Part Three    Southern Discomfort

Massey was unable to sleep. His mind was in contemplative overdrive. Besides, there was a steady hum of nightlife from the street below his window. The hubbub was certainly not conducive to gathering meaningful thoughts about the current issues. He decided to leave his room and take a stroll around the old port. The air would clear his mind and a few drinks in one of the myriad of bars would surely guarantee a sound sleep.

Crossing the Quai des Belges, he followed the drifting revellers along the Quai du Port. Many people were still dining, crowding the tables on the terraces fronting the numerous bars and restaurants. He stopped at La Chope d'Or for a large scotch before moving on to the Bar de la Mairie. He completed his short pub-crawl at l'Hacienda, whereupon he crossed to the quayside to admire the conglomeration of boats moored in the harbour. The bay was a sea of twinkling lights. The floodlit basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde rose like a guardian angel above the southern limestone crop east of the city.

There's some bloody money's-worth out there, he thought, casting his eyes across the old port. Amongst the motor cruisers and sailing dinghies, one large yacht caught his eye. It was lit up like a Christmas tree. Music blared from every orifice of the superstructure. On board, a party seemed to be in full swing.

“Lucky bastards,” he muttered under his breath and continued walking. Something clicked in the inner recesses of his mind. Retracing his steps, he walked over towards the edge of the quayside and peered across the gentle swell of oily salt water towards the illuminated vessel. The name on the bow of the yacht leaped out at him…Etoile Olympique.

Massey grinned, turned away and quickened his stride back towards the hotel. That will simplify our search tomorrow, he thought. He contemplated contacting Harcourt to deliver the good news, but decided against the idea. The walk, the alcohol and the discovery of Dumas's yacht would ensure a good night's sleep. A late night encounter with his colleague might severely damage that prospect. He based his judgement on D.S. Newton's opinion of her as a potential femme fatale. That was the last thing he needed.

8888

Petra was in a slight dilemma. Katherine had distracted her from her mission. Her training had conditioned her to remain focussed, but the enormity of the Romanov saga occupied her thoughts. She sat in her apartment staring at a 2009 calendar, issued by La Poste. Today was Tuesday the eighth. Thank goodness, it isn't August, she thought.

Her troubled mind responded to distant music, the sound of reality, normality. She walked to the kitchen and picked up her mobile phone. It was Alexis.

“Hi, Louise…I've just arrived back in Limoges from St. Etienne. We finished earlier than anticipated. I wondered if you fancied a drink. I could pick you up at your place, if you like.”

Petra hesitated. What harm can come of it, she thought. At least, I know that he's on the same side. What if he does know where I'm lodging? He's a useful contact and, besides I like him. After his grandmother's revelations, I could do with a drink and some company.

“Okay.” She gave him the address.

“See you in five.” He rang off.

Three minutes later, he arrived at the apartment and rang the bell. He must have been in the square, she thought. How did he happen to be so close? She picked up the intercom. It was Alexis. She pressed the button to release the lock and opened the door at the top of the stairs. Seconds later, he stood before her wearing a dark suit, cream shirt and a patterned tie. Very smart, she thought.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Flustered by seeing him again, especially by his rather business-like image, she ushered him into the lounge and asked him to sit down. A whiff of expensive aftershave or deodorant wafted towards her as she settled into a chair opposite. Recently applied, she imagined.

Choosing appropriate words, he intimated rather cleverly that he was free for the evening. “I called grand'maman to say that I would be late home and not to wait up for me.”

Petra scrutinised his face. “Was that before or after you called me?”

Alexis lowered his head “Truthfully?” His eyes sparkled mischievously as he looked across at her.

“Truthfully.” I know from whom he's inherited that expression, she thought.

“I called her earlier. If you had said no, I would have been devastated and resigned to staying in town drowning my sorrows.”

“It's fortunate that I took pity on you like a Good Samaritan, which is unusual for me. You should be grateful that I've saved you from the excesses of the demon drink.” She smiled. “Have you eaten? I can offer you a meal. Mind you, I'd have to throw something in the microwave. I'm not accustomed to entertaining guests.”

“I know a delightful square near the cinema. It's a popular eating out area with a choice of reputable bistros and restaurants. Let's treat ourselves. You'll have an opportunity to enjoy yourself as a local. It will also allow us to get to know each other whilst enjoying the nightlife of Limoges.”

“Alexis, what else have you planned?” Petra was suspicious of his motives.

“Absolutely nothing.” A look of childlike innocence appeared in his eyes. “After the meal it will be your turn to make a suggestion. Surprise me.”

“Hmm…How far is this gourmet's paradise?” She was still unconvinced of his sincerity.

“Walking distance. If we go now, it will be easier to find a table. Later when the cinema empties, it can be difficult without a reservation. It's quite warm this evening. Maybe we could dine en plein air…alfresco. What d'you reckon?”

Petra rose from her chair. “We'll see. I'll take a jacket, just in case.” She disappeared into the bedroom, where she swiftly changed into a more appropriate outfit to rival Alexis in his suit.

Whilst she changed, his eyes wandered around the apartment. It was neat, tidy and functional. There was nothing relative to Petra, nothing to reveal or mirror either her lifestyle or her personality. He expected to see stacks of books and papers, as evidence of her university studies. There was nothing. He found it strange that the environment was so uncluttered. The normal habitat of a student was often untidy, littered with examples of academia. All such traits were absent here. She had said that she was a researcher; perhaps they behave differently, he thought.

Petra emerged wearing a three quarter length black leather jacket over a grey and white flower print tunic and white hip-hugging jeans. She looked stunning. “Let's go and sample the local scene then.” She strode towards the door, attempting to take control.

They walked the short distance towards the Rue des Filles Notre Dame, a narrow lane of café bars, restaurants and brasseries. It opened out into the Place de la Fontaine des Barres, a square dominated by half-timbered three storey buildings that added an atmosphere of nostalgia for a bygone era.

Numerous all-encompassing sunshades covered the major part of the cobblestone eating out area. Below this vast linen canopy, scores of tables displayed place settings in readiness for the anticipated influx of clientele. Different styles of dining furniture and napkin colours denoted service areas specific to each establishment. Already, some early diners occupied several tables.

Alexis stepped to one side as they approached the traffic-free zone. He turned to Petra. “Which restaurant do you fancy?”

She guessed that each venue had its specialities. As it was her first visit, she was spoiled for choice. She would not know where to begin. “I would say that there are three options. We take potluck, we check out each restaurant's menu, or I bow to your expertise and local knowledge. I suggest the last option.”

He smiled. “We'd better find a McDonalds, then.”

She had warmed to him immensely. That frightened her. In an attempt to shrug off her inner emotion, she entwined her fingers with his, allowing his hand to clasp hers. “C'mon. It's your choice, but I don't want to find Double Cheeseburgers on the menu.”

He guided her to a table outside the Restaurant La Bohème. Unusually for France, a waiter hurried towards them with menus as they took their seats. They chose an entrée of salade de gésier, a rich mixed salad, splashed with vinaigrette and dressed with strips of hot gizzard.

Petra finished her last mouthful with an imperceptible lick of the lips. “When I was young, I would have called that scrummy.”

Alexis reached across the table and touched her hand lightly. “You are still young, Louise. Tell me; were you just as delightful as a teenager?”

She grinned. “You would have avoided me like the plague. I was a rebel, no respect for anyone, friend or foe. Whatever was expected of me, I did exactly the opposite, very selfish in my behaviour. Consequently, I am a rarity. No best friend, not one acquaintance from my school days.”

She smiled, somewhat wistfully. “These days, most young people and even grown-ups are connected via the internet to some social network, where they keep in touch with friends everywhere. My only correspondents would be my sister and possibly my brother. That would be the sum total. How sad is that?”

“You could certainly add me to your list of contacts. I would be honoured to join your elite circle.”

“With my limited number of acquaintances, there are hardly enough to form a circle. As I have already told you, I lost my parents in the tsunami. That event changed my life. Consequently, friends, true friends are precious. I treasure those who are currently close to me. I have been let down too often in the past. As far as I am concerned, fickle friends are enemies in disguise…to castigate, to vilify for what they are. I have never possessed any tolerance towards my adversaries. Revenge is my antidote towards any form of disloyalty. In my opinion, people I meet are either for me or against me. Deep down, I suppose that it's sad to be so bitter towards the world in general, but shit happens.”

She sipped some iced water. What is happening to me, she thought? Why am I baring my soul to a virtual stranger? She suddenly felt vulnerable in his company. His grandmother had a similar effect. Despite her misgivings, she continued.

“Somewhere inside, I have a yearning to love and to be loved. I was close once, but events and circumstances transpired against me. I don't expect you to understand or to empathise with my inner complexities. I have experienced unimaginable tragedy and dreadful events during my short life. That was the hand dealt to me. There is such a fine line between happiness and misery…survival and death.

“Some years ago, I found myself one step away from the point of no return; in fact, in retrospect, I believe that I died. I experienced visions that living people cannot see but only imagine. If the paramedics had not arrived at that precise moment, I would not be here now. I seek neither sympathy nor pity from anyone, but because of my experience, I value every breath I take. According to a fortune-teller, I have a destiny to fulfil. Her words often swirl around my head; they propel me forward in life. I believe that I have a goal…but until now, I'm not sure what it is. ” She hesitated slightly. “ Do you believe in fate?”

At that moment, the main course arrived. Alexis was glad of the interruption and, instead of replying, immediately attacked a mini mountain of choucroute garni, an Alsatian dish of sauerkraut, Strasbourg sausages, smoked pork and potatoes. Petra had chosen côte de porc, a thick juicy chop served in a prune sauce.

Petra glanced across at him. He's probably thinking that he's dining out with a complete nutter, she thought. Enough about me…it's time to turn the conversation. “I spent the afternoon chatting to your grandmother.”

Alexis smiled. “That's nice. I expect that she bored you to death with her tales of Russian history.”

“To some degree…she has certainly experienced an interesting life during a remarkable period of upheaval in the world.”

“So, did she mention that she married some childhood sweetheart, a Soviet war hero?”

“Your grandfather…yes.”

“She romances too much,” Alexis said between mouthfuls. “She tells a different story each time. I put it down to her age and a vivid imagination. I suppose that it must be quite entertaining to hear her story for the first time.”

“Do you not feel proud that you belong to a family touched by shattering historical events?” Petra asked, seeking a reaction.

Alexis laughed. “Oh yes, along with millions of other ordinary Russians caught up in the struggle for survival. Like many, my ancestors disappeared either during the Great War or in the Siberian wilderness. Prior to Stalin's era, most Russians and I have little or no record of our genealogy. That's probably why I see myself as an American more than any other nationality within my mixed race family.”

Petra was convinced by his words that he was unaware of his true ancestry. His grandmother had obviously regaled him with her stories, but had avoided any references to his birthright. How would he accept that knowledge, she wondered? Would he really believe it? Perhaps he would refute the claims as another instance of his grandmother's confused mind. If he was unconvinced, how could others be expected to believe and buy into the saga?

Pensively, she sipped more Chateau Margaux, determined to seek proof, evidence that he was a direct descendant of the Romanov family. However, how would he react when confronted by the truth, if she could provide some irrefutable facts?

The ring tone of her mobile interrupted her deliberations. It was Jean-Marie. She excused herself from the table to take the call. She walked towards the stone obelisk that rose to a height of almost three metres in the centre of the square. She perched on an adjacent, low stone wall.

“Bonsoir, Louise…ça va? I am sorry to call you so late, but I am busy earlier. It is good for you to know that the police judiciaire arrest Monsieur Roche earlier today. They also ‘ave the authorisation to search the ‘ouse and to interrogate him. I call you tomorrow as soon as I know the result of the investigation. Maybe you tell the news to the English detectives. A demain, Louise.”

He rang off abruptly, giving her no time to inform him that the detectives had decamped to Marseille. I suppose that it can wait until tomorrow, she thought. What a nice, considerate man is Jean-Marie. I doubt that he's on a social network.

She returned to rejoin Alexis who was still coping with his choucroute. She apologised for the interruption. “My sister, just checking up on me,” she lied.

More tables were now busy as exiting cinema patrons swelled the increasing numbers of visitors to the square. At the same time, the noise of nearby traffic diminished, drowned by the raised volume of diners’ conversations. The French do have a tendency to talk over each other, Petra reflected. There appeared to be animated discussions at every table.

Alexis, almost in tune with her observations, interrupted her reverie. “You seem lost in thought. Are you enjoying your time in France or are you missing home?”

She reached across the table, placing her hand gently on his. “It's improving with every minute.” Withdrawing her hand, she wafted it towards the other diners. “Alexis, why do the French talk so noisily?”

He leaned back in his chair. “They're very opinionated. Each individual wants to make his or her point. They love debating issues, especially on political or economic topics. The political system is close to every French person's heart. Let's face it; most of them work in some civil service capacity at various levels, whether nationally for the state or regionally, within a department or a commune. The whole of France is a bureaucratic jungle where they all have a stake in its function. The state is the population and the French are the state. To quote the musketeers of Alexandre Dumas, ‘All for one! One for all’.”

“You said earlier that you saw yourself as more American than French or Russian. Do you not subscribe to France as your home?”

“It's a great country…in my opinion, probably the most stable and safest in Western Europe, a powerful leader in the European Community. Like everywhere else, however, where there's power, there's corruption. Having said that, the levels of malpractice in France are to some degree acceptable compared to the systemic problems in other countries, particularly those in Eastern Europe.”

“Unlike my country at the moment…parliamentary sleaze grabs most of the headlines. Little wonder that migration from the U.K. to other European countries is on the increase, mostly to escape increasing taxes, diminished services and the huge influx of ethnic races.”

“France has similar issues. Here in Limousin, we have a multi-cultural influx and, in recent years, large numbers of Brits have settled in this region. It's not long since there was one flight per week from Limoges to the U.K. Now there are four or five per day. Did you fly to Limoges from London?”

