Thirty

Saint-Germain

THERE WERE A FEW PEOPLE after my trial who surprised me with their support, but Paul Chambière wasn’t one of them. His profile online said he still worked at Sciences Po, running one of the big graduate programmes in Paris. I tried calling him first to arrange a meeting, but he made it clear on the phone I was someone he wanted to forget, so I know the only way he’ll speak to me now is if he has no choice.

His office at the university is in a townhouse behind high sandstone walls tucked away in an exclusive shopping district in the seventh arrondissement. I wait outside at lunchtime as preppy students surge through the arched entrance.

He leaves the building just after one, and I trail him at a distance until he enters a café. Taking a seat on the terrace, I watch him through the glass. When he sees me he does a double-take, says something to the people he’s with, then comes outside.

‘I told you there’s nothing to discuss,’ he says. ‘If you continue to harass us, I’ll call the police.’

‘My father was working on something and he wanted your help.’

He stands there for a moment, stiff as a board. Finally, he gestures to his lunch companions, fingers spread to say, ‘Five minutes,’ and then points towards a side street.

‘Céline said he was working on some kind of memoir. What was it about?’

He stops and waits for me to level up. ‘It was a memoir, Alex. What the fuck do you think it was about?’

I stare at him, shocked by his tone.

‘Your father was writing about his favourite topic – himself,’ he adds irritably.

‘If he was writing about himself, why did he need your help?’

A door clicks open behind us, and an old lady appears from the building. The sound startles Paul, and he moves off further down the street.

‘Céline said it was about his old colleagues from La Globe. So what was it about – himself or his colleagues?’ I say.

‘For God’s sake, Alex, how do I know? I didn’t read it.’

‘But he told you about it.’

He laughs unpleasantly. ‘He said it was a memoir. But it would’ve been very dull had it just been about him. Even he knew that.’ He carries on, his voice reaching a higher pitch. ‘It was about things that happened a long time ago. Things no one’s interested in now.’

‘I’m interested.’

He takes a deep breath, turns to face me, and I see the shadow of Tomas. The same tight jaw, the mean, grey eyes. ‘Why?’ he says, making the word into a sigh. ‘I don’t understand this sudden interest in your father. You were never interested in him when he was alive. Frankly, you behaved as if you wanted him dead—’

‘I didn’t want him dead—’

‘—and now he is dead, you can’t leave him alone.’ He steps back. ‘Of course, you wanted him dead,’ he says. ‘You made it happen. You let that thug into the building. You admitted it yourself.’

‘That’s not how it was,’ I say, the blood throbbing in my ears, fists tingling with the urge to punch him.

‘Guilt comes in many forms, Alex. You of all people should know that.’

‘I’m not guilty.’

‘You’re not legally guilty,’ he says, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘But you may as well have the word tattooed across your forehead. Why are you so interested in his work? Why do you pursue these foolish conspiracy theories? What’s that if not some kind of guilt trip?’

‘It’s nothing to do with guilt.’

‘You’re not sixteen anymore, Alex. You can’t stalk people and threaten them on the street. Especially with your record.’

‘I’m not stalking you.’

‘Eventually, you’ll have to take responsibility. It was blindingly obvious you and your friend attacked him—’

‘It was so blinding no one saw anything else. I’m trying to find out what happened after I left him – still alive.’ I’m shouting now, heat prickling my chest, cheeks burning. But my words sound desperate, weak with overuse. It’s like I’m yelling into the wind, repeating the same thing over and over, I’m not guilty. I didn’t kill him, hoping if I keep saying it, people will believe me.

There’s a long pause, the air ringing.

‘What’s this really about?’ he says finally. ‘What do you need to know beyond what Céline’s told you?’

‘Since I spoke to Céline I’ve been going through his files.’

‘Files?’

‘He’d collected old newspaper stories – some in hard copy, others scanned into his laptop, many of which were written by you.’

I’m getting a reaction, so I exaggerate a bit. ‘Hundreds of articles, together with drafts, research, notes.’

‘What kind of articles?’ he says, his voice low, face pinched with intensity.

‘Ones from thirty, forty years ago. Why did my father keep so many of your old stories?’

