A Chateau Under Siege, page 11
“Yes. Their wines are excellent, particularly that one, and so are the facilities. They’re large and airy with a high roof. There’s an almost circular tasting bench, with taps and basins at each place, a very good display space and a nice terrace where people can have lunch.”
“Did you know that they designed and built the place themselves?” the mayor asked. “Jack thought we might be able to borrow their plans, for a reasonable fee. I asked Michel from our works department to go to the vineyard, and he liked what he saw. He took some photos and came back and estimated that we could get all the materials we needed for around twenty thousand euros. If we have to pay for the labor, he said, we would more than double that price. But as an apprenticeship project, the labor would be free. I think that calls for a drink.”
The mayor brought out two cognac glasses and an unlabeled green bottle from the cupboard in his desk. “You remember that magnificent gnôle that Driant made, the one that Dr. Gelletreau likes so much?”
“The best eau-de-vie in the valley,” said Bruno, eyeing the bottle with respect. “Not exactly legal, though.”
“Gelletreau had it analyzed, and using Driant’s old still, which is waiting to be restored so that it can be put on display in our museum, he’s been trying to re-create it. This is the result,” said the mayor, pouring out two glasses and handing one to Bruno.
“Mon Dieu,” Bruno exclaimed, clearing his throat after his first, fiery sip. “That tastes exactly like the real thing. It can’t possibly be legal.”
“No, but as chairman of the trustees of the museum, I’m duty bound to certify that the still we will put on display is the genuine antique. And how can we be satisfied it’s the real thing if we don’t taste the product? Your very good health, my dear Bruno.”
“And yours, Monsieur le Maire.”
“I almost forgot to tell you,” the mayor said as Bruno reached the door, “that General Lannes is expecting your call. You’re under his orders now.”
Once back in his office, Bruno called the familiar number and saw the tiny green light which said their call was encrypted and secure. He asked for General Lannes and was put through at once.
“Ah, Bruno, good to hear from you. Your new assignment, Bruno, begins right now. You’re to review the security procedures at Château de Rouffillac alongside the head of security at Domme, Mademoiselle Marie-Dominique Pantin, whom you’ve met. Once you’re both satisfied, she’ll return to Domme, and you’ll remain at the château in sole charge, with a small squad of troops under your command who will make their own billeting arrangements. I want round-the-clock patrols and sentries, the usual procedure, but they should remain as far as possible out of sight; I don’t want Kerquelin’s guests alarmed. But the priority is to keep them safe, just in case whatever happened to Kerquelin was intentional. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. May I know which unit you’ll be assigning to my command, sir?”
“A squad of parachute special forces, from the same unit you got on with so well during that troubadour business. Rumor has it that you even cooked the troops omelettes with some eggs from your own chickens. Those new troops should be more than happy to be under your orders.”
“Yes, sir. And the rules of engagement?”
“The usual: shoot to kill if your life or the lives of those civilians under your care are endangered, but be cautious. We’ve informed your préfecture that an army-police liaison exercise is underway in the area. You have your service weapon, and the squad will bring some extra gear for you: body armor, night-vision glasses, and an assault rifle weapon for you.”
“Yes, sir. Flares and antipersonnel grenades might be useful if you expect any kind of attack. If the threat looks serious, we might need floodlights and a detailed evacuation plan, along with reinforcements on standby. There’s a ruined village between Carlux and Rouffillac and some fine public gardens nearby, Les Jardins de Cadiot, where there should be a discreet helicopter landing site. At your discretion, sir, we might want to include medical personnel and helicopters for possible casualties. I’ll specify possible evacuation and landing sites for reinforcements in my security report.”
“I hope there’ll be no attack, but we’d better be prepared for any eventuality,” Lannes replied. “Through Mademoiselle Pantin, the security team at Domme will be available in an emergency. One more thing: if and when Brice Kerquelin is well enough to join the group, I’ll accompany him. Until then, since for security reasons there can be no hospital visits, I’ll give Brice’s daughters a daily report on his condition.”
“When should I expect a full briefing on potential threats?”
“This is your briefing, Bruno, unless new intelligence comes to my attention. I’ll let you know if the situation changes. This assignment will continue until all the guests leave Bergerac. Until then, the security of Brice Kerquelin and his guests and daughters while in the Périgord will continue to be your responsibility. Oh, and Bruno, if I were you, I’d take along some decent clothes in case they invite you to dinner at the château.”
“I will. Just one more thing: I gather they have a busy schedule of sightseeing planned—castles, caves and vineyard visits. Am I supposed to accompany them at all times?”
“Yes, with at least your personal weapon. But use your discretion. These people probably won’t appreciate you hovering around them all the time. I’ll arrange for troops in civilian clothes to follow the guests whenever you leave. Get me a schedule of their plans as soon as you can.”
“What about the former Madame Kerquelin? Should I expect her to make an appearance? After all, she knows all these people.”
“Ah, Suzanne, a dangerous woman,” Lannes said with a sigh. “It might be hard to exclude her. Play it by ear, Bruno. And watch your step with Mademoiselle Pantin. You’ll meet her at the château at noon today for the security review. If anything comes up, let me know. Good luck.”