Petra smiled. “I let the train take all the strain. It provided an opportunity to taste a morsel of French life en route. I forced the taxi driver to take me on a mini tour of Paris between Gare du Nord and Austerlitz. He probably thought that I was an eccentric.”

They laughed as Petra described her travel experience. The conversation drifted to topics that were more mundane until they finished the evening with coffee and cognac. Alexis insisted on paying the bill, arguing that he was earning whereas she was a poor researcher. How could she contradict him?

Petra rose from the table. “Well, I'm afraid that this poverty stricken researcher of cultural studies can only offer you a nightcap of wine, coffee or tea, if you would like to join me.”

Alexis took her arm, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Louise, I would be delighted.”

They disappeared into the cool night air and the bright lights of the city centre. They walked through the busy streets like a couple of teenagers in love, holding hands and laughing with genuine abandon. Occasionally, Petra would snuggle her face onto his shoulder and gently kiss his neck.

The last time that she had behaved in this way had been in Phuket following her first encounter with Rob. They had left the party on the beach to sample the nightlife in the bars and clubs. Their euphoric escapade had preceded the most horrific nightmare of her life when the tsunami destroyed so many lives. She shuddered as they approached her apartment. Surely, a similar traumatic event could not possibly happen again.

Putting her negative thoughts behind her, she unlocked the door before stumbling happily up the staircase. As she closed the door to the apartment, Petra found herself slipping comfortably into Alexis's gentle embrace. He kissed her slowly on her lips, lightly stroking her neck. She allowed her leather jacket to slip from her shoulders. Without any conscious intent, her arms drew him closer. With eyes closed, a flood of sensation enveloped her receptive body. In an instant she knew that she was in love.

8888

Massey broke the good news about discovering the yacht to Harcourt over breakfast. In his bid to end their visit as soon as possible, he resigned himself to eventually accepting her decisions. Though content to support her actions for the sake of expedience, he was still prepared to question her game plan. “What are your intentions now?”

“Let's invite ourselves on board and front it out with him. We will ask him to his face about his relationship with Ludovic Roche.”

Massey shook his head. “He'll just deny it.”

“If that's the case, we contact the local police, introduce ourselves and say that we have evidence connecting him with the two dead French guys in Manchester. We'll demand that they bring him in for interview.”

“What evidence? We don't have any yet, unless the police at Limoges have unearthed something.”

Harcourt was showing some impatience towards his constant prevarication. “There has to be some accusation that we can slap on him. Contact that Rebovka girl. She's supposed to be liaising through her retired police officer friend. He admitted that there was a history between Dumas and Roche. If it can be proven that they are still in touch, we have a connection.”

“Just contact between them is insufficient. There's no point in approaching Dumas, until we have some hard evidence. Even with the remote prospect of questioning him, with our limited knowledge of the language, we'll also need an interpreter.”

Harcourt was determined to confront Dumas at any cost. “No problem. I should imagine that they could arrange that. In the meantime, let's take a walk along the quayside to see if he's in situ. We can pass ourselves off as tourists, admiring his boat. There's no rush. We can stop off at a bar for a coffee, phone Rebovka and decide on our course of action, depending on what she has to report.”

“And if there's no evidence?”

“Worst scenario, we'll just have to fake it. Already we can say that we have knowledge about his connection with Roche. That man manages a football club that illegally licensed two French youths found dead in the U.K. We don't have to give anything more specific than that. Let's just watch his immediate reaction.”

Massey shook his head again in disbelief.

Harcourt was quite resolute. “Look, we know that there's a connection. Rebovka heard it from the footballer that she contacted and the gendarme confirmed it, otherwise we wouldn't be here.”

“We're here because you damn well insisted.”

“I thought that you were a winner, out to get your man at all costs.”

“I'm also a realist. There are too many grey areas. I like to be prepared with total conviction in both my strategy and the presentation of my case. You're leaving far too much to chance. If we were back at home, C.P.S. wouldn't wear it. Even over here, it wouldn't be acceptable to a public prosecutor or to an investigative judge. We'll be a laughing stock.”

Harcourt smiled. “As the saying goes: ‘He who dares, wins’. Look at it this way. Even if we don't get an immediate result, he'll know that we're on to him. He may be forced to abort any further activity.”

“Whatever.” Massey was beginning to regret the day that Superintendent Richardson had forced him to team up with her. “I need to grab a jacket from my room. Meet you down here in ten minutes. When and if we find Dumas, you can do the talking. This is your show.”

A short time later, they strolled along the Quai du Port, soaking up the atmosphere created by a hive of early morning activity. How different from the previous evening, thought Massey. Busy traders, port workers, inquisitive tourists and snap-happy holidaymakers had replaced the microcosm of languid drinkers and relaxed diners. The air was thick with the fishy smell of the sea, the taste of brine and the aroma of strong coffee that percolated from the numerous café bars and restaurants.

The two detectives threaded their way through this vibrant cosmopolitan mêlée until they reached the far end of the quayside where Massey had discovered the yacht. The mooring was empty. It had obviously set sail.

Massey feigned annoyance but felt somewhat relieved. Maybe they could now return to Limoges. “It was definitely here last night. Perhaps the party was a pre-voyage celebration. There's little point in hanging around now.”

Harcourt was not one to be thwarted by such a setback. “Let's find the nearest police station.”

“Is that really necessary if he's out there cruising on the Mediterranean?”

“At least, we can explain why we need to speak with him, give them copies of the I.D. photos and ask for their assistance in tracking him down. We'll stop for a coffee, ask directions to the police station and you can call your friend, Rebovka, for an update.”

I need a bloody whisky not a coffee, thought Massey as they strolled across to the nearest bar. He tried Petra's number several times. It seemed to be permanently engaged…more frustration.

8888

The duvet was warm and inviting. Petra wanted to stay there forever. With one eye open, the blurred image of her digital alarm slowly came into vision. Seven thirty, but where was Alexis? The adjacent pillow was headless. She caressed the bed sheet beneath the duvet. The empty space was still warm. Still naked from a night of intimate lovemaking, she sat up in the bed. He must be special, she thought. Why would I let him penetrate my defences? How could I reject every principle from the depths of my soul to allow him to flood my mind with sensual feelings of total intimacy?

Wearing only white cotton boxers, Alexis appeared from the kitchen carrying two porcelain beakers. “Good morning, Louise, I've made coffee. Hope you don't mind.”

Petra propped herself on a pillow. She wished that he could stay, that this moment could be forever. “After last night, what do I care?”

“I found some croissants. Would you like one?”

She feasted her hungry eyes on him. “Just coffee and you. That's all I need.”

He slipped once again under the duvet, placing his coffee on a bedside table. “If I remember rightly, I did ask you to surprise me, but this was totally unexpected.”

Petra remained upright drinking her coffee. The hot caffeine cleansed her mouth, fomenting a sudden return to the reality of the situation. “What time must you be in your office?”

“Eight thirty…tomorrow morning.”

“Why not today?”

“There's some in-house audit and all the junior staff, that's me and one other guy, have a day off.”

“Does your grandmother know? She'll wonder where you are.”

“I'll phone her shortly and explain. She'll understand. She's accustomed to my irregular hours and, anyway, she thinks you're wonderful…for some strange reason.”

Petra put her beaker to one side and whacked him gently with a pillow. “What d'you mean… ‘for some strange reason’? What was your reason for last night's performance?”

“You're irresistible. I couldn't help myself.” He leaned away from the prospect of further blows.

“I think you helped yourself very well, monsieur.” Petra looked down her nose at him and turned her head away in a show of mock disdain. “Not that I'm complaining.”

They launched themselves once more beneath the duvet into yet another passionate embrace. By the time they resurfaced, the coffees were cold.

Whilst Petra showered, Alexis contacted his grandmother, apologised for his absence and promised to be home later in the day. She was delighted to hear that he had stayed over with Petra, heartening him even more with some information from which he could benefit. An idea materialized from her news.

Wrapped in a bath towel, Petra returned to the bedroom to choose something to wear. She noticed a change in his demeanour; it was if he had won the lottery. She sensed that it was not the lovemaking; those moments had passed. This was something personal to him. “Why the smug expression? What have you done?”

Alexis slid from the bed. “What are your plans for later? Will you be at uni all day?”

“That depends on what enticing alternative you are offering to replace cultural enlightenment.”

“I have something in mind, but need to stop off at home to change into something casual. A suit wouldn't be appropriate.”

“You plotting to take me out for the day?” She crossed to a wardrobe to choose something to wear.

“Plotting's a good word. Yes, I'm plotting.” He headed for the bathroom. “If you're intent on skipping uni, I'll fill you in en route chez moi, but first I need a shower before we leave. I don't suppose you have a razor in there. I could do with a shave.”

“Oh, yes, I keep one handy for my moustache.” Petra grinned. “There's a small safety razor in the cabinet. I use it for my unwanted hairy bits. You could try that. Before you shower, tell me where we're going. I don't know what to wear.”

“Anything casual will be fine.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

Petra shook her head in despair. So much for advice on appropriate dress, she thought. She reached into a rail full of clothes on hangers to select an outfit to enhance her image, irrespective of what he was planning.

Minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with shreds of pink toilet tissue hanging from the lower part of his face. “Forget the razor. It's bloody lethal. I've already sliced off half my chin. I'll make do with just a shower for now.”

Eventually, he reappeared, towelled himself and slipped into his suit trousers and shirt. “Louise, do you like concerts?” he asked as he gathered the rest of his belongings.

“What kind of concerts?”

“Next week at the Zenith, it's Status Quo in concert. D'you fancy it?”

“Where and what is the Zenith?”

“Sorry, I forgot you're not a local. It's a huge dome-shaped event centre. I believe that it's similar to the O2 arena in London.”

Petra was unsure if he was joking. If this is his surprise, she thought, I'm not impressed. “Status Quo…are they still alive?”

“Still going strong. They're very popular in France…a great rock band.”

“A bit before my time, but if I'm still here, why not?”

“What d'you mean, ‘still here’? Are you intending to return to England soon?”

Petra was suddenly wary of saying too much. “It's open-ended. It depends on whether I've accomplished my objectives.”

Alexis smiled knowingly. The word ‘objectives’ seemed out of context as overtly as her study materials were paradoxically out of sight. “I'll book the tickets anyway.”

She found it strange that his enthusiasm had flitted from a mysterious excursion to a rock concert the following week. “Is that why you're looking so pleased with yourself?”

Once again, his reply was vague. “Not really. Let's make a move. We're going to carry out some undercover detective work.”

Shit, thought Petra, what's he up to? She followed him out of the apartment as he raced downstairs. She hesitated on the landing.

“Where are you taking me, Alexis?”

“Trust me. Let's have an exciting adventure together.”

That's all I need, thought Petra. What the hell am I doing? Traces of her normally reliable logic and reason began to filter back into her mind, replacing the emotional high of the previous night. The first meaningful sexual experience since her schooldays had clouded her judgement. It was time to concentrate and re-focus on her mission.

“Alexis, slow down. Look, I've a few things to sort. I'll follow on in thirty minutes. Where shall we meet…at your apartment?”

“Perfect. See you there. Don't be long.” He disappeared into the street below.

Deep in thought, Petra closed the door. It was too early to contact Jean-Marie. Nothing could have changed since his call last night. Anyway, he had promised to update her later today. She tried to phone D.C.I. Harcourt but there was no response. Unsure of her next move, she sat on the bed and checked her watch. It showed nine fifteen, eight fifteen in the U.K. She called Rob. She had little to report. Her basic need was reassurance.

After listening to her latest update Rob was angry, not with Petra, but with Massey and Harcourt. “Who authorised them to go chasing off to bloody Marseille? What do they hope to achieve? That guy, Dumas, is one of France's most wanted. He's under constant surveillance by Interpol.”

“Why hasn't he been arrested?”

“He's loaded and the local police are not averse to taking handouts. That way he keeps his nose clean with regard to minor offences. That apart however, he's heavily involved in major trafficking activities: drugs, arms, and people. It's an international organisation. If those two idiots set alarm bells ringing too soon, the current mission could be compromised. It would fold like a pack of cards. Bigger fish are within touching distance. He's only one major player in a global syndicate, but his actions could be a vital key to opening a revealing portal. We don't need a couple of inept detectives from Manchester making waves. Can you get them out of there asap?”

“I've already tried to contact them this morning, but there was no response.”

“Where are they staying?”

Petra was wishing that she had not mentioned their trip to Marseille. “Not a clue. They just took off.”

“Bollocks! Well, just keep trying before they fuck up everything. What's the s.p. on your suspect in Limoges?”

“As I said, all I know is that he's been arrested for issuing false documents. I'm waiting on a call from Jean-Marie for an update.”

“Okay, Petra. Keep in contact and let me know if you get any flak from the idiots in Marseille. It won't be just S.I.S. that'll come down heavy, but the full weight of the current European investigation team. They'll be back on the beat in Manchester if they cause the slightest ripple in Marseille. Frankly, I'm surprised that Massey's involved. I thought he had more nous than that.”

“Serves him right, as far as I'm concerned. Harcourt seems to have the measure of him. From our meetings, I have the impression that she's pushing him, but why he's following like a lost sheep, I don't know.”

Rob had some advice for her. “If Roche is in league with Dumas, he'll be a nasty piece of work. Keep yourself tooled up, just in case you get involved with him. Leave nothing to chance, not with that kind of villain. If you dig up any evidence to connect him, pass it on, leave the local authorities to follow it up with their security services and get yourself out of there.”

Using a gun for protection was not an issue for Petra. Her main concern was its legality. “What's the situation regarding carrying a weapon here?”

“Petra, who's going to know? Don't worry. If there's a problem, it'll be sorted. It's vital that you protect yourself. If there is a terrorist connection, you'll be dealing with some desperate and evil individuals. Call me tomorrow. I need to know the situation, especially with regard to the meddlesome duo from Manchester.”

