The first letter was delivered in a yellow Citroën 2CV fourgonnette.
Drifting along a curving street of elegant houses, tall trees and sculpted gardens in Le Vésinet, an outer suburb to the west of Paris, the van wore the familiar colour of the PTT, the French postal service. It received no more than a glance from the area’s residents, those few who were up and about – they valued their leisurely lifestyle as much as they did their privacy. PTT yellow was commonplace and safe, as much a part of everyday life as fresh baguettes, Johnny Hallyday and, when called for, enthusiastic renditions of La Marseillaise.
Only one old man, on a morning stroll with a tiny rat-like terrier, looked faintly surprised at the van’s appearance. He stopped to check his pocket watch, the driver noted. He would find it read seven a.m. Earlier than normal for the mail. But this delivery wasn’t in any way normal.
He gave the old man a casual lift of his hand. The other responded automatically before dragging the dog away from a lamppost in mid-performance, causing it to hop inelegantly with one rear leg stuck out at right angles. The driver watched in his mirror as the old man continued on his way, no doubt bound for a bowl of coffee and a nice warm brioche.
The driver’s name was Georges Peretz. Despite his friendly wave, he didn’t know the old man, whose name was Baptiste Dupannet, from a hole in the hedge. But postal workers were known to interact with their customers and he’d been instructed to act the part; it would allow him to pass by and be quickly forgotten. Peretz, who’d lived his life careful never to stand out, was unremarkable to a degree that made him almost invisible.
It was what made him so useful to his employer.
He slowed after a hundred metres, studying the name plates on the gates of the houses. The one he wanted was Les Jonquilles and, if the directions he’d been given were correct, it should be just up ahead.
Neither the van nor Peretz belonged to the PTT. And had Baptiste Dupannet been a little more alert, he might have noticed that the mustard-coloured vehicle bore none of the official insignia normally emblazoned on the side panels or doors. It was a deliberate omission. Postal workers in the Paris area were not noted for their casual acceptance of anyone trying to take over their jobs. Any official PTT member might question another delivery van encroaching on their patch, and that was to be avoided at all costs. But the yellow would be enough for the general public, like Baptiste Dupannet and his rat-like dog.
Peretz pulled into the kerb a few metres beyond a driveway marked by an impressive set of sturdy metal gates, currently open. A mailbox was set into the wall to one side, with an ornate metal bell-pull to alert the occupants of a delivery. Pulling a leather mailbag strap over one shoulder, another piece of misdirection for idle onlookers, he climbed out and approached the mailbox. The open gates suggested that a visitor was expected. There was little time to delay.
He extracted a plain white envelope from the bag and dropped it into the slot, casting a quick glance through the railings. The gravel drive ran between twin sweeps of immaculate lawn and colourful flower beds. He couldn’t see any of the flowers after which the house was named, but that was because it was late in the season.
The drive ran up to the front of a mansion. It was elegant and imposing, impressively broad, with double sets of tall French windows opening on to a stepped patio flanked by two sand-coloured griffins. The traditional mansard roof was topped with black filigree ironwork, giving it a faintly menacing air. Peretz couldn’t help a touch of nervousness, sensing eyes watching him with suspicion from behind the darkened windows. If he were fortunate enough to live in this gilded place, he decided, he’d be just as wary of everyone and anyone who came near.
He gave a firm tug on the bell-pull, hearing the rattle of the connecting wire behind the wall followed by a distant tinkle from the house. Then he returned to the van and drove away. It was a close call; just around the curve in the road he saw an official-looking black limousine approach, then indicate to turn into the open gates.
Peretz was several kilometres away and merging into the traffic heading towards the city before he finally felt fate wasn’t about to clamp a heavy hand on his shoulder. Anything to do with government officials made him nervous. Like his peers, he believed that such people were always watchful and skilled at spotting those with ill intent. Blending in was a skill he’d cultivated many years ago which came as naturally to him as it did game birds in deep cover, but even game birds got caught. He had two further deliveries to make, neither of them in the immediate area, and the sooner he was away from each one, and had reported the jobs completed successfully, the sooner he could relax.
He spotted a café up ahead, on the edge of a small industrial area. It looked quiet enough and he slid into a car park at the rear, tucking the van between a beer truck and a weather-beaten garage with rusted sheet-metal sides. He’d seen no signs of police vehicles in the area, but there was no point in tempting providence by leaving the van out in the open.
The café was quiet save for four men in work clothes hunched over rolls and large cups of coffee, and a delivery driver in a grey uniform exchanging paperwork with the owner. The air smelled of stale beer, tobacco, fresh coffee and sweat-stained clothes, an aroma familiar to Peretz from his regular haunts. He caught the eye of the owner, ordered a coffee and made a signal with one hand for the use of the telephone. The owner pointed to a short hallway at the rear of the room and moved towards the coffee machine, scooping up a cup on the way.
Peretz found the phone on the wall above a shelf holding a clutch of directories. He dialled a number and waited. It rang three times before being picked up.
‘It’s done.’ His instinct was to say more, that he’d completed the delivery before the man left for the office as instructed and had done so without incident. But it wouldn’t be well received. The man he was calling had little time for unnecessary words. All he needed to know was that his orders had been followed to the letter. No more, no less.
‘Good. Call me only when you’ve completed the next two, not before. Space them out, as I instructed.’ A click ended the call.
Peretz replaced the phone, feeling a shiver of relief down his back. It was ridiculous at his age, feeling like a kid in front of an angry headmaster. But he knew others in the man’s employ felt the same. The soft voice had carried no hint of threat, but it was there all the same, lurking beneath the surface like a hungry pike. They were paid well, but employees who did not measure up were never forgiven and quickly removed.
He dropped the phone back on its rest and returned to the bar, where he drank his coffee, paid up and left. By the time he got back in the van the owner would have trouble remembering anything about him.
In the van, he opened the flap of the mailbag, revealing two more white envelopes just like the first. He had twenty-four hours in which to deliver them. He knew nothing of the contents, but he was familiar enough with the man he’d just spoken with to know that the recipient of this first letter was probably finding his morning omelette curdling in his stomach like a round of cheap Camembert.