cell phone number,” he said with dismay.

“I'll take that,” Capucine said, holding out her hand.

“Are you quite sure Etienne was a fake? Maybe he was just using a made-up name for security reasons. You know, a nom de guerre? That's possible, isn't it?”

“I'm sorry, he was clearly a fraud. What is less clear is why you were so ready to give him the keys to the establishment without any confirmation at all. Let's talk about that part, shall we?”

Guyon went pale again. His brow became visibly damp. “Are you accusing me of negligence? Are you accusing me of a crime?”

“Hardly.” Much as she enjoyed the man's discomfiture, Capucine was well aware she would get further by loosening up a little. “But you must admit it's curious that a man of your obvious circumspection would be so trusting.”

Guyon seemed close to a state of panic. His breathing had become shallow and his blink rate had slowed perceptibly.

“Well,” Capucine said, trotting out her ever-effective schoolgirl smile. “Why don't you tell me a little about the project. I know a little about Typhon, but I'd like to know more. It sounds fascinating.” She realized too late it was once again exactly the wrong thing to have said.

“Typhon?” Guyon almost screeched. “Who told you about that? That fool Vaillant, I'll bet. It's just one of our development projects. Almost all of them are of concern to the DGSE. My guess was that Etienne was just starting with Typhon to warm up before getting on with the serious stuff.” Guyon laughed nervously.

He looked at Capucine to see if the explanation had satisfied her. She stared back without expression.

“Look, if you are all that curious about our development work, I'd be happy to have someone give you an overview presentation. Someone more competent than that imbecile Vaillant, of course. I could schedule it for tomorrow morning, or whenever is convenient for you. We have some wonderful new colors for the coming model year. We have a brand-new fabric coating that is absolutely stainproof. I'm sure that would interest you, no?”

“Monsieur, I'd rather we stick to Project Typhon.”

Underneath the pallor, Guyon's face became rigid. “Madame, I've answered all your questions. As far as I'm concerned this interview is over.”

As he got up to shake her hand, Guyon swayed visibly.

A
t seven that night Capucine was in her new office at the Quai completing her daily activity report when she received a call.

“Lieutenant? I was hoping I'd catch you before you left. Do you have a moment?” She recognized the voice immediately.

“Of course, Monsieur Vaillant. I was just filling out paperwork. What's up?”

“I had a really bad afternoon. I mean like really bad. Monsieur Guyon called me to his office. He was totally pissed off. I've no idea why. Anyway, he's taken me off Project Typhon and assigned me to something ridiculous about color indicators for brake-pad wear. Man, he was so mad I'm sure he would have fired me on the spot if he could've.”

“Well, then be thankful for living in a socialized state where the law guarantees your job. It doesn't surprise me, though. Monsieur Guyon did look a little out of sorts when I saw him, that's for sure.”

“Well, I'm dead meat here; he's definitely after my ass. I'm going to have to look elsewhere, no doubt about that.” Lionel paused. “Listen, I realize I wasn't all that helpful when we met this afternoon.”

“And you think the PJ is going to make trouble for you when you look for another job, is that it?” Capucine laughed.

“No, no, of course not. It's just that I felt…well, you know…Look, if you'd like, I'd be happy to tell you everything I know about the project.”

“And get a gold star for good conduct, is that it?” Capucine said with a smile in her voice. “Okay, come in tomorrow morning and I'll take a formal deposition. Say at eight. That way you won't be too late for work. Come to the main entrance and just ask for me.”

She hadn't bothered to give him the address. Who in Paris didn't know where to find the Police Judiciaire?

 

Lionel inched down the corridor timidly peering into doors. When he finally found Capucine's tiny office he went in smiling meekly and said, “They just told me to come up here and look for you. I got a bit lost in the corridors. I…uh…thought security would be tighter.”

Capucine laughed. “We're not all that worried that the bad guys will try to force their way in. Sit right here,” she said, indicating the standard-issue dented metal office chair with one bent leg. “Welcome to the Police Judiciaire. Make yourself at home.” Normally compulsively neat, since she moved into her new office Capucine had reluctantly taken to strewing her desk with pistol, ammunition clips, handcuffs, and the other accoutrements of the métier in order to seem more like a flic. Even she found the result unconvincing. Lionel looked around, eyes wide.