I needed support and reassurance, thought Petra. Trust Rob to make me feel more depressed and anxious.

She reached down to drag the metal case from under the bed, from which she extracted a SIG Sauer P238 Nitron, a 9mm small lightweight handgun. Holding the weapon in her left hand, she picked up two 6-round magazines, slipping one of the clips into the handgun, the other into a make-up bag. She buried all the items into the bottom of her black suede shoulder bag, covering them with gloves and a wallet containing her passport, euro notes and credit card.

Before leaving, she tidied the bedroom and re-arranged the crumpled duvet. Towels were strewn across the carpet. She dropped them into the shower tray. She could wash them later. Alexis had left her razor on the hand washbasin. She was about to rinse it and return it to the cabinet when she had a flash of inspiration. Taking a sheet of cling film from a roll in the kitchen, she carefully wrapped it around the head of the bloodstained razor. That has to hold his D.N.A., she thought. Perhaps it could one day provide proof that his grandmother had told the truth or that her tale was merely the ramblings of a deluded old woman.

It was time to re-assume her principal role. The adventure promised by Alexis would have to sit on the back burner. She decided to join him to see what he had planned, but would invent an excuse not to stay too long. She needed to meet up with Jean-Marie to discuss Roche. Before leaving the apartment, she tried to contact Harcourt again, but to no avail.

A revitalised Petra stopped in front of a full-length mirror. She wore a black sweater, black denims, black ankle boots and her black leather jacket. She slung the suede bag over her shoulder and posed to admire her reflection. Now she was confident. Dressed to kill, she thought.

8888

Alexis saw Petra arrive at his apartment. He dashed downstairs and greeted her as she alighted from the Clio. She looked like an avenging angel. Shoulder length blonde hair cascaded over a supple body enveloped in purposeful black. Sensational, he thought.

She smiled, aware that he was impressed. He'll be less enamoured when I tell him that I'm not staying.

He appeared even more animated than earlier, taking control before she could offer any kind of protest. “We can drive there in yours. It's not far from here.”

How could she explain that she had matters that were more important on her mind? What might drive a student to turn down the promise of an exciting adventure in some secret detective work? She found herself in a difficult situation. Desperately, she demanded some answers in the hope that his proposal would not be that interesting. “What's not far from here? Where are we going? What are you up to, Alexis?”

“Every morning Madame Raynaud, a neighbour, brings baguettes from the boulangerie for grand'maman. She also delivers the local gossip. When I called her earlier this morning, the word was that the gendarmes had arrested Ludovic Roche yesterday and they had searched his property. I know his house. I've been there several times with my father. I thought that we could pay him a visit, while he's not there. Perhaps I can find something to prove that he was involved in my father's death.”

A flood of relief swept through Petra's body. His suggestion fitted perfectly with her current aim. Somehow, she had to maintain her student image. She needed to show some innocent trepidation towards his scheme. “But surely, the police will still be there searching the property or, if not, they will have sealed it off. We could be in trouble if they find us there. It'll be a crime scene, if he's being investigated.”

“Really?” His expression changed as if he was astonished at her knowledge of such procedures. “Well, we can still go and check it out.”

Petra wished that she had not made that last point about the crime scene. That was hardly the comment that one would expect from a student, she thought. Nevertheless, she continued with her pretence. “Even if the police are not there, surely the house will be locked up. How will you gain entry?”

“There's a window at the back that doesn't lock. I know because he misplaced his keys once and asked me to climb inside. He was too bulky to get through the small aperture.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don't know, but it's a great opportunity knowing that he's banged up in a police cell and we won't be disturbed.” He was using his enthusiasm in an attempt to persuade her.

For her part, Petra decided that her protests had been sufficient to convince him of her student status. It was time to give him the impression that he had won her over. Both were behaving like actors in a play without a script, wary of what they were saying and what reactions they were exhibiting. It appeared that neither knew of the other's hidden agenda. The double manipulation was complete.

Petra gave him the green light. “Shouldn't I say hello to your grandmother, before we make a move?”

“You can see her when we return. She'll keep us talking and we'll never get away. You drive. I'll give you directions.”

They headed out of La Bastide, onto the D250 where they passed the Zenith and, after crossing the A20 motorway, headed for the main road towards Le Palais-sur-Vienne. He directed her into a side road, a cul-de-sac in a bad state of repair. It led towards the river. They pulled over near a lone house at the end of the lane. The immediate vicinity was deserted. There was no police presence or any sign of activity having taken place.

The house was a medium size detached property badly in need of repair, not what Petra expected, given that the general consensus deemed that Roche was making a fortune from his criminal activities. Next door, a large single-storey pre-fabricated building with metal window frames overlooked a crumbling tarmac forecourt. The ugly neglected structure was set back from the lane. The pot-holed frontage stretched the length of the façade, above which there was a dilapidated painted board, blistered and cracked by frosty winters and baking hot summers. It faintly displayed traces of the word: CARROSSERIE.

Petra pointed at the sign. “What does that mean?”

“It's a workshop that repairs cars, especially bodywork, before carrying out re-sprays and stuff like that. You never see anyone there. I think that it only opens when the owner has a job to complete.”

Petra nodded, wondering why Roche would choose to live in such a run-down area. Immediately, it crossed her mind that the opportunity for doctoring stolen cars was conveniently on Roche's doorstep. Perhaps it was another moneymaking sideline hidden from the fiscal clutches of the state.

Alexis stepped from the vehicle. “I'll go around the back and let you in at the front.”

“Don't you think that it would be a good idea to check that it's empty first? Try the front door to see if anyone's at home.”

Alexis grinned. “It's lucky that you're with me…not only beautiful, but smart too.”

“Do you really need me? Wouldn't it be better if I kept watch out here?”

“It'll be quicker with the two of us. The sooner we finish the better.” He crossed towards the house and rang the doorbell. He rang again…no response. He disappeared down a passageway at the side of the house.

He said ‘the sooner we finish’, thought Petra…finish what? She waited and watched, comforted by the contents of her shoulder bag. A few minutes passed before Alexis appeared at the front door of the property. He beckoned her over. She glanced up and down the road; there was not a soul in sight. Clutching her bag, she entered the house.

Ignorant of what she should be looking for, she followed Alexis as he flitted from room to room. Though the house was old, its interior furnishings were reasonably tasteful in quite a modern style. Alexis searched drawers and cupboards, looking for anything that might be relevant.

Standing in the kitchen, Petra noticed an anomaly in the size of the adjacent dining room in respect of the line of the outside wall running from the kitchen. She expected to discover another room, but there appeared to be no access. She paced out the missing area and walked through to the far side of the dining room. She estimated that she was unable to account for an area of four or five square metres. What lay within the missing cavity?

She searched on all sides to find some kind of ingress. Maybe there was a sliding panel, but she discovered nothing of that sort. She went outside to check the exterior wall… to no avail. Along the suspect wall of the dining room, there was a massive floor to ceiling glass-fronted china cabinet. Though empty, it appeared to be a permanent fixture.

Petra looked down at the oak-stained parquet floor to the left of the fitment. Two parallel lines formed by faint indentations to the wooden floor blocks attracted her attention. The tramline effect extended to almost two metres in length. She walked to the other end of the cabinet. There were no lines. Intrigued, she pushed gently against the side of the fitment. It slid gently and silently away from her, following the line of the wall. Runners, top and bottom, acted as guides and held it in place. The hidden part of the wall revealed a flush-fitting sliding door.

Astonished, Alexis reverted to swearing in French. “Merde. I think we've hit the jackpot.”

Petra merely smiled rather triumphantly. “Is this what you've been looking for?”

“It's probably just a cupboard for his ill-gotten gains.”

She slid back the door to reveal a short passageway and stone steps leading to a basement. They descended into darkness to discover a secret cellar. Petra ran her fingers over the dank walls within the doorway. She found a light switch.

“Oh, my God!” She stood and gasped at what they had unearthed. Their eyes wandered around the room, transfixed by everything before them.

Alexis stared at the nearest wall. “He's a bloody fascist.”

Petra scrutinised the wall opposite. “And a communist.” She turned to the far wall. “Also a supporter of Jihad and Al Qaeda.”

Plastered on the walls were pictures, newspaper cuttings, memorabilia and assorted emblems, ranging from a photo of Stalin, a hammer and sickle flag, posters of swastikas and pictures of Hitler at the Nurembourg rally to a replica of the Auschwitz sign, Arbeit Macht Frei. One wall displayed more recent pictures of Osama Bin Laden, the twin towers atrocity, the London tube and bus bombings, the USS Cole attack, the Bali bomb blast and other terrorism news items.

“Incredible.” Alexis stood in the centre of the room with his hands on his hips.

Petra wandered around the room feasting her eyes with morbid curiosity. “It's his place of worship. He appears to worship every ideology that threatens western civilisation and democratic freedoms. He must be some kind of fanatical supporter of radical doctrines. He's obviously opposed to the established order and is hell-bent on destroying our values.”

Alexis joined her. “He's a one-man crusader of evil.”

Petra nodded in agreement, the startling imagery causing her to lower her guard. “This needs to be communicated to the intelligence service. We may have stumbled on someone who could be a vital link in a chain, a key component in a complex network of terrorist activity.”

Alexis stood and stared at her. He swallowed hard, intent on maintaining his own secret. “How come you know so much?”

“I read a lot,” Petra replied, nonchalantly, and then bit her tongue. The more time that she spent in his company, the more difficult it became to maintain her student image.

She walked across the room to a desk, on which were a telephone, an outdated answering machine, a laptop and numerous pots containing assorted pens and felt-tips. Below this paraphernalia, two columns each of three drawers supported the scratched surface of the wooden desk. Surprisingly, the drawers were unlocked.

Alexis joined her, examining the contents of each of the drawers. Most were full of paperwork and various folders, which he scrutinised in turn. Petra opened one drawer to find it full of incriminating materials: blank I.D. cards, mobile phones, sim cards, a wad of euro notes, some sterling and maps of Great Britain. There were several passports in various stages of preparation. All were used, probably stolen, most had the original photographs removed and many were in an unfinished state. In another drawer, she discovered some small cassettes that she presumed were for the answering machine. Out of curiosity, she pressed the play button on the machine. The message was in French, too garbled for her to understand in detail. She replayed it for Alexis to translate.

He listened and shrugged his shoulders. “It concerns a delivery. Something about two consignments arriving Friday, no documentation required…everything in order for shipment…hardly incriminating.”

“Unless it's some kind of coded message.” There was a second one. They both listened.

Alexis translated again. “Almost the same. This time it's a single item arriving Tuesday, documents required for immediate shipment. Emergency transport needed for ‘c-d-man’, whatever that is.” He managed a shrug of indifference. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He gave the impression of dismissing the taped messages by returning to scrutinise the files.

Petra flicked the tape from the machine, slipped it into her jacket pocket and replaced it with one from the drawer. Her mobile rang and vibrated. “Hello, hello,” she answered. It crackled and faded. There was insufficient signal strength in the cellar. It was too deep and remote from the main house. “I'll take it upstairs,” she announced, heading for the doorway.

Alexis was engrossed in the paperwork. “I'll continue checking these drawers.”

When she reached the dining room, she checked the signal bar…still not good. She opened the front door and walked a short distance from the house to a spot near her vehicle where the reception improved. The screen displayed a missed call from Jean-Marie. She phoned him.

He answered immediately. “I try to call you, Louise.”

“I know. I was unable to get a signal, but it's okay now.”

“The news is not good. The police judiciaire interrogate Roche and they search the ‘ouse yesterday, but they find no proof to connect ‘im to the photos of the two young men. The magistrate say it is necessary to release him.”

“It's okay. Alexis and I have…” Petra suddenly realised what he had said. “Release him? When?”

“I not know. I only now receive the information. Perhaps ‘e is already free. Why you ask?”

At that moment, a black Citroen C5 drew up outside the house. A heavily built individual emerged from the vehicle, slamming shut the door. He looked very ill tempered. He glanced across briefly at Petra before striding towards his property.

Shit…that's Roche! He's back already, she thought. He'll find Alexis. She pocketed her mobile and raced towards the house as Roche entered through the open door. He slammed it behind him, loudly cursing the gendarmerie for leaving it ajar. On reaching the entrance, Petra rang the doorbell incessantly, hoping that it would alert Alexis. The door swung open again. Roche glared at her.

Before either could speak, Alexis stepped from the hidden doorway. Clutching a bulky folder, he stood staring at them from the far end of the hallway. On hearing the movement behind him, Roche turned, shouted and ran towards him. Alexis remained motionless, rooted like a rabbit in the glare of headlamps.

Petra screamed at him. “Run for it, Alexis!” Instinctively, her hand dropped into her shoulder bag and gripped the Sig Sauer.

Alexis turned but it was too late. Roche brought him down in a manner befitting any professional rugby player. They tumbled to the floor, scattering the folder contents across the corridor.

Petra withdrew the firearm, spread her legs for a firm stance and, with both hands extended, levelled the gun at Roche. “Arrêtez!” she shouted.

Roche turned his head, the weight of his bulky frame still pinning Alexis to the tiled floor beneath him. Now Petra was in full view.

“Oh, my God,” Alexis uttered, seeing his new student friend transformed into a gun-toting vigilante. “What the…?”

There was a loud click, causing his voice to trail away. A glint of steel flashed across his face. A flick knife pressed against his throat.

Roche pierced Petra with his dark threatening eyes. “Laissez tomber,” he snarled. He gripped Alexis, pulling him closer towards his chest, keeping the knife poised menacingly across the young man's neck.

“He wants you to drop the gun,” Alexis whispered, looking first at her and then glancing up at Roche without moving his head.

Petra weighed her limited options. She could easily take him out but he might still drag the blade across his captive's throat as he fell away. She slowly leaned forward. Placing the handgun deliberately on the floor, she stepped backward, raising her hands away from her body.