His body flexes. Then he lets out a sigh like surrender. ‘Let’s not discuss this here.’

He makes a call to his colleagues, excusing himself from lunch, and we walk back to the university building.

We take a wide flight of stairs to the first floor, our footsteps muffled by thick carpet. He ushers me into a book-lined room, sunlight streaming through windows flanked by potted palms. His desk is at an angle, facing out across the room. A large abstract painting looms behind the desk like a theatre backdrop, and classical music emanates from a discreet sound system in the corner.

I stand at the window. Students returning from lunch fill the courtyard, their cheeks even rosier than before. It’s a beautiful day – the budding leaves on the plane trees are an unreal shade of lime green, fresh and new in the crystal afternoon light. For a second, I see myself walking with the students outside, joking and laughing. I’m dressed like them in chinos, loafers, expensive coat, and I’m a few inches taller, full of confidence because I know whatever I say, however implausible, will be heard.

Unlike now.

Paul stands next to me, looking outside. ‘Your father wanted you to come here,’ he says, as if reading my mind. Then he laughs. ‘Could you even imagine yourself at a place like this?’

‘I had no intention of coming here, or anywhere like it,’ I say, stunned by the bitterness in his voice. The question feels like an attack on my father’s delusions, rather than mine.

‘This place is a life-changer. Kids come here knowing nothing of life. And after three years they’re opinion-formers.’

Rammed full of your opinions, I think, turning from the view.

‘At least you realised you didn’t have what it takes,’ he says, walking back to his desk. ‘I always thought it was strange. Eddy was clear-sighted about most people, but when it came to you, he really had no idea. He would boast about you and talk about your achievements, such as they were. Right up until the end, he had hopes for you. He never saw your true nature. It was pathetic, really.’

‘Like you with Tomas, perhaps?’

A shadow crosses his face, dimming its spiteful glare. My comment has caught him off-guard. He’s so wrapped up in my father’s delusions that he’s forgotten his own.

‘You never anticipate the intensity of the disappointment your children can inspire in you,’ he says, more to himself than me.

‘Perhaps that’s right, but without parents like you and Céline, Tomas may have stood a chance.’

He points towards the windows. ‘Tomas would be out in that courtyard, or somewhere similar if wasn’t for you.’

‘Tomas didn’t leave because of anything I did. He left because of Céline’s affair with my father.’

He turns away. ‘I know it upset him when it came out,’ he says quietly, leaning on the desk for support.

‘No, before it came out. He knew about them from the beginning, and he hated me for it. I only sourced drugs for him to get him off my back. When it became so public, he couldn’t take it.’

Paul goes quiet. Then he looks at me like he’s forgotten who I am. ‘You have no idea,’ he says numbly. He sounds detached, like he’s put up a wall between himself and the memory.

Anger surges through me. He knows Tomas hated me, but it’s easier for him to just blame me for Tomas leaving rather than blaming Céline, or even himself.

What other easy lies does he believe? What other truths does he hide?

He walks to the cabinet and pours a drink. He stands with his back to me. I can only see part of his face, the side of his cheek and the muscles in his jaw, which slowly contract.

‘Céline said you hadn’t heard from Tomas,’ he says finally. I can barely hear him. ‘Do you know where he is?’

He turns to me, his eyes cloudy. The contempt is still there, but the hand with the glass shakes very slightly, and in that moment, a trace of understanding passes between us.

‘No, I don’t know where he is. But I could find out.’

He nods and the relief defuses him somehow.

‘If you help me,’ I say. ‘My father wanted something from you. That weekend we drove to your house he told me he needed your help with work.’

Paul looks at his glass as if weighing up the possibilities. ‘He wanted information. He wanted something to prove his own conspiracy theories.’

‘About you?’

He laughs, spite returning to his face. ‘He would have loved to pin something on me, but he never could and neither can you. Whatever you think you’re onto, Alex, you’re wrong.’

I reach into my bag and show him the sheet of paper with the words – Vestnik, Lissa and the others, and the names of those my father had identified on the right.

‘Your name’s here. Is this what he was trying to pin on you?’

