Angel City (11 page)

“Of course it is. Thanks for the lift.”

He got out of the car. The men retracted the fence without a word, and Harper walked toward the village. The buildings were old stone things from the fifteenth century. They had flower boxes and painted shutters at the windows, and the doors were marked with names. Crausaz, de la Grille, Léderrey. All the names were followed with “Vignerons et Encaveurs.” Seemed Grandvaux was a winemaking village.

“My sort of town. Where's the bar?”

He came to a fork in the road where the closest thing to a bar was a stone fountain topped with a bronze spout. He leaned over for a drink. The water ran clear and it was cold. He straightened up, wiped dribbles from his mouth. He rounded a corner and walked down a curving lane. Blocking the way were six stainless steel vats as tall as him, all of them filled with freshly cut grapes. The grapes were green and moist and they made the air smell sweet. Harper squeezed between two vats, saw three locals in a wine cellar. They wore blue overalls and were shoveling clumps of grapes onto a treadmill that went
clank, clank, clank
. The grapes bounced along the treadmill to an auger, where they were crushed and separated from their stems. The men took frequent breaks to sip at their
vin blanc
. Each time raising their glasses to the light to admire the wine's color. One of them noticed Harper, then they all noticed him. They didn't speak, they just stared.

“La cave Duboux?”
Harper asked.

“Nous sommes Palaz et Fils, monsieur. La Famille Duboux c'est tout droit.”

“Merci.”

He walked on, heard a slow waltz in three-quarter time.

He followed the music to where light poured from a cellar door and fell upon a handful of locals dancing in a narrow street. More people were gathered around watching the dancers, all of them with glasses of
vin blanc
in their hands. In the window just above, an old man operated a hand-cranked Victrola. He'd turned the fluted horn toward the street and it filled the night with music. Harper backed into the shadows and watched. Something struck him as odd. Not the Victrola, not the dancing. It was the gentleness of the scene. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such a thing in paradise. The waltz ended, and the couples stopped dancing. Harper stepped from the shadows, and all the locals turned their eyes to him.

“Bonsoir,”
he said.

The locals didn't speak. They stepped aside, watched him pass. At the open door, Harper saw more locals sitting at tables made of wine casks. And at the edge of the crowd, sitting alone, was the cop in the cashmere coat.

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Harper. Would you care to join me?”

H
ARPER DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF THE LOCALS STANDING
as if someone who mattered just walked through the door. The inspector pointed to the empty stool next to him.

“I'm so pleased you could come, Mr. Harper. Do sit down.”

The inspector's tone said there wasn't a choice in the matter, anyway, so sit and enjoy it. The locals settled in their own seats, continuing to stare at Harper.

“You must wonder why I asked you to meet outside the usual haunts. As it happens, today marks the beginning of
la vendange
in Grandvaux.”

Harper stared at the inspector, trying to make sense of the words.

“The harvest
 . . .
the grape harvest?”

“The very thing. There's always a fête at the end of the first day. I never miss it and thought you'd enjoy seeing it.”

The inspector's explanation didn't help.

“You dragged me out of the protected zone to talk about grapes?”

“Indeed, I have. Allow me to introduce Monsieur Duboux. His family, like all families in the village, has tended the vineyards of Grandvaux for six hundred years. He also tends a section of vines I am fortunate enough to own.”

Harper turned to a man in work trousers and a blue flannel shirt. He wore an old Swiss soldier's cap on his head. Midsixties, face tanned from a life of working in the fields. The man set a bowl of freshly picked grapes on the table along with two glasses and a bottle.

“C'est la dernière bouteille de 2010, Inspecteur.”

Inspector Gobet bowed his head.

“Vous êtes trop gentil, Monsieur Duboux.”

“
En fait
, I would like to offer it to your guest.”

“
Néanmoins
, my dear sir, I will partake of the honor. And perhaps, now, you might ask old Fournier to play a bit of
le Ranz
. I'm sure Mr. Harper would enjoy hearing the villagers serenade the cows.”

Monsieur Duboux tapped his nose and winked, gathered fresh bottles, and invited the happy crowd into the street.

“Mes amis, il est temps de chanter!”

Harper watched the locals collect their glasses and follow Monsieur Duboux out the door. He heard Duboux call to the old chap with the Victrola.

“Allez, Fournier. Donnez-nous une pour les vaches!”

When the music played, the locals sang a lullaby that echoed down the street and into the night. Harper looked at the inspector.