“Want some coffee? There's still half a pot left in the office next door.”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

“
Alors
,” Capucine said when she returned, making an adjustment in the angle of her computer monitor and carefully aligning the keyboard to the edge of the desk. “Shall we start on that deposition?”

“I'm all set.”

“First, your identity papers.”

Lionel handed her his national identity card.

“Name, last, first, middle,” she asked while looking at his ID, which contained precisely those data.

For the next ten minutes Capucine painstakingly typed in a long list of biographical details, specific enough to include items such as the dates and department of birth of his parents. Only when this was done did she ask him to provide a more complete version of his statement of the previous day, which she typed as a succinct three-paragraph summary, printed it out, and handed it to Lionel.

“Here, read this and tell me if it's okay. I'm going to get you to sign the whole thing when it's done.”

Lionel announced it was perfect.

“Okay,” she said, pushing the keyboard away and sliding the printout into a file folder. “Now tell me about Project Typhon.”

“It's totally awesome. It's this device that shoots a mix of catalysts into the cylinder head and makes engines three times more powerful.”

“So they go faster?” Capucine asked.

“That's not the idea. What it does is make any given car, with just a few modifications, use only a third as much gas. With gas prices the way they are, it's a totally major breakthrough. Jesus, it'll revolutionize the industry.”

“But why is Guyon so secretive about it?” Capucine asked. “If it's done the patents must have been applied for so security leaks won't be an issue.”

“That's just it. There's still an important thing left to do. We've figured out the right chemical composition for the catalysts—there are three of them—and all about the quantity and timing of the injection, and a whole ton of other technical stuff. But the nozzle is far from ready. See, the brilliant thing about Project Typhon is that the catalysts, which start out life as unstable liquids, are transformed into hard lozenges so they're safe. Then an electric current is run through them to produce a tiny puff of gas, which is injected into the cylinder head. It's brilliant, the way it's going to work. Once the nozzle is done, we're good to go. But we're not quite there yet.”

“So what did you show that phony agent at the test track?”

Vaillant looked at Capucine with admiration. “You sure catch on fast. We have a bunch of vans rigged up with the catalysts in gaseous form in tanks. There are computers in the vans that inject the gases into the engine. The vans are used for practical testing of the catalysts at different speeds and loads and all that stuff. Let me tell you, when we took that lumpy van from zero to sixty in three seconds, burning the rubber off the tires, that agent was one impressed dude! When he got out of the car he had to make a trip to the john. I bet he nearly wet his pants.” Vaillant laughed uproariously.

“You have no problem with adding all this to your deposition, I hope.”

“Hey, that's what I came down here for. To be as helpful as possible.”

Capucine typed up the addendum and printed out a draft. Lionel wrote in a few changes. Capucine typed in the corrections but did not print the document out.

“Okay,” Capucine said, “now tell me about this ‘Agent Etienne.'”

“Gee, there's not that much to tell. Like I told you yesterday, I got this call from Guyon, who says I have to go up to our installation at Courcelles-lès-Gisors and show this DGSE agent around the place and give him a ride in one of the test cars. So I did all that and even did one better and took the guy to lunch. We went to this two-star restaurant in the village. He lapped it up, let me tell you.” Vaillant suddenly looked crestfallen. “You know, I'll bet you that bastard Guyon is not going to approve my expense account for that lunch since he didn't actually ask me to do it. It was goddamn expensive, too.”

“You poor thing. What did this agent look like?”

“Not much to tell. A business-type guy. Fortyish. You know. Suit. The sort of guy you'd find in any business. Nothing to tell he was an agent. I guess spooks are supposed to look like that.”

Capucine leaned toward Lionel. “Come on, you can do better than that. Think. Close your eyes. Picture the man. What was distinctive about him?”

“Just like I said, your basic business guy.” Lionel's brow furrowed in concentration. “Wait. There is something. He spoke like a Belgian. Well, not exactly like a Belgian, but there was something in the way he spoke that was odd. Like he was a foreigner, but the kind of foreigner who grew up speaking French. Does that help?”

“Anything helps at this stage.”

Later, after Vaillant had left and Capucine had reread his deposition, the enormous potential of the Renault invention hit her. She had the unsettling feeling of having wandered into the wrong set for the film she was supposed to be making.