Roche raised himself upright, dragging Alexis towards the discarded weapon with his muscular arms. As he reached down to pick up the gun, he hurled his captive to one side.

Petra brought the full force of her leg towards his head. Roche threw himself sideways, grabbed the Sig with one hand and Petra's outstretched foot with the other. She arched backwards, crashing her head against an oak linen chest.

Blood from her head wound stained the floor tiles; pale mottled grey turned to deep crimson. For Petra, everything turned black.

8888

Harcourt drummed her fingers on the counter. “We need to speak with him, that's all,” she said impatiently.

The blue-shirted gendarme stared at Massey, who stood impassively to one side. Harcourt thrust herself back into the uniformed officer's line of vision.

“Surely, you must know how we can contact him. I'm led to believe that he is a well-known figure in Marseille. It's a matter of great urgency.”

Without speaking, the blue shirt walked away from his position behind the desk, stepped through a reinforced glass panelled doorway and disappeared from view.

Throwing her arms about in exasperation, Harcourt turned to Massey. “What's wrong with these people? It was a simple enough request.”

Massey checked his watch. “If he's gone to lunch, we could be hanging around for two hours or more. Try speaking in French if he returns. He may be more receptive.”

Before she could reply, the door re-opened and a plain-clothed officer entered. Tall and well built with dark short-cropped hair, chiselled sun-tanned features, he cut an impressive figure as he approached the two detectives. He shook their hands and introduced himself.

“Capitaine Thoury at your service. I understand that we have a slight language problem. I speak English. I have studied in London.” He waved them towards an adjacent wooden bench where they could sit. “Shall we…?”

The English detectives sat next to each other. The captain sat to one side and leaned forward to speak.

“The officer says that you have some problem with Monsieur Michel Dumas?”

“Not a problem,” Harcourt said, turning on her usual charm. This ‘outstanding specimen of law enforcement’, as she later described him, immediately captivated her. “If you could put us in contact, we would like to speak with him. We are following up the murder of a young Frenchman in Manchester, England. The trail has led us here to Marseille.”

“So, what is the connection with Monsieur Dumas?”

“We still don't know the identity of the victim,” continued Harcourt. “The only lead we had was a membership card of a football club in Limoges. We have since discovered that the card was fake and the manager of the football club, Ludovic Roche, had a criminal background, originated from Marseille and allegedly, was a close friend of Michel Dumas. We would merely like to interview him in the course of our continued enquiries.”

The captain nodded. “I am aware of the two French youths who died in North West England. I have read the reports. There is an assumption that they could have been illegal immigrants. That is possible. I also know about Ludovic Roche. He was a habitual felon here before he relocated to Limoges. He is currently on the run, as you say. The police are searching for him at this moment.”

“Why is he on the run?” Massey asked. “Has he committed another crime?”

“There is a tentative connection with your investigation as the police in Limoges have been searching his house for evidence that could link him to people trafficking. After he was interrogated at the gendarmerie, he attacked one of your English colleagues, who had to be admitted to hospital a short while ago.”

“Oh, my God,” Harcourt exclaimed. “That must have been Louise.”

“Petra,” Massey muttered under his breath. “Probably poking her nose in again. I told you that she was trouble.”

Harcourt turned to the captain. “How is she? Is she badly hurt?”

Thoury shook his head. “I have no further details.”

Not wishing to be drawn into a discussion about Petra Rebovka, Massey quickly changed the subject. They were in Marseille to check on Michel Dumas. The sooner that issue was resolved, the sooner they could leave.

“So, would you be able to assist us in contacting Monsieur Dumas? His address or telephone number would help. I noticed his yacht in the port last night, but today it appears to have set sail. Is that an indication that he is no longer in Marseille?”

Thoury smiled. “If you wish to speak with him, it can be arranged. Have you any plans for this evening?”

Massey looked inquiringly at Harcourt and turned back to face the police captain. “What had you in mind?”

“You are in luck. Tonight Marseille have a match at the Stade Vélodrome. Dumas rarely misses a home game. I guarantee that, as a passionate supporter, he will attend. I can provide you with passes to join him in the directors’ reception area and, if you wish, you can not only speak with Dumas, but also watch our team progress in Europe.”

“Football…that's interesting.” Harcourt reflected on their discussion with D.S. Newton in Manchester. “We would be delighted.”

“Where are you staying?” Thoury asked.

“At the New Hotel just off the port area,” Harcourt replied.

“I'll send someone round later with your match tickets and passes as my guests. Book yourselves a taxi for 19.30 hrs. I'll meet you in the official entrance for pre-match drinks with Michel Dumas.”

Massey was intrigued. “He's a friend of yours?”

“He's well-known in Marseille,” Thoury replied. “Our paths have crossed on numerous occasions and we have what may be referred to as an arrangement.” He stood and shook their hands. “Until this evening, then.”

As he walked back to his office, the two detectives looked at each other, their minds attempting to digest and unravel his comments. Was the captain's relationship with Dumas a cover for surveillance purposes or could it be founded on some local corruption set-up? Massey suspected that Dumas had bought the captain's complicity. He felt ill at ease, despite Thoury's cordial invitation. Harcourt's thoughts merely focussed on their handsome host, evoking other more basic human sentiments within her.

8888

Petra opened her eyes. A bespectacled man hovered above her. For a split second, the young, fresh-faced stranger confused her until she discerned the familiar features of Jean-Marie beyond him. As she rolled her head to one side, a sharp pain ripped into her neck and shoulders. She became aware of other people moving about her, some wearing navy blue uniforms, carrying holstered guns. They were gendarmes.

“Comment allez-vous?” the young man asked. “Ca-va?”

Jean-Marie pressed closer. “You feel okay now, Louise?”

“What happened? Where's Alexis?” she asked.

“This is Docteur Pineau who examine you.” Jean-Marie tried to explain. “Your ‘ead she is injured, but she is good. Per'aps you suffer only the ache. You go now in ambulance to C.H.U. It is the main ‘ospital in Limoges. There the doctors make more examination of you…tests to check you are okay.”

“What happened to Alexis?” she asked again.

The ex-gendarme looked puzzled. “You think Alexis is still ‘ere with you?”

“I don't know. Roche attacked him. I tried to help, but I fell over, I think.”

“You go now. We talk later,” said Jean-Marie before turning to a uniformed gendarme who stood at one side.

They were in deep conversation as paramedics wheeled her out on a gurney to a waiting ambulance. Fifteen minutes later, they admitted her to the emergency unit of the Centre Hospitalier Universitaire, where she underwent a full medical examination. The consultant in charge decided to keep her in overnight for observation.

They placed her in a single private ward. Still feeling anxious and responsible for the failure of her actions, she eased herself upright in bed. As she reflected on what had happened, she realised the real cause of the débâcle. She had lost control. In fact, she had never been in control. She had allowed Alexis to make the decisions. She had been unprepared for Roche's arrival and had misjudged his reactions despite having him at gunpoint. She had let down not only herself, but also the one person she was there to protect, Alexis.

Beneath the dressing on her wound, her head throbbed, despite the painkillers that she had taken. Jean-Marie entered, accompanied by two detective officers from the police judiciaire. He asked her if she was in a fit state to recount her version of events at Ludovic Roche's house.

Petra affirmed that she was happy to oblige. She spoke in English and he translated for the officers, one of whom took notes. It soon became apparent to her that Roche had disappeared with Alexis and her Sig Sauer handgun. She omitted to mention the missing weapon intentionally. Her excuse for being at the house was Alexis's quest to discover if Roche had been responsible for his father's death. He wanted to search for any evidence.

“I not understand ‘ow Alexis know that Roche is in custody? You tell ‘im this?” Jean-Marie asked the question, prompted by one of the officers.

“Local gossip,” Petra replied. “His grandmother told him that the gendarmes had arrested Roche. Alexis assumed that the house was empty. He asked me to drive him there. As I was on the phone to you, Roche returned. I needed to warn Alexis, but Roche found him first and attacked him. I tried to help, but fell and banged my head. The next thing I remembered was waking up to find you standing over me. How did you know that we were at Roche's house?”

“When we speak, you stop suddenly but leave phone on. I ‘ear shouting and noise. Because you mention Alexis when you call, I contact ‘is grand'maman and she tell me that you go to ‘ouse because you think Roche is at the gendarmerie. Alexis, ‘e find evidence?”

“I'm not sure. He was holding a folder when Roche attacked him, so it's possible.”

“Thank you. Tomorrow, after your discharge, you make formal statement to police judiciaire at La Bastide. I take you and we bring your car from the ‘ouse.”

“What about Alexis?”

“Later, we see if ‘e return ‘ome. If no, maybe Roche take ‘im. When we find Roche, it is possible we find Alexis. The police search for Roche because it is possible ‘e assault you.” He turned towards the door. “Bonsoir, Louise. Dormez bien.” Jean-Marie departed, followed by the two detectives.

What a weird interview, thought Petra. They obviously had no inkling of the secret room. Roche must have closed it off again. Should I have told them about it? I'll discuss it with Jean-Marie in the morning. Let them concentrate on finding Alexis before they get bogged down with other issues. She leaned back on the pillow.

A nurse entered to check on her and to ask what she wanted from the menu for her evening meal. She handed her a menu form to mark her choices.

Having completed the sheet and passed it back, she asked about the clothes that she had been wearing. “Où sont mes vêtements?”

“Tous vos effets sont dedans,” the nurse replied, indicating a small wardrobe built into the wall opposite. She opened the door to show her the shoulder bag and her clothes on hangers.

Petra thanked her, waited until the nurse had left the room and stepped gingerly towards the closet where she checked her shoulder bag. The gun was indeed missing, but the magazine was still in her make-up bag. She felt in the pockets of her jacket. The mobile was there, as was the tape from Roche's answering machine. The battery in the phone was dead and the charger was in her apartment. There was a telephone by the bed, but a notice explained that it was for incoming calls only. Damn, she thought, I'm incommunicado.

Tomorrow would be her opportunity to expose Roche. She had more than enough proof of his complicity in people trafficking. Besides the tape messages, there were the false documents in the drawer, notwithstanding the damning display of democracy degradation on the walls of the secret cellar. She would use the crack on her head as an excuse for omitting to mention the room and its contents. She just hoped that they would find Alexis before these new revelations sidetracked the focus of their investigation. In the meantime, there was little to do apart from sleep and recovery.

Before she could rearrange the pillow to make her head more comfortable, another nurse interrupted her.

“Il y a quelqu'une pour vous, une visiteuse.”

Petra's heart skipped a beat. Her first thought was Alexis. He's escaped from Roche somehow. Then she realised that the nurse had used the female gender. Her visitor was not Alexis but she was not disappointed.

“Katherine,” she cried, as his grandmother shuffled in with the help of the nurse, whom she dismissed with a wave of her silver-topped cane.

“Voulez-vous café?” asked the nurse from the doorway.

Katherine looked round at her in disgust and shook her head. She turned to Petra. “No use asking for tea. They're clueless.”

Petra grinned, painfully. The nurse left, unimpressed. Katherine settled in a bedside chair, reached down into her bag and withdrew a half bottle of vodka.

“I came prepared.” She poured a generous measure into two plastic cups. “They'll think it's water.”

Petra suffered more pain in amusement. “How did you…?”

Katherine interrupted her. “Ssh, I'm about to tell you. The gendarmes came looking for Alexis and told me that you were here. I called a taxi after they left.” She slurped some vodka. “Now my dear, tell me all that happened.”

Petra recounted the whole episode, this time in detail. She left nothing out, unlike her edited version to the police.

The old woman hung on every word between sips of vodka. “Don't you worry your head about Alexis. He'll be fine. He's sensible enough to wait his opportunity. Besides, he's a Romanov. They can deal with adversity; it's in their psyche.” She patted Petra's hand. “It's you who concerns me. When did they say that you can leave this awful place?”

“Tomorrow morning. They said that I must stay overnight for observation,” Petra replied, responding positively to the impact of Katherine's visit.

“I suppose that's normal for a severe head wound. As soon as they discharge you, I suggest that you lead your gendarme friend to that hidden room. That, together with your tape should ensure that other agencies will become involved, increasing the odds on finding Alexis. I think that Roche has probably gone to Marseille. He has no friends in Limoges.”

She smiled. “You, a secret agent…I should have guessed.” She shook her head, partly in amazement, partly in admiration. “You said that your mission will have been accomplished after you reveal evidence of Roche's involvement. Does that mean that you will be returning to England?”

“No way. Not until Alexis is safe and sound. I also have a score to settle with Roche.”

She hesitated. Perhaps she had said too much already. Could she trust Katherine to keep her confidence? Petra knew that she was on thin ice. Her mission would certainly be over after exposing Roche. Rob had said, ‘get in, gather info and get out’. However, that was before she had met Alexis and his grandmother. The goalposts had moved since that final briefing in London. She had thought about updating him with events, but maybe that was not such a good idea at this moment in time.

Katherine glanced at the door, turned back to Petra and beckoned her closer. “You'll need a replacement gun,” she whispered. “I still have my husband's service revolver and ammunition. It's yours if you are unable to get a replacement.”

Petra grinned. “You and I would have made a great team…a modern day Thelma and Louise.”

“If only I was fifty years younger…” Katherine's eyes glazed over, as if rekindling some distant memory. She looked at Petra. The two women were not dissimilar in attitude. Obviously, this young woman had a story of her own to tell. She was certain that one day Petra would divulge her other life.

Katherine thought of that magical moment in the Berlin hospital when she realised that she was in love with Alexei. The recollection of the constant dread they experienced as they fled from the darkening shadow descending upon Europe tainted that joyous memory. The invasive regime of communism as it began to consume the conquered eastern bloc countries soured the victory over the Nazis. To survive, they had each other and above all, faith. She needed that same faith now. Her grandson would return. His destiny would be fulfilled.

She rummaged in her bag. “I have brought you a present, something that could be useful one day.” She placed a small object wrapped in tissue paper on the bed.

