"What the heck," I agreed. Then, shouting: "All right, I'll take your word. We're sliding our automatic weapons out into the corridor."
We did it. Not happily, but we did it.
"Très bien," the voice came. "Now come out where we can see you. Slowly. Hands clasped over your heads."
We weren't happy about that, either. But we did it. The moment when we moved, defenseless, into full view and range, passed like an eternity, an eternity in which we waited to learn whether we would be torn apart by bullets, or allowed to live a little longer.
Then the moment was over and we were still alive, surrounded by men in the uniform of the French Paratroops. These men, however, had bands around their sleeves with the initials OAS. And deadly automatic BARs, trained at our bodies from a few feet away. Two of them swiftly and brutally frisked each of us, getting Li Chin's derringer, and Wilhelmina and Hugo, but not, thanks to his hiding place, Pierre.
"Bon," said the man who was obviously their leader, and whose voice had conducted the negotiations. "I am Lieutenant Rene Dorson, and I am not pleased to make your acquaintance at all. But I have my orders. You will come with me."
He gestured down the stairs in front of us with the.45 in his hand. Rifle barrels prodded us from behind, and we started down the steps, the lieutenant preceding us. At the bottom there was another bare corridor, with the fluorescent lighting along the ceiling. We marched along in dead silence, broken only by the scuffling of combat boots on cement. At the end of the corridor there were two doors. Dorson gestured to the one on the left.
"Enter," he said. "And remember, there will be automatic weapons trained on you at all times."
We entered. It was a large room, with polished walnut paneling over the cement-block walls. Thick Iranian carpets covered the floor. The furniture was authentic Louis Quatorze. The goblets set out on small tables in front of the couches were crystal with gold rims. Subdued lighting came from lamps on the tables, and set into the paneling. Sitting behind an elaborate seventeenth-century desk was another man in the OAS uniform. He was older than Dorson, with white hair, a pencil-thin white moustache, and lean, aristocratic features. As Li Chin and I came into the room, he looked up calmly, then rose.
"Ah," he said. "Mr. Carter. Miss Chin. Delighted to make your acquaintance."
But I hardly heard him or saw him. My eyes were riveted to the other figure in the room, sitting on a couch and sipping from a crystal snifter of brandy.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said the man behind the desk. "I am General Raoul Destin, Commanding Officer of the Western Forces, Organisation Armee Secret. As for my charming companion, I believe you are already acquainted."
My eyes never left the woman on the couch.
"Yes," I said slowly. "I believe we are. Hello, Michelle."
She smiled, and took a sip of brandy.
"Bon soir, Nick," she said softly. "Welcome to our headquarters."
Thirteen
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Li Chin broke it.
"See, Carter?" she said. "We should have known. Never trust a woman who knows too much about French cooking."
Michelle's eyes blazed. She whipped her head to the general.
"I want that girl disposed of!" she said viciously. "Now! And painfully!"
The general held up his hand and made a reproving sound.
"Now, now, my dear," he said, in Oxford-accented English, "that hardly would be hospitable. No. In fact, I think we are quite fortunate to have Miss Chin as our guest. She is, after all, the representative of a large and powerful business concern. A concern with many interests in oil. They would hardly care to have those interests destroyed. So I'm sure that she'll find it to her advantage to cooperate with us."
"For a man who's just lost about twenty of his troops, you're pretty genial," I said.
"Do not trouble yourself on that score," said the general calmly. "They were incompetent, therefore they died. It is one of the risks of being a soldier in any army."
He turned to the lieutenant.
"I take it you have made sure they are unarmed?"
The lieutenant made a brisk salute.
"Oui, man General. They were thoroughly searched."
The general waved his arm at the door.
"In that case, leave us. We have business to discuss."
The lieutenant executed a clean about-face and went through the doorway, taking his men with him. The door closed quietly.
"Please, Mr. Carter, Miss Chin," said the general, "sit down. Won't you join us in a cognac? It's rather good. Forty years in the cask. My private stock."
"Seasoned with prussic acid?" said Li Chin.
The general smiled.
"Both of you are far more valuable to me alive than dead," he said, pouring out cognac into two crystal snifters and handing them to us as we sat down on a couch opposite Michelle. "But perhaps it is time for me to explain a few things to you."
"I'm all ears," I said dryly.
The general leaned back in his chair and took a slow, savoring sip of his cognac.
"As you have probably realized by now," he said, "neither President De Gaulle nor his successors ever managed to completely destroy the OAS, even after the failure of our assassination attempts against him and the forced exile of most of our military leaders. Indeed, that forced exile simply led to a complete change of tactics on our part. We decided to build up our organization outside of mainland France, and when we acted once again, to attack from the outside. Meantime, we continued to increase the number of underground sympathizers within the government, and to increase the number of active members outside France. These activities came to a head some time ago, with the acquisition of Mont Pelee as our base, and the acquisition of Fernand Duroche as our — shall we say, technical advisor?"
"The acquisition of Fernand Duroche?" I repeated dryly.
The general glanced at Michelle. She shrugged.
"Tell him," she said casually. "It doesn't matter now."
"M'sieur Duroche was, I am afraid," said the general, "kidnapped. Michelle had long been a sympathizer of our cause in secret. M'sieur Duroche was strongly opposed to us. It was necessary to requisition his services under duress."
"And the letters he wrote to you, which you showed to Remy St. Pierre — fakes," I said, rather than asked.
"Yes," Michelle said. "As were the letters which my father received from me while he was in captivity. Letters in which I said I too had been kidnapped, and would be tortured to death unless he did as he was asked."
"Wow," said Li Chin, "this kid is some loving daughter."
"There are some things which are more important than family ties," said Michelle coldly.
"Indeed, there are," agreed the general. "And with the reluctant help of Fernand Duroche, we are going to achieve those things. But suppose I let M'sieur Duroche personally explain precisely how we shall achieve those things."
The general picked up a phone on his desk, pushed a button, and snapped an order into it. He put it down and sipped at his cognac. No one spoke. I glanced covertly at my watch. After a moment the door opened, and a man stepped into the room. I say stepped. I should say shuffled. He was slumped over as if totally defeated, his eyes on the floor. I couldn't help thinking how ironic his old name, Dr. Death, really was.
"Duroche," said the general, as if addressing a lower order of servant, "this is Nick Carter, an American intelligence agent, and Miss Li Chin, advisor to a large financial concern. They are interested in learning what you have developed for us, and how it works. Come over here and tell them."
Duroche shuffled forward without a word, to stand in the middle of the room, facing us.