“They're out in the street, singing to cows?”

“Very old Swiss tradition,” the inspector explained. “Keeps the beasts calm and happy.”

“There's nothing in these fields but vines.”

“Mr. Harper, the cows may have moved farther afield, but in Switzerland, traditions linger. Passed down and cherished from generation to generation like the family watch.”

Harper thought about it.

So far, Inspector Gobet was batting for six on the no-bloody-idea meter. The inspector smiled, opened the bottle, poured.

“I must say, Mr. Harper, you've made quite the impression in the village. It's quite the honor to be presented with a bowl from the first day's harvest, not to mention the last of the 2010. A near perfect vintage.”

“Raises a question: What have I done to deserve it besides show up?”

Inspector Gobet set his nose in the glass and breathed the bouquet.

“Simply put, the good citizens of Grandvaux have an awareness, shall we say, of who and what you are. Try it.”

Harper picked up his glass. Nice color, good nose.

“It's swell, and what the hell do you mean?”

“The wine, of course.”

Harper scanned the cellar. There was no one around.

“Look, Inspector, I just got out of the tank yesterday. My timeline's well scrambled. I'm really not in the mood to follow-the-leader till he gets to the bloody point.”

The inspector picked a grape from the bowl, popped it in his mouth. He slid the bowl across the table.

“Try one of these, Mr. Harper. They were picked this very morning at dawn. From my private vineyard, as a matter of fact. You may find they have a particular zing. Good for what ails you.”

Harper pushed the bowl away.

“What's ailing me is your lads in the white coats seem to have been a little heavy-handed with the memory scrub. Took me an hour to find Café du Grütli tonight, and it's around the bloody corner from my flat.”

The inspector returned the bowl to Harper.

“Please, do have a grape.”

“No fucking thanks.”

A pale fire burned in the inspector's eyes.

“Mr. Harper, I gave instructions that you were to be told this was a social occasion. If you'd prefer me to remind you that you are
not
a creature of free will, then I'll be more than happy to do so.”

Yes, fucking sir,
Harper thought. He picked a grape, tasted it. The skin seemed to melt and a sweet liquid washed over his tongue, then came a rush of light to his eyes. Warmth, weightlessness.

“Radiance?”

The inspector nodded. “The very thing.”

“It comes from grapes?”

“Not just any grapes; these grapes, picked at dawn on the first day of
les vendanges
. A bit of distillation, then a blending with the leaves of certain Moroccan tobaccos, et voila. A pleasant smoking experience necessary to the well-being of our kind in human form.”

Harper looked outside, watched the locals swaying and singing still. He flashed coming into the village, seeing the curious looks on their faces. Half joy, half wonder.

“It isn't supposed to affect them.”

The inspector pulled another grape, bit into it, and savored the taste.

“In its raw form, a little goes a long way. So much so that after eating a few handfuls, the locals are induced into a transcendental state that allows them to see, in a manner of speaking, the light that dwells in the eyes of our kind.”

“What about you? Do they recognize you?”

“Me? Oh, I'm something of an old hat in the village. You, however, are quite the new boy.”

Harper popped two more grapes. The inspector was right; good for what ails you.

“Christ, no wonder you've got a tactical unit surrounding this place. Keep the locals under lock and key.”

“More along the lines of mutually assured security. The villagers present us with the first day's harvest, as they have for thousands of years, and we see to it they are not disturbed by any unpleasantness during this happy time.”

Harper held his glass against a candle, saw particles of perfect light shimmering in the wine.

“How long does the effect last for them?”

“Only for a few nights. Then they'll begin the fermentation process and carbon dioxide will be released into the air. Among other things, the process causes them to forget about the likes of you and me, till the next
vendange
comes around. Another glass? I'm afraid it's another of those quaint Swiss traditions that an opened bottle must not be left unfinished.”

“Quite right, too.”

Inspector Gobet poured.

Outside, the Victrola played another waltz, Viennese this time. The locals shaped into couples and began to spin themselves silly. Harper saw the inspector's fingers tapping in time to the music. For half a second, Harper thought, the cop in the cashmere coat looked positively human. Harper plucked a few more grapes and popped them in his mouth . . .
ziiiinnng.
The music wound into a dizzying coda, and the locals laughed and applauded and shouted to the old man with the Victrola:
“Encore, Fournier! Encore!”

The inspector finished his glass and stood.

“Well, this has been pleasant. Care for a stroll?”