Petra unwrapped it, revealing a silver cigarette case. It was engraved with a hammer and sickle, a Russian soldier and the dates, ‘1917 - 1937’, commemorating the twenty years anniversary of the revolution.

Katherine explained. “It belonged to my beloved husband, Alexei. He carried it with him throughout the war. I like to believe that it protected him.”

Petra turned the object over in her hands. “Is that why you said it may be useful to me one day?”

Katherine simply told her to open it. Inside, Petra discovered strands of blonde hair. She looked at the old woman, mystified.

“The hair belongs to my grandson, Alexis. He had an accident with his bicycle when he was younger. One of the wheels pulled out some of his hair.” She smiled. “He had a bald patch for a while. It's a keepsake from his childhood. Because I have chosen you as the future custodian of my family's history, I thought it might provide a DNA sample to compare with the records used to identify the remains of his ancestors. If ever proof was needed, you have it there.”

Petra remembered the bloodstained razor that she had preserved, but to mention it might imply a degree of mistrust. She merely showed her gratitude. “Thank you. I don't know what to say.”

Katherine patted her arm. “Just find my Alexis.”

8888

The mobile phone rang. Dumas answered the call. He stood, looked out at the vast expanse of blue-green water of the Mediterranean and listened to the anxious voice pleading for advice. Such a tranquil scene, he thought, I don't need this shit. They both conversed in a southern patois, a dialect derived from langue d'oc, a version of French still used by some across that area of France.

“Look, the yacht is en route to Saint-Tropez to pick up some weekend guests. I suggest that you make your way there, meet up with Dimitri and sail back into Marseille. It's too risky to come here direct. They'll expect you to head for the villa. Let's face it; where else would you be welcome? They'll monitor the main roads and place every motorway toll between here and Limoges under surveillance. Where are you now?”

Having realised that the police would return after his run-in with Petra, Roche had fled from his house. Seeing her lying in a pool of blood, he had been convinced that she was dead. He was not prepared to stay and ask questions. Her car was outside and she had been on the phone when he had arrived. She could have been contacting others already on the way to join her. He had decided to make a quick exit.

“I'm staying overnight with a mate near Feurs, about fifty kilometres west of Lyon.”

Dumas thought for a few seconds. “They'll be mainly focussed on the A20 towards Toulouse, the A7 from Lyon to Avignon and possibly the A75 from Clermont-Ferrand to Montpellier. Stay clear of all those routes. Head for Grenoble and take the scenic route through Gap and Grasse.” Dumas grinned. “It'll take longer but at least, you can pick up some fresh herbs for my chef.”

He became serious again. “Just keep off the bloody motorways until you get to Cannes. From there you should be okay on the A8 as far as Le Muy. They will not be anticipating you driving in from the direction of Italy. Come off there and it's a straight run into Saint-Tropez via Sainte-Maxime.”

Roche winged, expressing his repressed fears and insecurity in his tone. “It'll take all bloody day to drive across the Alps.”

“I'll tell Dimitri to expect you about midnight tomorrow, then. Don't fuck up!” Dumas finished the call and sighed. Trust Roche to fall foul of the local gendarmerie. It was time to make another call. He walked out onto the terrace overlooking the pool.

“You okay?” asked Dumas when his call was answered. “Roche has contacted me. I told him to head for Saint Tropez. The yacht's on its way. Dimitri's on board. How do you think that we should play it? I wasn't planning for Roche to be here at the weekend.”

The response was brutal. “He's a complete liability. I think Dimitri should ensure that he doesn't make it to Marseille. There's a small matter of some intel to worry about. You may hear that there's a female snooping around La Bastide masquerading as a student, but don't be too concerned. She's chasing shadows. She's English, possibly Interpol based, but more likely to be MI6. She had some altercation with Roche. He put her in hospital. That's the main reason he's skipped town.”

“So that's why he's panicking.” His suspicions had been correct. “According to a contact in the port, two English detectives have also arrived on the scene here in Marseille. They're staying at the New Hotel. Is that coincidence or what?”

“I heard that they were liaising with the local gendarmerie in Limoges regarding the two stiffs in England. The female investigator that I mentioned was certainly interested in Roche. I think that between them, they must have made a connection.”

“But why have they turned up here? They must have found something linking Roche with me?”

“It couldn't have been Roche. She never met him until he whacked her. An ex-gendarme has been mentoring her since she arrived. He probably tipped her off about your previous history together. I don't think it's a big issue, but be on your guard. I'll take care of everything at this end. I'll meet you at the villa when I've smoothed things over here. See you at the weekend.”

“What about the two on the scene here? I can arrange for them to disappear. What d'you reckon?”

“They know nothing. Not worth taking a risk. Distract them with your renowned hospitality and personal charm. Indulge them and if they ask about Roche, tell them that you thought he was dead and buried.” There was a distinct chuckle. “For once, you'll probably be telling the truth.”

8888

The taxi edged its way through a steady flow of slow-moving traffic and pedestrian supporters as it followed the Avenue du Prado towards the Stade Vélodrome. Despite the encroaching darkness, the warm evening air together with the bright lights and large crowds created a festive atmosphere around the short ride from the city centre. The vast area surrounding the stadium was awash with colourful and noisy spectators chanting their tribal allegiance to Olympique Marseille. The taxi eventually threaded a path through the crowd into a side road leading to one of the many parking areas. From there, the taxi driver directed the two detectives towards the main frontage and official entrance of the stadium.

At various checkpoints, it was necessary to show their passes until they entered the more sobering and grandiose stadium foyer. Immediately, Thoury, the police captain greeted and ushered the detectives to a pre-match reception where he introduced them to other members of his party. They gratefully accepted and quietly sipped the glasses of Champagne that a waiter thrust into their hands. Unable to comprehend the babble of conversation around them, they merely smiled and soaked up the atmosphere.

Thoury led them towards another smaller group where a smartly dressed person held centre stage. He was of medium height, stocky in build with a tanned, somewhat weather-beaten face. His short but thick brown hair was greying at the temples; his eyes were dark and piercing. An engaging smile compensated for his invasive expression. The captain introduced the detectives to Michel Dumas.

Fortunately, he spoke to them in English, not as fluently as Thoury, but well enough to engage Massey and Harcourt in polite conversation. More drinks were on hand and he invited them to partake in the casse-croûte abundantly spread across a nearby table. They exchanged pleasantries between mouthfuls of food, sips of Champagne and football banter. They stood in the inner sanctum of one of Europe's top clubs. Therefore, it was not surprising that, with their Manchester connection, the topic within his entourage focussed on the European exploits of Manchester United.

Massey, ever the suspecting investigator, was unsure whether the interest shown by Dumas was prompted by football issues or terrorist targets. He asked many questions about the club. Harcourt later argued with her colleague that his enquiries were borne from pure admiration for a top-flight club. Massey still had doubts. They mentioned nothing about the reason for their visit. In the convivial ambience of the pre-match gathering, it seemed inappropriate to discuss a murder. Massey was hoping for an opportunity to broach the subject later. Dumas satisfied that specific need by inviting them to a post-match celebration at his villa.

Marseille won the match, further endorsing the holding of a celebration party. A fleet of limousines sped them from the Vélodrome out of the city into the hills overlooking the bay, the Rade de Marseille. They headed in a southeasterly direction towards the heights above the Bouches-du-Rhône. Leaving the main road after having passed through a sparsely populated area, the vehicles swung between two un-gated stone columns onto a single-track road through rocky terrain. Several minutes passed before they arrived at the perimeter walls of a large estate.

Gigantic metal gates swung effortlessly open, allowing the limos access to a driveway lined with palm trees and ornamental lanterns. A robotic sentinel of security cameras monitored their progress from the entrance towards the villa, a magnificent turreted property that would have rivalled many a stately home in England. More cameras covered the immediate areas close to the building, whilst shadowy figures moved unobtrusively in the unlit depths of the all-encompassing gardens.

If this display of wealth stems from the proceeds of illicit revenue, thought Massey, it's little wonder that local politicians, dignitaries and law enforcement officers were compliant guests turning blind eyes. On the other hand, it was blatantly obvious why Dumas featured high on Interpol's radar.

As they stepped from the vehicles, Harcourt nudged him and nodded towards a brightly lit expanse beyond the main building. “An infinity pool. Isn't that just fantastic?”

“Infinity pool?” The terminology was new to Massey.

“You can almost see the effect from here. It creates the illusion of merging with the sea and beyond towards the horizon.”

Massey grunted, unable to comprehend her girlish excitement over, in his eyes, such a mundane but pretentious feature. The floodlit pool cast a magical turquoise halo over the west wing of the property, but her colleague remained unimpressed.

They heard dogs barking in the distance. Probably Dobermans, thought Massey with a shudder. This guy had security fit for Nicolas Sarkosy, the president. Was it to keep out unwanted intruders or to restrict the departure of individuals held against their will? Harcourt stood and marvelled at the splendour. Massey feared the potential threat.

Dumas escorted them into the main reception area. Two curved marble staircases flanked the spacious room giving the impression of two powerful arms embracing the gathered guests. A mezzanine linked two further short sets of stairs to the first floor landing. Central within this symmetrical arc, an enormous crystal chandelier hovered above the visitors as though suspended in space. Two employees in white dinner jackets dispensed drinks from a cocktail bar beneath the protruding mezzanine, while several heavily built males in dark suits mingled amongst the score of guests. More security, thought Massey. The atmosphere was convivial but controlled.

A waiter stopped by with a tray of drinks. The detectives helped themselves as Dumas approached and asked them to join him on an outdoor terrace, visible through an ornate archway of local sandstone and granite. The terrace stretched along the end of the building where it overlooked the spectacular pool.

Their host smiled and gestured towards the distant Mediterranean. “Regard that view. In daylight, you see the Iles de Frioul and the tiny fortress of Ile d'If. It is famous by one of my ancestors, Alexandre. You read The Count of Monte Cristo, perhaps when you are younger?”

Harcourt was even more impressed…a descendant of a famous author. “I read the book and of course The Three Musketeers.” She stared into the distant indigo backdrop of a starlit sky. “The view must be magnificent during the day. It's absolutely breathtaking even at night.”

Massey passed no comment.

Dumas walked across to the carved marble balustrade surrounding the terrace. “I think that anyone who regard this panoramic vista for the first time is captivated, as I am on my first visit when I step out here. Adolf Hitler, he has the same experience when he stand at the Trocadero to admire his conquest, the city of Paris. The Tour Eiffel rise up before his eyes. Perhaps you see picture of him when he enjoy this moment.”

Taken aback by his analogy, Harcourt smiled out of politeness. “I see what you mean,” she said, meekly.

Massey sipped from his glass, but otherwise remained impassive. The thought crossed his mind that Dumas may have similar aspirations.

Their host continued his observations. “He command with such power, that man. Today is very different. Power is shared. The U.S.A. believe that they have the greatest authority in the world, but there are many Arab rulers rich from vast oil revenues who can ruin them financially if they wish. Soon other major powers emerge: North Korea, Iran and China with its infinite resources, new wealth and manpower. Look at how the influence of Osama Bin Laden create fear of terrorism in the West and how Russia suffer such easy defeat in Afghanistan. Russia, without doubt, she come again as a great nation. Technology and the internet make, how you say, a level playing field? But power is not the complete answer. Do you know why?”

“It's all about money now, isn't it?” Harcourt suggested. “One needs financial clout in the modern world.”

Dumas smiled at her and turned to Massey. “What think you, Inspector? You know the key to great power?”

“People possess power in many walks of life at different levels. Success lies in knowing how to wield that power with maximum effect to achieve one's objectives.”

Dumas raised his forefinger towards Massey to emphasise his reply. “Exactly…money, power and especially knowledge. One can rule the world with that. Tonight you watch Olympique Marseille. At this time, they not compete with the rich English and Spanish clubs like Chelsea, Madrid and Barcelone. Perhaps one day…” He looked out across the pool. “Yes, perhaps one day soon they will be the big club.” He raised his glass. “I dream, of course. A toast to Manchester and Marseille. Next time they meet in Europe, I hope the best team, it win.”

The detectives raised their glasses and sipped their cocktails. Dumas turned to face them. His expression had become serious.

“Capitaine Thoury, he tell me that you have questions about Ludovic Roche. I think that he is long time dead.”

That did not ring true, thought Massey. The police captain had said that Roche had absconded. Surely, he must have already communicated that to Dumas. Was he lying or was something lost in translation?

Harcourt explained that the unsolved deaths in Manchester were the reason for their visit, closing with an apology for their intrusion. She also thanked him for his hospitality.

“I am sorry that I not give more help. Roche, I know him from my past life. I lose contact with him long time before, when he go live in Limoges.”

Massey remained unconvinced. The man was far too glib with his responses. “I noticed this morning that your yacht has left the harbour since yesterday, yet you're still here.”

“Ah, you see my Etoile Olympique. A remarkable craft, n'est-ce pas? It is a Mondo Marine, forty-three metres long, built in Greece of course. It is en route Saint Tropez. It bring some guests for the weekend. We have the engagement party for my daughter, Elodie. You must join us. You are welcome to stay and enjoy the celebration.”

Instantly, Harcourt's mind sought any flimsy excuse to extend their stay. “That's very kind of you. I'm sure that it would be a pleasure. I didn't realise that you were married. Is your wife here tonight?”

“Unfortunately, my wife she die in car crash several years ago. My family is my daughter and my son. He is architect, but he now live in U.S.A. My daughter, she is model and live in Paris. It is special occasion for me. I am honoured if you are here.”

Massey quickly intervened, hoping to prevent his colleague from making any commitment. “Unfortunately, we will most likely be back in the U.K. by then.”

They strolled back into the main reception area and mingled with other guests, generally those who could manage to speak a little English. After several attempts at some small talk, the detectives extricated themselves from the throng. They stood on the steps leading to the front entrance where they admired the landscaped gardens.