Bruno returned to his office, sat back and realized that was the second time someone had warned him about Marie-Do. He did not understand why. In his own brief encounter with Marie-Do, she had been correct, collegial and even friendly. She had also spoken favorably of his dog, and about perhaps taking one of his puppies. She would not have been appointed head of security at Domme unless she was seen as a highly capable professional, and that was how he resolved to treat her.
After briefing the mayor on his new assignment, Bruno drove home to pick up some clothes, toiletries and weapons. After packing, he had to pick up Balzac and some dog food, and warn Pamela he wouldn’t be riding Hector for a while. He should also fill up his elderly Land Rover. It wouldn’t be wise to leave a police SUV parked at the château. He should call J-J to explain, and he’d have to call a neighbor to arrange for his chickens to be fed. He would have to email Fabiola, the baron and Jack Crimson so they knew where he was and when to expect his return. He should also call Marie-Do to arrange their meeting at Rouffillac. He would also call Nadia, to ask how her performance had gone the previous evening, and to let her know of his presence, under orders, at Rouffillac.
Ninety minutes later, he saw Château de Rouffillac standing alone and magnificent atop the hill that loomed over the Dordogne River, its golden stones seeming to blaze in the sunlight. He drove up the winding dirt road, then snaked up the side of the hill and parked in what seemed like a parking area to the side of the château. To the other side of the main doorway a splendid vintage Jaguar, cream colored with sweeping lines and an air of elegant menace, stood as though on guard as much as on display. There was no sign of the minivan that he’d expected, nor of any car belonging to Marie-Do. One of the double doors was open, and he rang the big bell that hung to one side. After a moment, a middle-aged woman dressed for housekeeping arrived at the door, looked surprised at the sight of his police uniform and asked what he wanted in a strong local accent.
“Bonjour, madame,” he said, touching the brim of his cap. “I’m Chef de Police Courrèges, under orders to make a security check before your guests arrive. I believe I’m expected, and a colleague from the security team at Domme will be joining me. Are the owners in?”
“I thought I knew your face from TV and the papers, the fire at Castelnaud. That was you, wasn’t it?” She glanced down at Balzac. “Oh, what a handsome dog! Does he hunt?”
“He’s getting the hang of it, so I can get the occasional bécasse, and he’s good with truffles. And for security, there’s not a better dog in France. I’m glad we could help the pompiers save Castelnaud. Please call me Bruno.”
“I’m Sylvie, one of the housekeepers. Madame is in the kitchen preparing a lunch. Not a proper Périgord lunch, you understand, just something light.” She gave him a wink, adding, “You know these Americans. Follow me.”
With Balzac at their heels, she led him through a wide lobby that gave him a glimpse of a formal dining room and a spiral staircase and a vast sitting room with views over the valley. She turned off through a corridor into a courtyard with a long table set for about a dozen people. To his right, the rear wall of the château rose three or maybe four stories, stretching along to a stone wall with an iron gate and a lawn beyond it, and a low wall guarding the slope down to the river. The south bank of the Dordogne rose perhaps four hundred meters away, and he saw the towers of Fénelon’s castle against the skyline.
Looking around, Bruno had a sense of the twelfth-century bones of the castle, overlaid by the nineteenth-century restoration that had sought to give the place the character of the early sixteenth century, the Renaissance creeping in to add gentility to the harsh old fortress. Ahead of him on the far side of the courtyard was a stone bluff that had been made into a kind of fountain, and above it the rise of the hill continued into thick trees. That could be a danger point, Bruno thought, as Balzac trotted around the courtyard, sniffing for any evidence of another dog. To Bruno’s left was the other wing of the château. Sylvie led him into the ground floor where a huge and very modern kitchen opened before him.
He was startled by the sight of a beautiful young woman, her blonde hair piled into a bun, turning to greet them while tossing a salad. She was wearing shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs, and she could only have been American, featuring that unique combination of corn-fed health, lazy grace and perfect teeth.
“Hi, I’m Cassandra,” she said in good French. “You must be Capitaine Bruno. We had a call from some general at the interior ministry to say we should expect you along with a woman named Marie-Dominique. I guess we’ve got some real VIPs coming.”
Bruno introduced himself and went to shake her elegant hand, but she waved it so he could see it was still glistening from the oil of the salad dressing. She proffered him a tanned forearm instead, and then her face broke into a wide and almost girlish grin as she caught sight of Balzac.
“A basset,” she exclaimed. “I just love them, they look so wise, as if they’ve seen everything. Is he a tracking dog or a hunting hound?”
“A bit of both,” Bruno replied. “His name is Balzac.”
She wiped her hands clean of the salad oil and bent to pat him. Balzac, who always had a soft spot for women, gave her an appreciative, soft woof and gazed at her worshipfully as she stroked that special spot behind his ears.
She looked up. “My husband is down at the pool, doing a last skim for the guests. He can show you around, or you could just stroll around yourself, get familiar with the place. I’m afraid all the main guest rooms are full, but we can give you a room with a shower in the staff quarters on the top floor, and I’ll set you and Marie-Do a couple of extra places for lunch. It’s just quiche and a salad, cheese and strawberries. We’ll stay out of your hair, but we’re just a step away, in that old house on the right you passed as you drove up the lane.”
