They paid and left the café, then crossed the boulevard and walked down a cobbled side street towards the cathedral square. A child straddled a bicycle in front of them, and overhead a woman leaned out of a window, shaking out a tablecloth. Reaching the square, they found the market at the height of its activity. Long trestle tables laid with coloured cloths displayed the wares of the region: cheeses, cured meats, olives, breads, patisserie, and bottles of the local ink-black wine. The aisles were packed with customers – local housewives with their woven willow baskets, tourists holding cameras – all of them tasting, haggling, paying, then moving on to the next row of stalls.
In a corner of the square a pizzeria was open for early lunch business. Martin and Isobel followed Philippe across the market throng and through the restaurant’s open door. The owner stood behind a zinc bar, wearing a white shirt and apron and polishing a wine glass with a tea towel. Seeing Philippe, he gave a nod, and raised his head almost imperceptibly towards the upper floors of the building.
The staircase was at the back of the restaurant next to the toilets. At the top, across the landing, was a closed door. Without knocking, Philippe opened the door and went in, Martin and Isobel right behind. A young man in corduroys and a blue denim jacket was standing by the window on the far side of the room, which was dominated by a round table in the centre. Turning around as he heard them come in, he looked alarmed.
‘These are the colleagues I mentioned,’ said Philippe. ‘It’s all right. They are friends. It’s quite safe.’
He motioned Martin and Isobel to sit down. The young man, Marcel, hesitated then joined them, though he kept his chair back from the table – as if he wanted to be able to escape at any moment.
‘So,’ said Philippe, ‘you said last time that things were stirring at the commune. What’s happened?’
Marcel breathed out noisily. ‘It’s all quite tense. The G20 are meeting next month in Avignon, and we had made plans to protest. Half of Europe should be there,’ he added, with a mixture of defiance and pride. ‘But we’ve been having arguments about what exactly we should do.’
‘Do?’
Marcel shrugged. ‘René is not content with merely demonstrating. He wants some action.’
‘What kind of action?’ asked Philippe.
‘He wants something more explosive,’ said Marcel, and grinned at his little joke until he saw the stony expression on Isobel’s face. He said hastily, ‘René has been trying to buy guns in Marseilles, and I think explosives too.’
‘Why Marseilles?’ asked Philippe.
Marcel raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you serious? You can buy anything in Marseilles – from a kilo of coke to a Vietnamese girl with one leg.’
Philippe asked, ‘Are the others happy about this?’
‘Of course not. Marguerite told me all the girls are worried sick and I know that many of the men have doubts. But they’re keeping their doubts to themselves.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re scared.’
Philippe scoffed. ‘Of René? You told me he’s no bigger than a flea.’
‘But Antoine is,’ said Marcel, and it was obvious that he was scared too.
‘Tell us about this Antoine. Who is he?’
‘That’s a good question. From things he’s said, I’m sure he’s done time in prison. His politics are positively primeval – but he’s not there to discuss Bakunin with the rest of us.’ Marcel shook his head. ‘He’s violent. One of the girls criticised something he said, and he gave her a slap. When Jean – that’s one of the older guys – objected, Antoine punched him in the gut so hard he couldn’t breathe for over a minute. Jean’s face was blue.’
Martin caught Philippe’s eye, and he gave a tiny nod. He said to Marcel, ‘Was there a woman called Cathy living in the commune when you arrived? An English woman.’
Marcel gave a knowing smile. ‘Funny you should ask. She left before I came, but René and Antoine are going to see her next week.’
‘Why?’
Marcel gave his little smile again. He didn’t say anything, but rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb meaningfully, in the universal sign for money.
‘Why would this woman give them any money?’
This time there was nothing small about Marcel’s smile, and he laughed out loud. ‘For the same reason we do what René tells us to do. Because if she doesn’t, Antoine will knock her teeth out.’
Chapter 32
‘Your favourite Englishman has just rung, Andy. He’s coming over.’
‘Oh, hell. What does he want?’ growled Andy Bokus. It was a wet, windy Thursday morning. Just the kind of day that made him resent all the more being stuck in London for another year.
‘Said it’s urgent,’ Bokus’s assistant replied. ‘I think it’s about those traces you sent to Langley. The guys on secondment to the MOD. And he’s bringing Liz Carlyle.’
‘Oh, make my day, why don’t you? Her I can stand – just. But not when she hunts with Geoffrey Fane.’
‘Well, they’re on their way. I’ve put the files down in the Bubble.’
He’d already told Liz Carlyle on the phone that Langley had chased up the vetting and found nothing out of the ordinary. They’d also been looking closely at their end of the Clarity programme, but without more information about what they were looking for, they hadn’t unearthed anything suspicious. So what was this new flap about? Maybe the Brits had discovered something else.
Twenty minutes later, with the courtesies over (which always took time with Geoffrey Fane), they repaired to the Bubble in the basement of the Embassy. Bokus sat down across the table from Liz Carlyle, with Fane at the end. Carlyle had said nothing during the initial banter between the two men, and Bokus thought she looked tired, which also made her look younger and more vulnerable. He might have found her attractive if she hadn’t been such a pain in the ass.
‘Well, what can I do for you two this time?’ he asked.
Carlyle replied, ‘It’s about the Clarity programme and my Russian source Bravado.’
‘I’ve had the vetting checked like you asked,’ Bokus cut in, ‘and Langley are happy with it. I’ve got the files here; you’re welcome to look at them. There was a high-level briefing for the Joint Chiefs of Staff last week about the progress of the Clarity programme. It’s going pretty well – there’s been the odd technical hitch but I suppose that’s not surprising with an experimental system. Your information got a mention too, and believe me, it was taken very seriously. But without more detail there’s not much that can be done at our end, since your source said the mole was in the British MOD. Can’t he be more specific?’
Bokus saw Fane give a small sigh and the Carlyle woman was looking uncomfortable as she shook her head. It looked like their source must have dried up.
‘Has something happened to Bravado then?’ he demanded.
Fane pursed his lips. ‘You could say that.’
Carlyle said, ‘It seems that he’s gone back to Moscow. But not voluntarily.’
‘So he’s blown.’ This was not a question.
‘Seemingly,’ said Fane. ‘But it doesn’t alter the situation. If the mole is working for another country, then I can’t see the Russians tipping them off, even if they know that Bravado has told us about it.’
‘They’ll know all right, if they’ve uncovered him. I wouldn’t give Bravado any chance of keeping schtum where he’ll be now.’
Liz frowned and shook her head, as if to get rid of an unpleasant thought.
‘Anyway, you know my views,’ went on Bokus. ‘If anyone’s planted a mole in the MOD, it’ll be the Russians themselves; I never did buy this third-country story. It probably just means the mole’s an illegal – with third-country documents.’