Harper knew the social occasion portion of the evening had concluded. He took a last swig from his own glass.

“Sure.”

They went into the street and walked into the shadows.

They turned down Rue de l'Église, walked past the Riccard and Bougnol cellars. More locals making merry over bowls of grapes and glasses of wine. At the Genévaz cellars, some locals sat at a long table in the middle of the road, raising glasses and singing a tune about a fair young maiden who kissed all the boys from Fribourg to Lausanne and back again.

At the edge of the village, Harper followed the inspector onto a grassy path bordered by fieldstone walls. A hundred meters on, they came to a stone arch fitted with an old iron gate. Inspector Gobet removed a key of similar vintage from his coat and opened the lock.

“Let me guess,” Harper said. “Your own private vineyard.”

“Let's just say I'm the latest in a long line of
propriétaires
. It was on this very patch of land that our kind inspired the Romans to cultivate the Chasselas grape. There are some wonderful writings in the Lausanne Museum you must read sometime. Lots of reports to the Emperor from the commander of the legion, explaining how the soldiers enjoyed working in the vineyards at harvest time. Lots of
in vino veritas
, that sort of thing.”

Harper looked back at the village. Locals had gathered on the village square overlooking the lake for another round of singing to the cows, this time to the cows across the lake in France.

“Not surprised.”

The inspector pushed open the gate and they walked down the fieldstone steps leading through the vineyard. A third-quarter moon gave enough light to guide them in the dark, and at the end of the steps there was a small stone hut sitting amid the vines. The inspector turned to Harper.

“Please, take a seat on the bench. I won't be a minute.”

Harper watched the inspector open the door. Moonlight spilled through the doorway, and Harper saw the sniper team inside. The spotter checking his sector through binoculars, the shooter adjusting the sight of his Barrett anti-material rifle. The door closed behind the inspector. Harper sat on the bench, scanned the hillside. He saw stone huts scattered through the vineyards. He did a recon of the layout. There wasn't a square meter of ground surrounding Grandvaux that couldn't be seen by one of the huts. All together, the huts triangulated a series of impenetrable kill zones. No doubt the inspector's snipers could make a head shot from a thousand meters. And with a 12.7-millimeter explosive round, the hit would be impressive. Harper laughed to himself. An hour ago he'd arrived and found himself bemused by the transcendental gentleness of the villagers. Now he was in a vineyard surrounded by shoot-to-kill snipers.

“Switzerland, land of enchantment.”

The inspector emerged from the hut and joined Harper on the bench.

“My apologies, I needed to check in with our command post on Chemin de Baussan. Lovely view from here, don't you think?”

Harper gave it a glance.

Moon, mountains, lake.

“It's swell.”

The inspector had a cigarette case in his hand, and he offered it to Harper.

“I have,” Harper said, patting his pockets. “Somewhere, I think.”

“Actually, I'm switching you to a new blend. Keep the case as a token of my appreciation for a job well done in Paris.”

Harper flashed back to the café, getting up to speed with Monsieur Dufaux.

“Can't remember much of it. But from what I saw on the front page of the newspaper, and from what Dufaux tells me, it looks like cleanup in Paris was a bloody mess.”

The inspector dropped the cigarette case in Harper's lap.

“You made six confirmed kills, we made the bomb disappear, all with minimal collateral damage. In our line of work, we call that a good day.”

Harper took the cigarette case.

“Cheers then.”

He opened it, saw twenty gold-filtered fags all in a row. He took one, and the inspector had a burning match at the ready. Harper nodded toward the stone huts scattered throughout the vineyards. “Lighting me up for your snipers?”

“More like giving them an opportunity to align their sights.”

“Right.”

Harper touched the tip of the cigarette to the flame and drew in the smoke. He felt a warm rush of radiance as the weight of his form melted away. Christ, he thought, it had been a long time since it was that good.

“Mind if I ask a question, Inspector?”

“Go ahead.”

“Just how did my picture end up on the front page of every newspaper on the planet? Thought your clever lads in the SX squad were supposed to take care of that sort of thing.”

“As they did, as the cleanup crew did. Every shred of tape or image of you caught in a camera or mobile was tracked and deleted. We decided to leave that particular image in the public domain.”

“Figured as much. It's the
why
I'm wondering about.”

“Well, firstly, you aren't identifiable to any great degree to the general population. Secondly, HQ likes a bit of stoking the angelic legend now and again. Thirdly, we'd very like to locate the one responsible for it.”