'Chief Inspector Nicol; I'm Samson,' I said as I went into his office. I kept it very formal. French policemen demand politeness from colleagues and prisoners alike.
He looked me up and down as if deciding it was really me. 'It's a long time, Bernard,' he said finally. He was dressed in that uniform that Sûreté officers wear when they are not wearing uniform: dark trousers, black leather jacket, white shirt and plain tie.
'Two or three years,' I said.
'Two years. It was the security conference in Frankfurt. There was talk of you getting a big promotion.'
'Someone else got it,' I said.
'You said you wouldn't get it,' he reminded me.
'But I didn't believe it.'
He protruded his lower lip and shrugged as only a Frenchman shrugs. 'So now they are sending you to charm us into letting you have custody of our prisoner?'
'What is he charged with?' I asked.
By way of answer, Nicol picked up a transparent bag by the corner so that the contents fell on to the desk-top. A US passport crammed with immigration stamps of everywhere from Tokyo to Portugal, a bunch of keys, a wrist-watch, a crocodile-skin wallet, a gold pencil, a bundle of paper money – German and French – and coins, a plastic holder containing four credit cards, a packet of paper handkerchiefs, an envelope defaced with scribbled notes, a gold lighter and a packet of the German cigarettes – Atika – that I'd seen Biedermann smoking. Nicol picked up the credit cards. 'Biedermann, Paul,' he said.
'Identification from a credit card?' I sorted quickly through Biedermann's possessions.
'It's more difficult to get a credit card these days than to get a carte de séjour,' said Nicol sorrowfully. 'But there's a California driving licence with a photo if you prefer it. We haven't charged him with anything yet. I thought we'd wait until you arrived.'
'That's most considerate of you,' I said. I put the packet of German cigarettes into my pocket. If Nicol saw me do so he made no comment.
'We always try to oblige,' said Nicol. There is no habeas corpus in French law. There is no method whereby a man unlawfully detained may be set free. The Prefect of Police doesn't need a formal charge or evidence that any crime has been committed; he needs no judicial authority to search houses, issue warrants and confiscate letters in the post. He can order the arrest of anyone without even having evidence that any crime has been committed. He can interrogate them and then hand them over for trial, release them or send them to a lunatic asylum. No wonder French policemen look so relaxed.
'May I see what he was carrying?' I asked.
'He had that small shoulder-bag containing shaving things and some underwear, a newspaper and aspirins and so on. That's over there. I found nothing of interest in it. But he was also carrying this.' Nicol pointed to a hard brown leather case on the side-table. It was an expensive piece of luggage without any manufacturer's labels, a one-suiter with separate spaces for shoes, shirts and socks. I suppose the factory made it to the maximum regulation size for cabin baggage, but it was large enough to get anyone into a lot of arguments with officious check-in clerks.
One compartment inside the lid was intended for business papers. It even had special places for pens, pencils and a notebook. Inside the zippered section there were four lots of typed pages, each neatly bound into varying-coloured plastic folders. I flipped through the pages quickly. It was all in English, but it was unmistakably American in presentation and content. The way in which these reports had been prepared – with coloured charts and captioned photos – made them look like the sort of elaborate pitch that an advertising agency might make to a potential client.
The introduction said, 'The German yard Howaldtswerke Deutsche Werft at Kiel has dominated the market in small- and medium-size diesel submarines for more than 15 years. Two Type 209 (1400t.) submarines are being fitted out and Brazil has ordered two of the same displacement. Work on these will start almost immediately. Two larger (1500t.) boats are already begun for delivery to India. These will not be stretched versions of the Type 209 but specially designed to a new specification.'
Soon, however, the detailed descriptions became more technicaclass="underline" 'The Type 2095 carry Krupp Atlas passive/active sonar in the sail but the TR 1700 also have a passive-ranging sonar of French design. The fire-control system made by Hollandse Signaal-Apparaten is standard, but modifications are being incorporated following the repeated failure of the Argentine submarine San Luis in attacks against the Royal Navy task force.'
'It doesn't look like you've captured a master spy,' I said.
'It's marked secret,' said Nicol defensively.
'But so are a lot things in the museum archives,' I said.
'Never mind the archives, this is dated last month. I don't know anything about submarines, but I know the Russians give a high priority to updating their knowledge of the world's submarines. And I know that these diesel ones are the hunter-killers that would have to be used to find their nuclear-powered ones.'
'You've been watching too many TV documentaries,' I said.
'And I've learned enough at NATO security conferences to know that a report like this that reveals secrets about submarines built in German yards for the Norwegian and Danish navies will get everyone steamed up.'
'There's no denying that,' I said. 'We think Biedermann is a smalltime KGB agent working out of Berlin. Where was he going?'
'I can't tell you.'
'Can't tell me, or don't know?' I said.
'He arrived from Paris in a taxi cab and hadn't yet bought a ticket. Look for yourself.' Nicol indicated Biedermann's personal possessions which were still on the desk.
'So it was a tip-off?'
'A good guess,' said Nicol.
'Don't give me that, Gérard,' I said. 'You say he hadn't bought a ticket. And he hadn't arrived by plane. So he wasn't going through Customs, immigration or a security check when you found the papers. Who tipped you off to search him?'
'Tipped off?'
'The only reason you know all that printed junk is secret is because you were tipped off.'
'I hate policemen, don't you, Bernard? They always have such nasty suspicious minds. I never mix with them off-duty.'
'American passport. Have you told the embassy?'
'Not yet,' he said. 'Where is Biedermann resident?'
'Mexico. He has companies registered there. For tax purposes, I suppose. Is he talking?'
'He helped us a little with some preliminary questions,' admitted Nicol.
'A passage à tabac? I said. It was delicate police euphemism for the preliminary roughing up that was given to uncooperative prisoners under interrogation.
He looked at me blank-faced and said, That sort of thing doesn't happen any more. That all stopped fifty years ago.'
'I was only kidding,' I said, although I could have opened my shirt and showed him a few scars that proved otherwise. 'What's the official policy? Are you holding on to the prisoner, or do you want me to take him away?'
'I'm waiting for instructions on that,' said Nicol. 'But it's been agreed that you talk to him.'
'Alone?'
Nicol gave me a mirthless grin. 'Providing you don't get rough with him and try and blame it on to our primitive police methods.'
So my taunt did find its mark. Thanks,' I said. 'I'll do the same for you some time.'
'It was a tip-off. It was phoned through to my office, so it was someone who knew how the Sûreté works. The caller said a man would be at the Alitalia desk; a scarred face, walks with a limp. A clerk took the call. There's no chance of identifying the voice or tracing the call but you can talk to the clerk if you wish. A man; perfect French, probably a Paris accent.'