Massey was concerned about their somewhat choreographed reception and the spontaneous invitation to the daughter's engagement party. “What do you reckon to Dumas?”

“Quite a charmer. I imagined him to be a bachelor until he mentioned his children. Pity about his wife, but obviously, he seems to dote on the daughter.”

Massey was overtly suspicious. “I'd love to know how he affords this millionaire lifestyle. If criminal activities are funding it, it's scary that one of his heroes is Bin Laden, besides the other megalomaniac that he mentioned. I find that quite disturbing.”

“Perhaps he is just a sympathiser towards those regimes opposed to the principles of western democracy. Let's face it; we're guilty of some pretty oppressive measures in our past history.”

“Sympathising is acceptable, but using terrorism as an antidote is not only immoral but barbaric. If financial support stems from terrorist organisations, it begs the question: what does he offer in return?”

“You're not a fan of Michel Dumas, are you?”

“I don't trust him. He may be well connected in Marseille, but I bet he's a prime target as far as Interpol is concerned. I wouldn't be surprised if they had infiltrated his security blanket already.” Massey turned away. “And he lied about Roche, saying that he believed him to be dead. What does he take us for?” He walked back towards the entrance. “Anyway, enough of Dumas. I need a scotch. Let's have another drink and discuss how we intend to make our way back to the hotel.”

Harcourt shook her head in exasperation. “Chief Inspector, you're a killjoy. This is probably our last night in Marseille and you want to hit the sack. Let's make the most of our visit. We can check out transport options later…preferably, when the sun rises over those mountains. Besides, I fancy exploring this opulent millionaire's paradise in the daylight. Maybe we'll be able to take a dip in that fabulous pool.”

“I presume that you've remembered to pack a bikini in that shoulder bag,” Massey said in a sarcastic tone.

“I'm sure that he could provide the necessary. If not, there's always the option of skinny-dipping as an alternative.” She winked and headed for the cocktail bar.

Massey sighed and checked his watch. It was one o'clock. He followed her into the reception area. Quite unexpectedly, his thoughts turned to Petra Rebovka. What had happened to her? Was she badly hurt? Was she still in hospital? Too late to call her now, he thought. Perhaps Harcourt could phone before they set off back to Limoges. Why was he even thinking about the young woman? She was like an annoying insect, a persistent irritant.

He dismissed his concerns as Harcourt passed him a crystal tumbler containing an extremely generous measure of whisky. At that moment, he again wished that he were back in the Beacon.

Harcourt poked him playfully with her forefinger. “C'mon, I want to check out that pool. Let's take a walk under the stars.”

“We'll probably be accosted by the security guards or, in the worst case scenario, be shot.”

Harcourt started walking towards the main entrance again. “You've been reading too many spy novels. Have you always been a pessimist?”

“I prefer to make decisions based on the facts before me rather than have my judgement clouded by assumptions. Since we arrived here, nothing has changed my view that Dumas is up to his neck in some form of criminal activity. Why else would he need such a high level of security?”

“If I had a fantastic pad like this, I'd want to protect it from unwanted intruders.”

“For privacy and personal security, I just think that it's somewhat over the top.”

“Suit yourself. I'm still up for a stroll. Coming or not?”

Massey shrugged his shoulders. “It's your funeral.”

“You're a real Job's comforter. Drink your Scotch and get some Dutch courage inside you.” Harcourt grinned at the unintentional paradox of her words.

They stepped outside and wandered in the direction of the turquoise halo. Hidden eyes watched from the shadows, but no one attempted to stop them. On reaching the pool, they stood and admired the spectacular view.

“There you are,” Harcourt said triumphantly. “They're here to protect us not to shoot us.” She looked down into the clear water of the swimming pool. “It's so inviting. Don't you fancy a dip?”

Before Massey could reply, the approach of a dark suit startled them.

The man was very tall and well built. “Good evening. I hope you're not thinking what I think you're thinking.”

“You speak English,” Harcourt said with surprise.

“I'm actually Canadian, from Quebec. I also speak fluent French.”

Massey addressed him. “You're part of the security team here?”

The man lowered his voice slightly. “I would advise you, sir, and D.C.I. Harcourt to get your butts out of here asap.” He turned to acknowledge a message in his earpiece. “Oui, ils regardent la piscine et la vue panoramique. J'ai dit qu'il faut revenir au salon de réception.” He faced the detectives. “I've reported that you are just admiring the view. Look, if I stay here talking, they'll become suspicious. I suggest that you re-join the main party.”

Harcourt was astonished. “How did you know my name?”

“The same way that I know that this is D.C.I. Massey. Say nothing. I'm on your side. Now, make a move before we attract too much attention.”

The man disappeared into the shadows. Massey turned to his colleague, smiling smugly. “There, I told you that there'd be someone on the inside and I bet that he's not alone.”

As they re-entered the villa, Dumas stepped towards them. “You enjoy the night air?”

Massey complained. “We were about to admire your pool at close quarters, but one of your heavies barred our way.”

“I apologise. Unfortunately, France has strict legislation for pools, even on private properties. One must install alarms or barriers and, in some cases, supervision. Therefore, it is not permitted to allow open access. You are welcome to use the facility, if you stay for the celebration.”

Before his colleague could accept the offer, Massey stepped in with his excuse. “As I said previously, I'm afraid that we have a commitment to return to the U.K. before the end of the week. Perhaps we can take up your offer another time.” He pulled out his mobile phone. “Do you have a taxi number that we can call?”

“Not a problem. One of my chauffeur, he drive you to the city centre. It is the New Hotel where you stay…yes?”

Massey nodded, convinced that they had not mentioned their accommodation to him. This man must hold a bloody dossier on us, he thought.

Thirty-five minutes later, the black limo pulled up on Rue Reine-Elisabeth, dropping its occupants at the main entrance to the hotel.

“Fancy a night-cap?” Harcourt glanced across at the Quai des Belges, where some bars were still open. Her suggestion almost became a plea. “It's our last night for goodness sake.”

Massey looked at his watch…two thirty. “One drink, just one. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. Let's aim to leave at lunchtime and you must contact Rebovka before we leave. I want to know what's been happening during our absence.”

Harcourt smiled. “Don't you ever relax? Are you always on-the-job or do I perceive a soft spot for our young friend?”

8888

The local gendarmerie were once again swarming over Roche's house as Jean-Marie drew up outside accompanied by Petra. He had arrived at the hospital earlier to pick her up following her discharge as a patient.

She wondered why the police had returned. “Why are they still here?”

“They return to search the ‘ouse again…this time for a different reason. It is again a crime scene. There is the attack on you and of course, Ludo Roche ‘as vanished…Alexis also. They look for clues.”

“My money's on Marseille, Jean-Marie.”

“Your money? I not understand.” Her connotation was beyond his comprehension.

She explained. “If I was to have a bet, you know, like on the horse racing as with P.M.U. here in France.”

During their conversation in Le Capricorne, Alexis had tried to explain to Petra the complexities of Pari Mutuel Urbain and the betting system. It was not only a bar tabac, but also one of almost ten thousand registered P.M.U. outlets countrywide. She had understood some of what he had said.

The ex-gendarme laughed. “I remember that. It is good phrase.” He muttered it once more. “My money is on Marseille.” Again he laughed. “C'est bien, ça.”

They emerged from the car and walked towards the house with Jean-Marie leading the way. “First, I check the progress of the judiciaire. After, you collect the Clio. Then you go make a written statement at the gendarmerie. I think that your work ‘ere is now almost finished. You return to England, yes?”

Petra made no reply. She was hesitant, not keeping pace with him, unsure of what may confront her in Roche's house. Her strange behaviour convinced Jean-Marie that the injury to her head had affected her more than originally diagnosed. They approached the main entrance to Roche's house. A uniformed gendarme barred their entry until Jean-Marie enlightened him.

Inside, an officer in plain clothes greeted them. “Bonjour, Fauchet.” He looked at Petra. “Ah, l'Anglaise. Vous êtes en bonne santé maintenant, Mademoiselle?”

“Much better,” Petra replied. “Tant mieux, merci. Allez, je veux vous montrer quelque chose. Suivez moi.”

What could she possibly want to show them, thought Jean-Marie? She had told them everything at the hospital.

Petra led them into the dining room. A forensic team seemed to be examining every nook and cranny in the house. It reminded her of the searches at her flat above the saddlery. She could still recall the feeling of impotence when she and Klara were suspects prior to their eventual arrest. This lot can search forever, she thought. They've not a hope in hell of discovering the secret cellar.

All activity appeared to cease as she entered the room and positioned herself at the end of the sliding fixture. She was holding centre stage; not an unusual experience for Petra. Whether they were steeling themselves for her coup de grace or merely ogling her stunning, yet slightly battle-scarred allure, she was unsure. Nevertheless, she took the opportunity to milk the moment. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

She first explained to Jean-Marie that the blow to her head must have caused some memory loss. That was her excuse for omitting this imminent revelation from her recollections of yesterday. Her return to the scene of the crime, however, had prompted the emergence of a more lucid picture. He, in turn, translated her explanation to the increasing numbers who had swollen her captive audience.

Inwardly, she was enjoying every minute of commanding the attention of the local gendarmerie. How her fortunes had changed. She felt good and she knew why. Once more, she was in control. Now for la pièce de résistance.

She pressed gently against the side of the sliding fitment. It was rigid, immovable. A nauseous sensation engulfed her for several seconds until she noticed that the barely visible tramlines were beneath her feet. Immediately, she realised that she was at the wrong end. Smiling at her inquisitive audience, she confidently strode the full length of the fixture, gesturing towards it with outstretched arms. She announced her intention to reveal the hidden cellar.

“Voila! C'est derrière là. Une cave cachée.”

On reaching the far end, she pushed against it. This time the fitment slid gently along the wall towards the adjoining kitchen. Inwardly, she heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Regardez ici, le monde véritable de Monsieur Roche.”

Even Jean-Marie was lost for words. The real world of Roche…what did she mean by such a remark? The hidden door came into view. A senior gendarme stepped forward and slid the door open. He was not only annoyed at his officers’ incompetence in missing this, but also furious that almost twenty-four hours had elapsed with no communication concerning its existence. Two officers, possibly responsible for the original house search, felt the immediate wrath of his anger.

Petra could see his frustration and embarrassment. Not fancying a ticking-off in front of all and sundry, she hoped that her previous explanation exonerated her from any blame. Wait until he discovers what lies in store down in the cellar, she thought. That will distract him; give him something to consider. How would the police react to the symbolism on the walls?

The remaining team members continued their renewed forensic investigation. The senior officer called over Jean-Marie, who, in turn, invited Petra to join them. I hope that he's covered my arse, she thought.

Jean-Marie made the introduction. “I introduce Capitaine Lafarge.”

The officer stepped forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing slightly. “Qu'est-ce que là-bas? Vous savez?”

Petra looked down into the gloom. Not wishing to spoil the impact of the dramatic display down below, she merely stated that he would find answers. “Toutes les réponses à vos questions.”

She stepped to one side, expecting Lafarge to descend to the cellar. Exercising his position of authority, he summoned the two officers previously reprimanded. Suddenly a muffled noise of metal against metal resonated from below.

Roche must still be here, thought Petra, dreading the possible consequences. Jean-Marie pulled Petra away from the doorway. The gendarmes withdrew their handguns and trod warily down the stone steps towards the cellar entrance. The door bursting open and loud incomprehensible shouting broke an eerie silence. Suddenly silence returned to replace the commotion.

Petra sensed that her heartbeat had increased. Her whole body seemed to be shaking. What had happened down there? Had they discovered Roche? One of the gendarmes reappeared, spoke with Lafarge and raced outside. The atmosphere became tense as the unexpected developments unfolded. Seconds later, the gendarme returned clutching a large pair of metal cutters and took them down to the cellar.

Petra sought an explanation. She turned to Jean-Marie. “Qu'est-ce que se passe?”

He was likewise in the dark. He shook his head. “Je ne sais pas.”

The unexpected appearance of a figure in the doorway answered any concerns that they held about what the cellar had revealed. Capitaine Lafarge stepped back into the dining room. Behind him stood Alexis, shielding his eyes from the bright light of day.

Petra ran towards him. “Oh, my God…you're alive!” she cried, flinging her arms around him.

“What took you so long?” he said, displaying little emotion and no discernible affection.

She backed away as they escorted him out towards one of the blue police cars. Why was he angry following his rescue? She turned to Jean-Marie. “What is going on?”

“We follow. You now drive the Clio to the gendarmerie at La Bastide, where you make your statement. Alexis, ‘e also must make a statement. It is possible that they charge you, because yesterday you enter building illegally… pas grave. It is not a serious matter because Roche is not ‘ere to make complaint.”

Petra was confused. How can they charge me? Why did Jean-Marie draw such a swift conclusion? I've just done their work for them. Why are they not consulting me? What about the secret room? What about Roche and his probable involvement in terrorist activity? Who had locked Alexis in the cellar and why?

It seemed that the police were treating her and Alexis as criminals, whilst the real villain had absconded. The situation was even more unbearable because her brief moment of control had evaporated with the discovery of Alexis. In addition, why had he reacted so brusquely?

Jean-Marie walked towards the front entrance. “I come with you. It is not necessary that we stay ‘ere longer. It is now police affair. Follow me in your car.”

Petra walked slowly across to where she had left the Clio on the previous day. After opening the door, she sat in the driver's seat staring at the misted windscreen, deep in thought. Why am I suddenly thinking like this? Her head was pounding, not from her injury, but from her inability to comprehend the situation. She feared that something was amiss, but what?

8888

Petra and Jean-Marie stood outside the gendarmerie at La Bastide. The sun was shining. Local residents were shopping and going about their business before the majority of commercial activities ceased trading for the lunchtime break. There was a comforting air of normality about the place.