He walks to his desk, sits down, and turns the paper over as if looking for clues.

‘Who are those people?’ I say.

‘The words on the left are agents’ names. The names on the right are, well, it’s me, your father and colleagues of ours. He knew he was Lissa, of course, but he wasn’t sure about the others. They were just guesses.’

‘And you were Vestnik?’

‘He thought I was, but I wasn’t.’

‘So what was it about?’

He pushes the paper away. ‘They called it active measures, a scheme of recruiting journalists to influence public opinion through misinformation and propaganda.’

‘Was this what he was writing about in his memoir?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then this is what got him killed.’

He shakes his head and his jowls quiver. ‘All of this happened a long time ago. Most of the people are retired now, or dead. The rest don’t care.’

‘Then why did my father care so much? Why did he sleep with your wife to get at you, or what you knew?’

‘Céline thought he was sleeping with her to get at me, but perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he loved her,’ he says, letting out that condescending laugh again. ‘Who knows what his motivation was?’

I point to the paper. ‘And his motivation for this? Why did he do it?’

‘Your father always said he’d been trapped. He said he’d been blackmailed into running their stories and propaganda, and that’s why he left La Globe. Years later he returned to Paris full of remorse and an urge to come clean. That might have been fine, but he wanted to drag everyone else down with him, expose them all. That’s where the problems began.’

‘Problems for who? You?’

‘Not me. I wasn’t an agent. I wrote things I believed in, but others didn’t. They did it for money.’

‘So they were told what to write?’

‘More or less. The Soviets or whoever would launch a story in a local paper – India, or Africa. It could be just a letter. Many conspiracies started life as an anonymous letter in an Indian newspaper – The Patriot, it was called. The paper was set up by the KGB for the sole purpose of publishing disinformation.’

‘And they’d report on that?’

‘Exactly. A journalist here would then pick up the story and get it published in the Western media as a secondary report. All your Cold War conspiracy theories – they needed someone to spread them, and they used people like Eddy.’

‘Did anyone suspect?’

‘Yes, but by the time they did, it was too late. A lot of the material started with a grain of truth. To manipulate the truth, you have to have a truth in the first place. And people want to believe. They want simple stories. The simpler, the better. And rumour does the rest. Like a pebble dropped into a pond, the ripples spread out and it becomes self-sustaining.’

The courtyard outside is silent, and there’s a shift in the air, an emptiness in the room.

‘Céline said Patrick and my father argued about some kind of messenger.’

He looks startled for a second, then recovers himself. ‘I don’t remember that.’

‘Who was the messenger? Was it a reference to Mohammed?’

He looks out of the window, making a pretence of recollection, his eyes still. ‘No, nothing like that.’

‘And there were maps of Paris in my father’s papers. Plans and drawings. What are they about?’

‘I have no idea what he was doing apart from what I’ve just told you.’

‘So why did my father think you were involved?’

‘He dug up things I wrote and said they proved I had communist sympathies. I did back then, but I wasn’t a spy.’

It’s my turn to laugh now. I’d never seen a communist and didn’t know what one looked like, but I knew it was nothing like him with his plush office, the artwork and the antiques.

‘Yes, hard to believe now, isn’t it? That’s why Eddy never really believed it,’ he says.

‘I don’t believe it either.’

‘No. You wouldn’t understand, but back then it was fashionable. Whereas today clothes, money, appearances are considered cool, back then it was what you thought. Now if anyone accuses you of being a communist, it’s a joke, an insult. The focus now is on lining your pockets instead.’

He stands up and comes closer. ‘Eddy wasn’t a bad man, but you won’t find absolution by looking into the circumstances of his death. Your father never achieved much in his life, so why would his death be extraordinary?’

‘I’m not looking for absolution. I’m looking for answers, and I don’t think the answers lie in ideals. My father was interested in reality.’

‘No, he wasn’t. He was side-tracked into a fantasy, and so are you.’

‘It wasn’t like him to dwell on the past, to chase down a dead story,’ I say.

‘The problem was it was his own dead story. His own central role made him biased. He believed it was still relevant because he thought he was still relevant. And he wasn’t.’