“I only had eyes for that Jaguar parked outside,” he said.
“You can’t miss the place. Why don’t you take a look around with Balzac until the others arrive?”
Bruno thanked her and touched his cap, going out to the courtyard and through the gate to the low wall. He looked down at the river. To the left, a little lower, a red-haired man was skimming the swimming pool. That must be Cassandra’s husband, a fortunate man. Bruno turned right and made a circuit of the château. The long wall he had seen from the road below was sixty, maybe seventy, meters long. He came back in the front door, looked into the main rooms and then climbed the stairs and found to his left an enormous library that took up much of the wing. The kitchen was below, he realized. On a large desk was a bust of a fine-looking man in eighteenth-century dress, inscribed with the name Thomas Jefferson. Bruno knew Jefferson had been an early American president and had spent years before the French Revolution as the ambassador for the young United States in Paris, staying there for some months after the fall of the Bastille. From a small plaque on the base of the bust, Bruno learned that in the course of his travels into the French wine regions Jefferson had been in this very room, writing letters, while on his pilgrimage to the nearby castle of the Fénelon family.
Bruno had read somewhere that Jefferson had owned several copies of Telemachus, Archbishop Fénelon’s treatise on how best to raise and educate a wise and just king. Since Fénelon was tutor to the heir to the throne, Louis XIV had read it with care and been so infuriated by its liberal sentiments that he had exiled Fénelon to the diocese of Cambrai, which was at the time being attacked by a Spanish army. Fénelon had then turned his episcopal home into a hospital. His book had become an international bestseller and a bible to reformers across Europe who sometimes called Fénelon one of the fathers of the Enlightenment.
With a bow of respect to Jefferson and Fénelon, Bruno moved on to the long corridor that led to a series of grand bedroom suites, each of them splendidly furnished but in different styles, and each with the kind of bathroom that would tempt one to linger. One, in a turret, was circular. Bruno felt himself unexpectedly pleased that the place did not seem in the least like a hotel, more like a home that had been in the hands of a fortunate and tasteful family for generations. As he descended to the ground floor, the main door opened, and Marie-Do came in, looking anxious and hot in a pantsuit that was too warm for the weather. Behind her was a small Miata convertible with the top down, parked askew. She must have been almost boiling, driving slowly in the bright sunshine along the busiest tourist road in the region.
“Sorry to be a bit late, Bruno, I had trouble finding the entrance. Is that your dog? He’s gorgeous.” She presented her cheeks to be kissed. “Where’s the bathroom. I need to wash up.”
“There’s one right over there,” he said, pointing. “It’s all right, the guests haven’t arrived yet from the airport. Take your time.”
She darted upstairs, and Bruno pulled out the small-scale map of the district and his notebook and began making a quick sketch of the château and its surroundings, marking the spots where he’d need sentries—at the bend of the path that came up from the road, at the pool to watch the ascent from the road, in the woods above the rocky outcrop. He’d have to walk through all the surroundings, up through the woods to the abandoned village and on to the village of Carlux. He’d also have to check out the approaches from the house where Cassandra and her husband stayed. His map said that one of the small roads coming toward him from Carlux was called the Impasse du Camp Romain, so he’d better look at whatever remained of those Roman fortifications after nearly two thousand years.
“Hello,” said the red-haired man coming toward him. His face was brick red from the sun, but his features were pleasantly craggy. A bit taller than Bruno, he had the look of a rugby player and an amiable grin as he came forward to shake hands. He had a good grip, firm without trying to show off. Bruno liked him on sight.
“Hi, I’m Kirk. Welcome to Rouffillac.” The accent was English, but the French was correct.
“Thank you, I’m Bruno. It’s a wonderful place you have here; the study and the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms took my breath away. And so did the Jaguar that’s parked outside.”
“It’s a great car, but no air-conditioning, alas. Cassandra gets all the credit for the decor. It took a lot of planning and lots of consultation with our plumbers and electricians, but they did a terrific job. Can I offer you a drink? I need a beer.”
“Not just now, thanks, I’m on duty. My colleague, Mademoiselle Pantin, just arrived and is washing up.”
“The man from the interior ministry said that you were a captain and she’s a commissaire, but that you were local. Is that right?”
“The highest rank I ever had in the army was sergent-chef,” Bruno said. “These days I’m just a local policeman with the courtesy rank of captain, the equivalent of commisssaire.”
“That’s not what Sylvie just told me. She called you the man who saved Castelnaud from a forest fire.”
“Me and hundreds of others, mainly the pompiers. Would you mind showing me around the grounds sometime this afternoon, up to the old Roman fort and the abandoned village? I need to get a good look at the area around here.”
“It will be a pleasure,” Kirk replied as Marie-Do made her entrance. Her hair had been brushed, and she looked refreshed and much more self-possessed, until there came the sound of a car’s horn being repeatedly beeped outside. Kirk and Bruno went to the door to see Claire was leaning out of the minivan window demanding in angry French that someone should move that wretched heap of Japanese tin so that she could park.