It's amazing how life continues in ignorance, thought Petra, while earth-shattering events play out behind the scenes. Maybe, it's a blessing that we only know what we see before us. She had relaxed a little, relieved by the outcome at the police station. After making her statement, she received nothing more than a severe reprimand for her involvement with the break-in at Roche's house.

Before her interview, she had handed over the tape from the answering machine. Even though the messages were vaguely coded, the content supported the possibility of his involvement in some form of illegal activity. If Roche denied that the consignments were human, would he be able to prove otherwise?

The statement made earlier by Alexis corroborated Petra's version of events, adding further credibility to her own account. He had also accepted responsibility for entering the house, an action that had led to the discovery of the hidden cellar. Thus, they had released him without charge after a short lecture on his actions. Before they left, Lafarge reluctantly thanked them individually for what he described as their unsolicited interference.

Petra considered that her subsequent actions after her discharge from the hospital were totally justified. Not only had she exposed the existence of the cellar and its contents, but that had also led to the release of Alexis from his ordeal of imprisonment by Roche. The gendarmes who had entered the cellar had discovered him manacled by chains to a metal grating, hence the need for the metal cutters.

Jean-Marie escorted Petra towards her car. “Call me after you speak with your people in London. I collect the keys for the apartment and the Clio before you leave.” He assumed that her mission was now complete as further investigations into Roche and his associates would pass into the hands of the security agencies based in France.

She was not yet prepared to leave the country. “I need to find Alexis first. He's already left the gendarmerie without speaking to me. My mobile phone also needs charging. Consequently, I've lost track of events as I have been incommunicado since my encounter with Roche.”

“You wish to use my phone to make your calls?”

“I'll go to his grandmother's house first. He'll probably be there. I can call London when I am back at the apartment.”

“Are the English detectives still in Marseille?”

Petra shrugged her shoulders. “As I said, I have had no contact.”

“When you speak with them, you explain what ‘appen ‘ere and they too can go ‘ome.”

Petra was beginning to understand that Jean-Marie was intimating that their presence was no longer required. The discovery of the identities of the two young Frenchmen in England was no longer a priority. It was now a side issue. Activities that were more serious had surfaced, moving ongoing enquiries to a higher level of concern because of their possible security implications.

Disappointed with the outcome of her mission and annoyed by her own deficiencies in the conduct of the affair, particularly her incompetence in losing her weapon, she set off in defiant mood to confront Alexis over his strange behaviour. Deep down, she was desperately seeking an excuse for her own failings. She drove to his apartment.

Katherine opened the door. “Petra, do come in.” She smiled and stepped to one side.

Immediately, Petra realised that Alexis was not at home. His grandmother had addressed her by her true name. She wondered if Alexis had been home after leaving the gendarmerie. If that were the case, did Katherine know his whereabouts? She decided to see if any news was forthcoming.

Katherine showed her into the living room. “Sit yourself down, my dear. I'll make some tea.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Petra wandered across towards the vast library of books that dominated one complete wall of the room. No wonder Katherine is well versed in Russian history, she thought, scanning the various titles and authors. There were novels by Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Chekhov, Pasternak and Tolstoy; historical reference books by Sokolov, Rodzyanko, Sukhanov, Solzhenitsyn, Paléologue and many others who had chronicled that specific period of Russian upheaval. Some were in English, others in Russian. One book, in particular, made her smile. To Petra, it seemed out of context with the general theme generated by the other titles. The book was Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.

Katherine re-entered with a tea tray and placed it on a low table.

Petra pointed towards the book. “Is that the Lolita that I think it is?”

She had visited the house to ask about Alexis. Her innocent question about the book only sidetracked the issue. Katherine was about to unleash another lesson in Russian history.

The old woman raised her cane towards the bookcase. “The author's father, also Vladimir, was murdered in 1922 by a Russian revolutionary. Initially, Nabokov was a lawyer who became the head of the Chancellery under Kerensky. His mandate was to produce a political but illegal manifesto giving legitimacy to the Provisional Government. It was during that dreadful period of great confusion and complexity. Nicholas had been forced to abdicate and his brother, Grand Duke Mikhail, had unwittingly accepted the role of Emperor, believing it to be the role of Regent until Alexei, the Tsarevitch, was old enough to assume his responsibilities.”

She sat in her chair and poured the tea. “Some still believed that a constitutional government could be formed with Grand Duke Mikhail as a symbolic head of state. Unfortunately, such efforts were to no avail because of the increasing dominance of the Bolsheviks. The Grand Duke started that fateful day, believing that he was about to be proclaimed Regent. He then spent several hours as Emperor and finished the day once again as a Grand Duke. Sadly, local Bolsheviks murdered him in June 1918 near Perm. The whereabouts of his remains is still a mystery. His poor widow, Natasha, eventually died destitute in Paris in 1952. She lies buried next to her son, George, in Passy cemetery near the Trocadero. It was a sad time.”

Katherine turned away, her eyes misty with past memories. “I'm sorry. I digress. You asked about the book, Lolita. Yes, it is the famous book that became a film. As a consequence, it became even more notorious.”

“I watched a video of the film with my sister some years ago. If I remember rightly, it was quite erotic.”

“I believe that it was meant to be a black comedy. You should read the book, my dear. The version on the shelf is in English.”

“I may have to leave soon and return to England. I doubt that I will have time to read before I go.”

“You must take it with you. I insist.”

“Actually, I came to see Alexis. Has he not returned home yet?”

“He called in earlier, changed his clothes, packed a travel bag and said that he would be working away for a few days. He hasn't contacted you?”

Petra shook her head. “My phone needs charging. I'll call him from the apartment.”

Katherine nodded approvingly. She rose from the comfort of her leather chair and crossed to a nearby Louis XV slant top writing desk. She opened a drawer. “I have a small parcel for you.”

Katherine took out a brown paper parcel tied with string. “Something I promised you at the hospital.” She smiled. “Don't worry, it's not loaded, but inside you'll find some ammunition in a separate pack.” She passed it to Petra and sipped some tea.

8888

Feeling somewhat deflated by the lack of positive news, Petra left the area of La Bastide and drove to the apartment in Limoges city centre. Her priority was to recharge her mobile phone. Her dilemma was whether she should contact Rob. If she were to update him, he would probably suggest that her mission was over and that she should return to the U.K. She decided that more pressing calls to Alexis and Harcourt took precedence. Their outcomes could determine what action she should take consequently.

An unexpected interruption thwarted her plans before her mobile was fully reactivated. Having just stepped from a most welcome hot shower, a sudden ring-tone from the living room alerted her. In her panic, swathed in only a damp towel, she answered the call without checking the number on display. Her immediate thought was Alexis. The caller was Rob.

“I hear that you have been upstaging and upsetting the local gendarmerie. I thought that you were supposed to be working together.”

Damn, thought Petra, he must have spoken to Jean-Marie. Conscious of his predictable reaction to her recent failings, she decided to try to humour him. “Are you watching me on satellite? If so, you'll see that I'm almost naked. I have just showered and need to get dressed.”

Rob laughed. “I wish. Unfortunately, I have nothing so sophisticated. I called Jean-Marie earlier because your number has been unobtainable. He explained what had happened. It appears from his version of events that your presence is no longer required. I suggest, therefore, that you book the first available flight from Limoges to Stansted or Luton. I'll arrange for someone to meet you at this end if you email me the details. Book it on-line using the credit card that we issued to you. You can leave Jean-Marie to sort out the car and the apartment. Oh, and leave the equipment case plus its contents for him to deal with.”

“There may be a slight problem there,” Petra said, ruefully. “I no longer have the gun.”

“What d'you mean? You ‘no longer have the gun’? You cannot have lost a Sig Sauer.” Rob was not too concerned, but he could not resist the opportunity to pressurise her.

“I think that Roche must have nicked it when I fell unconscious.”

“You're fortunate that he didn't shoot you with it. These people are dangerous. For them, life has no value…you're a lucky young woman. I wonder why Jean-Marie never mentioned anything about the gun.”

“He doesn't know. I left it out of my statement to the police in case there were questions about my possessing a firearm.” She hoped to regain some credibility.

“At least you managed to get that right. What's the situation with the Manchester plod?”

“Not a clue. They shot off to Marseille and I've heard nothing since.”

“What about your contact at the football club, Alex? Where is he?”

“Alexis, he's called Alexis,” Petra said, impatiently. She was beginning to wish that she were still in the shower. “Again, I don't know. I was about to phone all these people before contacting you, so that I could give you a full update.”

Rob was silent for a moment before continuing. “Apart from discovering a hidden cellar adorned with political poster memorabilia, your exploits are hardly a glowing example of your expertise in the field. You've managed to lose a suspect, an informant, two detectives, a 500-dollar handgun and have involved the emergency services. In addition, the local gendarmerie has arrested you for breaking and entering.” He was enjoying her discomfort. “That's some record for a first assignment.”

Petra became more defensive. “At least, you and the French now know that Roche was involved in the trafficking of illegals into the U.K.” His remarks hurt, but she was mostly annoyed with herself for losing control of the situation.

Rob concealed his amusement at her reaction and closed by stating that he would await the email confirmation of her flight details. She promised to make the necessary travel arrangements, but deliberately omitted to inform Rob that her return would be dependant on first finding Alexis. Besides, she wanted to ensure that Harcourt and Massey would also be winging their way back to Manchester.

Before she could dress, the phone buzzed again. It was Jean-Marie. “You ‘ave good battery in phone again?”

“Hello, Jean-Marie. Have you some news?”

“Very bad, I am afraid. There ‘as been big explosion. The ‘ouse of Roche was destroyed. Many lives lost.”

Immediately her thoughts turned to Alexis. “What? When did that happen?”

“It was after you leave. They investigate now. They think it is a large bomb. It must ‘ave been there before. We ‘ave good fortune, n'est-ce pas?”

“Were the gendarmes still there?” she asked, showing some concern, but mostly worried that Alexis may have returned.

“It is tragedy,” said Jean-Marie. “Some die in explosion.”

Petra shivered as she spoke. “Oh, my God…we could have been there. Capitaine Lafarge, was he still there?”

“The capitaine return to La Bastide before it ‘appen. It is ‘e who phone me.”

Petra was almost in tears. “I'm devastated. My contact in London has just phoned. He said that these people had no qualms about killing people.”

“You must take care, Louise. Maybe it is good that you return ‘ome soon.”

“I'll contact you before I go. I'm so sorry for what has happened.”

Petra sat on the sofa, still wrapped in the bath towel. She was dry now, but continued to shiver. She reflected on her lucky escape. Who would do such a thing? It must have been Roche before he left. Perhaps she was the target…or even Alexis, but why would he delay it for a whole day? More questions, but again no answers.

She checked her mobile…so many missed calls. She rang Alexis…no answer. Damn, she thought, where the hell is he? She decided to try Harcourt again. At last, a response. She was still in Marseille, but on the point of leaving. They exchanged news.

Petra slipped from her damp towel and dressed. As the warm clothing revitalised her circulation, her mind focussed on her next course of action. Despite all the bad news, she determined to remain positive. There was no way that she would contemplate returning to the U.K. until she had found Alexis. Roche was now a possible murder suspect, probably fleeing from the crime scene at this moment. She was convinced that he would be on his way to meet up with Dumas.

In her mind, there seemed to be only one logical place to be…Marseille. She rang Harcourt again. The detective needed little persuasion to delay her return and offered to meet her if Petra could arrange a flight. Massey would not be happy, but two very determined females would be confronting him.

Immediately, Petra booked via the internet a late afternoon flight to Lyon and a connection from there to Marseille, due to arrive at nine o'clock that evening. She called Harcourt with the details. The detective promised to meet her, despite Massey's angry protestations. It was one contest that he could never win.

Feeling extremely guilty, Petra decided against updating Rob. He would order her to return to the U.K. Apart from her determination to exact retribution on Roche, her other personal mission was also still incomplete. How could she walk away and ignore one of the best-kept secrets of the twentieth century?

8888

Two young men, dressed in Armani suits sat side by side on a gold velour sofa in the main reception hall of the Grand Hotel Europe on Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg. The foyer, a wide concourse, formed a transverse area giving direct access to the main facilities of the hotel. Opposite to the two men, a red-carpeted ornamental staircase led to the upper floors. Uniformed staff busied themselves, satisfying every need demanded by their affluent clientele. This was one of the most prestigious hotels in Russia. This was opulence on a five star scale.

The Grand Hotel Europe had played an important role in the history of the city for almost 150 years. It boasted of having been host to such famous dignitaries as Tchaikovsky, Dmitri Shostakovich, Ivan Turgenev, Sergei Prokofiev, Sir Peter Ustinov, Catherine Deneuve, Placido Domingo, Presidents Jacques Chirac and Bill Clinton, German Chancellor Helmut Kohl, HRH Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom and of course during the autocracy, members of the Romanov family. Even Grigori Rasputin had dined there, as had George Bernard Shaw with Maxim Gorky.

This was also the hotel where Grand Duke Mikhail, the brother of Tsar Nicholas II, had held secret liaisons with his lover, Natasha Wulfert, during the early days of their relationship. They always stayed in suite number eleven with rooms that overlooked the square. In reality, the square was a large circular parkland area, enclosed by splendid buildings that fulfilled various bureaucratic functions for the state. The overriding factor in their choice of that particular suite was its separate access, one that was less conspicuous than the other more public entrances.

Surrounded by an ambience steeped in history, the two young men were planning the future. They wore stylish clothes and sported expensive wristwatches, one a Cartier Caliber, his colleague a Girard-Perregaux Opera Three. They were in deep conversation, animated at times, but both spoke quietly so as not to be overheard. Occasionally, they would interrupt their discussion by making discreet calls on their mobile phones. Their focus appeared to be the screen of a laptop that they were studying.

To staff and other guests, they could have been wealthy executives or even famous celebrities. They were discussing neither international financial markets nor entertainment issues, but global terrorism on an unprecedented scale.

8888

Petra sat on her bed, deciding what clothes she should pack, a chore for her at the best of times. Ignorant of what lay ahead, she tried to cover all her options…so much for travelling light. Besides clothing, there were other considerations. Katherine's gift of her late husband's service revolver was a non-starter. She could hardly pass through airport security with a weapon like that stuffed in her luggage. Reluctantly, she placed it in the metal case under the bed.

Suddenly, she realised that there were other alternatives. She turned to the innovative paraphernalia that she now had in her possession. She searched through the various disguised items of equipment until she was satisfied with her choices. One could easily perceive most of the pieces that she hoped would avoid detection at the airport as cosmetic or toiletry requisites.

She checked the time. Bellegarde airport was a fifteen-minute drive. She needed to arrive twenty minutes before departure to check-in at the Air France desk. There was time for a light snack before she left the apartment. Once again, she called Alexis. Once again, his mobile seemed to be switched off. She thought about calling Jean-Marie, but, like Rob, his advice would be to return home and leave the police to deal with it. If she had been able to contact Alexis to know that he was safe, to be able to say au revoir, perhaps she may have been content to act sensibly and fly to London as opposed to Marseille.

She smiled. It was not in her nature to be sensible. She had spent her life acting on impulse. When motivated by feelings of retribution, she usually thrust all logic to one side. Klara would understand her impetuosity. Petra had dragged her sister into her twisted world more than once. She decided to call her, partly to update her and partly to boost her own conviction that she was right.

Her sister's comments were hardly appropriate to boost her morale. “You're mad, Petra. You never change. Always out of the frying pan…same old, same old. One of these days, you'll meet your match, but at least you'll have the tee-shirt. For once, I'm not part of your escapade. Take care, my love. I'll keep my eye on BBC world news. Give ‘em hell, sis!”

She parked the Clio at the airport, presented her documents at the Air France check-in desk and waited in the bar tabac with a fruit juice until her flight was called. She picked up a copy of Marie Claire, partly to pass the time during her flight, partly to distract her from the inner turmoil that plagued her mind. There was a scheduled flight to Stansted on the departure board. Perhaps she was about to head in the wrong direction. The uncertainty of her decision troubled her. Whenever she lost control, she felt vulnerable. This was not the time to be insecure.

At Lyon, she had a delay of fifty minutes before her connection to Marseille. At five to nine, she arrived on time at her final destination. Harcourt met her at the gate for arrivals. She was alone. Massey had elected to remain at the hotel.

The detective greeted her warmly. “The New Hotel is full, so I've booked you a room at the Escale Oceania. It's a couple of blocks from ours in the old port area. How was your flight?”

“Fine…any news on Roche?”

“Nothing. As I said on the phone, Dumas denied being involved with him for years. He even remarked that he believed Roche to be dead, but that didn't ring true. Thoury, the police captain, told us that Roche was on the run. Surely, Thoury must have mentioned it to Dumas, socialising with each other on a regular basis. However, without any evidence to support our suspicions, there was little we could do. We had decided to head back to Limoges until I received your call.

“Changing the subject slightly, since we spoke, I called Dumas. I explained that, as we were still here, we would accept his invitation to Saturday's party. As I told you on the phone, it's a celebration of his daughter's engagement, but Massey feels that it's his opportunity to impress some of his dodgy cronies. One of his security staff, whom we believed to be an undercover agent, actually warned us off. We formed the impression that something could happen this weekend, possibly a raid. If some top people from his criminal network are to be in attendance, that's a reasonable conclusion.

“Anyway, Dumas promised to send invites, including one for you. I said that we had met a friend who was on holiday here and hoped that she could accompany us. You'd better re-invent yourself. Mind you, you're an expert in that field, I believe.”

Petra guessed that Massey had been telling tales about her previous exploits. She put those thoughts to one side. “I'm worried about Alexis. He's disappeared and I've been unable to contact him. I'm concerned that Roche might be involved. The general consensus is that he may turn up here.”

“Who, Alexis?”

“No, Roche. The gendarmes have been searching for him since he fled from Limoges. I suppose that, if Dumas is bringing in illegal immigrants, he can just as easily ship out people like Roche. Do you and Inspector Massey think that he was truthful about not having had any recent contact with him?”

“Massey has no trust in Dumas whatsoever. In fact, I don't think he trusts anyone. He gives me the impression that he considers everyone guilty until proven innocent. He's hardly an advert for the British justice system.”

Petra agreed. “I know the feeling. I've been there on the receiving end. Mind you, in my case, he was right. Anyway, that's history now. If this party is scheduled for Saturday, what's on the agenda for tomorrow?”

Harcourt's face lit up with a broad smile. “Don't mention anything to D.C.I. Massey, but I've arranged a relaxing day out for us.”

“D.C.I…that's chief inspector, isn't it? Has he been promoted?”

“I think that it was partly to compensate for the loss of his brother-in-law, D.S. Turner. Did you ever meet him?”

“Oh, yes. I remember him,” Petra said, reflecting on their previous involvement in Manchester. “He was okay. Massey terrified me. What happened to him?”

“They were investigating some case involving a bioterrorism threat when D.S. Turner was blown up by a suicide bomber.”

“Bloody hell! Where did that happen?”

“Somewhere in the Midlands, I believe. I don't know the full s.p. and I don't think Massey likes to talk about it.”

Petra realised that it would take time to recover from such a tragic event. “He must find this situation difficult, being involved again with potential suicide bombers.”

“You're probably right. I never thought about it in that way. Perhaps that's why he's not very keen to be involved. I'll bear that in mind. Maybe I should give him more leeway.”

Petra seemed keen to change the subject. “What's this relaxing pursuit you've organised? I assume that it doesn't involve him.” In contrast to her usual lack of sentimentality, she suddenly felt some sympathy for her antagonist.

“There's a fantastic infinity pool at Dumas's villa. I've arranged that we can spend the day there, swimming and sunbathing. There's also a sauna and jacuzzi, so we can pamper ourselves. Dumas himself made the offer when I called him about attending his daughter's engagement party.”

“And you've not told Massey?” Petra grinned. “He'll do his nut!”

“He can go and visit a museum, a chateau or something,” Harcourt said, not too bothered.

“I can't wait to see his face when you tell him. A lead balloon springs to mind.” Petra found the image extremely amusing. “Hey, I've just thought. I can't go swimming. I've no cossie with me.”

“There's a big department store opposite our hotel called Gallery something or other. I'm sure you'll find something suitable to wear there. I'm looking forward to a great day of shopping and swimming followed by a lavish evening meal with top quality local wine. Let's indulge ourselves before the fun starts on Saturday.”

“You're a bad influence. If I wasn't repaying my debt to society, I'd be risking the sack.”

The banter continued until they reached the old port area. Harcourt dropped Petra off at the Escale Oceania, giving her half an hour to check in and freshen up before she returned with Massey to meet up for a drink in one of the nearby bars.

8888

Petra tossed her suitcase onto the bed to choose something suitable to wear for a late night drink. She still felt guilty remaining in France without a legitimate reason, but Harcourt had promised to take full responsibility for their extended stay. She decided to take a quick shower. She felt weary and unclean from travelling. It had been a long day and her head was throbbing again. The hospital had prescribed some paracetamol painkillers and Alprazolam tablets to relax her. Apart from tomorrow's visit to Galeries Lafayette, she would need to find a pharmacy to acquire the drugs. Perhaps a day in the sunshine by a pool would be a perfect way to wind down and recuperate.

Her hair was almost dry when reception rang to say that her visitors had arrived. Refreshed after her shower and wearing a smart new outfit purchased in Limoges, she felt confident and ready to face Massey once more. She was mildly surprised when they met. He was quite pleasant towards her. Harcourt must have had a word in his ear, she thought. He'll soon change when he hears what we have planned for tomorrow.

They walked down the Quai des Belges to La Samaritaine Brasserie. They chose a table inside the veranda to avoid the chill of the night air wafting in over the marina. Initially, the majority of their conversation centred on Petra's experience at Roche's house and her overnight stay in the hospital. Later, Harcourt eulogised about the villa, which afforded a gambit to broach their proposed poolside activity planned for the following day.

Surprisingly, Massey agreed that, though it was a wasted day, the delay was necessary under the circumstances. He even suggested that there was also the chance to gain some insight into anything suspicious during their visit. He decided that he would occupy his day with a boat trip to the islands, especially Ile d'If. Petra was amazed by his acquiescent attitude. Maybe Harcourt had finally tamed him. A couple of rounds of drinks later, they parted company and retired to their respective hotels.

Back in her room, Petra emptied the contents of her toiletry bag onto the bed. She gathered the items that she had removed from the silver case at the Limoges apartment. When assembled, some items formed a miniature pistol. The handle of an electric toothbrush concealed matching small calibre ammunition. The whole assembly operation took twenty seconds…only ten when she was in training. She took the weapon apart. On the third attempt, she managed the operation in less than twelve seconds. Just in case, she told herself.

8888

Once inside the department store, Petra would have been quite happy to spend the remainder of the morning browsing through the endless racks of clothes. She settled on a pair of Corleone denim shorts that she found irresistible despite the hefty price tag. Unable to find any suitable swimwear, Harcourt suggested that she should try the Rue de la République, where there seemed to be a stream of fashion shops. Petra spotted H & M where she purchased a stunning pink bikini. A few doors away from the store, she was relieved to find a pharmacy for her prescription.

After a shopping expedition that lasted almost two hours, they were finally following the road leading towards the Stade Vélodrome.

“Are you sure you know the way?” Petra asked, concerned that Harcourt was driving with a map on her lap.

“I remember that we seemed to stay on the same road after leaving the stadium, but, after that, it's a bit hazy.”

“Oh great! That means we could drive around in circles for the rest of the day.”

“Trust me. I'm a chief inspector and I passed my advanced driving test. You're with an expert. Anyway, I can always phone for directions if we get lost.”

Petra smirked. “So, advanced driving gives you the ability to drive whilst reading maps and using a mobile?”

Harcourt laughed. “You're the one who speaks French. You can make the call.”

Petra shook her head. “You're unbelievable.”

Amidst their repartee, Harcourt spotted a sign for Les Baumettes. “I remember that,” she cried with some relief.

After a short distance, they arrived at a large intersection, a roundabout with an obelisk rising from the centre. “We turned off here to the right, I think.”

“I feel a phone call coming on,” Petra muttered under her breath.

“This is it…Boulevard de la Concorde. It all looks so different in daylight.”

They reached a T-junction. Petra looked at Harcourt's puzzled expression. “Now where, right or left?”

“Let's take a right. We can always double back.”

The road was busy and quite narrow, but broadened at a set of traffic lights.

Harcourt perked up. “That's what we want. On the phone, he said Pointe Rouge. It's left at these lights.” She passed a post-it note that she had attached to the map to Petra. “What's after Pointe Rouge?”

“It looks like La Campagne Pastre. Is that it?”

“That's when we start to leave civilisation behind and head for the barren hillside. After that, we look for two stone pillars that front a narrow track. It leads to his estate. It's not far from here.”

Petra became aware of a sudden change in the scenery. “Hey, this is nice now. Look there's the sea in the distance. It's like being on hols.”

Harcourt grinned. “Keep your eyes peeled for Massey on his island hopping trip. He'll be the one standing in the bows of the boat like Di Caprio in Titanic.”

They both broke out into a fit of giggles as the ridiculous image titillated their thoughts.

“I don't remember this bit,” she continued, “but it was dark and we had drunk a fair amount of bubbly. At least we're heading in the right direction.”

They followed the coastline south until the sign for La Campagne Pastre took them inland again towards a more rugged terrain. Eventually, the properties thinned out as they drove into a wilder region on the fringe of the rocky outcrop of the Bouches-du-Rhône. Finally, they saw the two pillars. They were almost there. Their frivolity subsided as the thought of entering the criminal domain of possible terrorist sympathisers numbed their minds. They drove on in silence.

8888

A taxi took the immaculately dressed young man from the Grand Hotel Europe to Pulkovo 2, St. Petersburg's main, but still developing airport. He had booked the morning Aeroflot departure to Frankfurt, where he would board a flight with Lufthansa direct to Dubai. A chauffeur met him at Dubai International and drove him to Raffles Hotel where his reservation was for a Diplomatic Suite.

Later that evening he dined in the Asiana restaurant renowned for its fine panoramic views of the city. Two Arabian associates, smartly dressed Western style, joined him for dinner. They left immediately following the meal and he retired to his room to recover from the jet lag, a result of the excessive travelling over the past thirty-six hours.

The following morning, there was a breakfast meeting scheduled for eight thirty with an associate from Abu Dhabi, followed by an Emirates flight to Lebanon. He attended yet another meeting at the Rafiq Hariri International Airport in Beirut, before boarding an Air France flight to Marseille. During each meeting, discussions had focussed on three key areas of concern: resources, logistics and finance. The agreement of a composite action plan and its subsequent implementation would follow at a later stage.

Following the exchanges, the young man had sanctioned an outline strategy and regional responsibilities with the chiefs of several radical Al Qaeda related factions across the Arab world. Most were like him, well dressed, well educated and, for the most part, extremely Western in their appearance and habits. Unlike the fundamentalist and simple believers of Islam, they were prepared to assume an image very alien to their beliefs. In their eyes, they were the true zealots, willing to go to any lengths to justify their aims to reject Western life, to destroy it by terrorism and mass murder.

Their weapons were the simple followers of Allah, brainwashed by their spiritual leaders and trained by Al Qaeda militants as fighters and suicide bombers. The extremists were dispersing these recruits across the Western world to wreak havoc by killing and maiming innocent men, women and children of all faiths and creeds, irrespective of nationality or colour.

The young jet setter had his own private agenda. He had concluded that mutual aid and cooperation with all these factions could assist him in achieving his specific objectives. In his mind, he was merely preparing the ground for his own ambitious policies. Neither Muslim nor Christian, he was an agnostic with one personal belief that he alone was the divine ruler of mankind.