The next day was Friday, and Bridge interviewed the last of the senior supervisors on her candidate list before entering their answers into the spreadsheet at the end of the day. Then she logged into the secure partition of her laptop and entered everyone’s final, weighted score into a separate spreadsheet, which used her own formula to rank them all by likelihood of being the mole, and/or source of a leak. It didn’t yet include entries for Voclaine, Montgomery, or the other twenty management staff at Agenbeux. She’d deliberately left them till last, to give herself time to get into the role, and find out as much as she could about them before their interviews. Like Voclaine himself. But while he was now suspect number one, she couldn’t ignore the possibility that she might simply have misjudged him. The previous weekend, while she’d been ploughing through the personnel files in advance, she would have placed good odds on the mole being someone at a middling-to-low level, dissatisfied and easy to bribe or blackmail. She was no longer quite as convinced of that, but it remained the most likely scenario.
It was also fair to assume the mole was smart, and may already suspect her real purpose here at the facility. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t want to draw attention to themselves. So anyone whose answers to her questions were completely negative and dissatisfied would find themselves ranked at the bottom of her list. And likewise with anyone who appeared to be too happy, too eager to say everything was fine and dandy — though she couldn’t completely discount the few people that applied to, just in case the mole wasn’t so smart after all.
But mostly, Bridge was interested in those staff who fell squarely in the middle of her ranking. People whose answers were unremarkable and average, who seemed happy enough with their role at ‘Guichetech’ but admitted that yes, they could be happier, because that was human nature.
As expected, that covered the majority of people she’d spoken to so far at Agenbeux. But what the numbers couldn’t take into account was Bridge’s own reading of the staff. How each person behaved when answering, what it said about their personality type, and whether they just felt ‘off’. So much of that relied on instinct and gut feeling, and fortunately, Bridge’s gut had settled down a lot during the week. Giles had been right as usual, and despite her earlier paranoia she soon realised this job wasn’t dangerous. As the days passed she settled into the role, and actually started to relish the challenge of sniffing out a liar every day. She was even looking forward to interviewing the managers.
She’d also found she enjoyed being back in France more than expected. The food, the weather, the people…simply hearing the language of her childhood everywhere helped her relax. She knew herself well enough to guess that after a couple more weeks she’d go stir-crazy, but for the time being she understood why Izzy enjoyed coming back here every year. And now that the weekend was here, with her sister’s farmhouse only a couple of hours’ drive away, Bridge intended to take advantage and pay her an impromptu visit so she could see Stéphanie and Hugo. Fréderic would be there too, but he’d just have to sit and suffer.
A loud rapping on the office door startled Bridge from her thoughts. “Moment,” she said, logging out of the encrypted partition and closing the Dell. She raised the door blind to see Montgomery, smiling on the other side of the glass. She let him in, then walked around the room raising the window blinds.
“Not many left here last thing on a Friday,” said Montgomery. “Mostly us rosbifs, naturally. But even we have our limits, eh? So how’s it all going? You’ll be sending in a good report, I hope?”
“I’m sure you know I can’t discuss that, James. Besides, I have a lot of number-crunching to do. The Department does love its numbers. But I can say it’s certainly promising. I think we can all learn a few things from the way you and François are running things, here.”
Montgomery snorted. “Yes, I heard you had a lovely time last night.”
She paused midway through packing her briefcase. “I’m sorry?”
“Surely,” he said, smug and secure in his victory, “you didn’t think you could have dinner with a man like Voclaine and expect him to be discreet about it.”
Bridge was having real trouble figuring James Montgomery out. She’d hoped he would join her for drinks, so she could try to loosen his lips. As site manager, he doubtless knew much more about what went on here than he’d ever say officially, and might have seen things that seemed perfectly innocent to him, but to Bridge would be a sign of something unusual or noteworthy.
But contrary to her first assumption, Montgomery didn’t seem remotely interested in her, and failed to respond to the smiles and gentle flirting with which she’d laced their brief conversations. It was possible he simply didn’t fancy her, of course. Izzy had always been the more glamorous sister, with men falling at her feet even as she was oblivious to them, while Bridge needed to make an effort. But when she did, it normally paid off. Being a young goth had given her an independent and self-assured side that made her perfectly happy to be the first mover, and in her experience it was an unusual Englishman who didn’t at least flirt back when a tall Frenchwoman flung herself at him.
In his own way, though, James Montgomery was indeed unusual. His egotism seemed reserved purely for his work and status within the MoD, in contrast to Voclaine’s easy willingness to use his position as a licence to grope. Bridge had even begun to wonder if Montgomery was secretly gay, despite his wife and children back in England. Yet now he was talking like a jealous lover.
“We just had dinner,” she shrugged. “We didn’t discuss my work here, and besides, François had a little too much wine, so I put him in a cab and sent him home. If he says anything more than that happened, he’s mistaken.”
“He didn’t say anything specific, but he certainly didn’t deny anything, either.”
“Typical. I assure you, nothing happened. Besides, what’s the problem?”
Montgomery stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him. Bridge had just slid the Dell inside her briefcase, and her hand was still inside it. It closed around the hard cylinder of a small can of pepper spray she kept there.
“The problem, Ms Short, is that you should not be socialising with upper management while you are also conducting a survey of workplace morale. It could influence your results, and your report, and therefore reflect badly on us all.” Bridge relaxed, and removed her hand from the briefcase. This wasn’t jealousy. This was Montgomery showing his desperation to be recognised in the corridors of power, for Whitehall to acknowledge his work here at Agenbeux. She’d planted the seed of that idea in his mind for convenience, just to get him on her side, but now it was growing. She almost felt sorry for him. He was going to be confused as hell when he returned to London. “Besides,” he continued, “Voclaine is a natural curmudgeon. He’s good at his job, but he’s made no secret of the fact that he thinks he deserves my position, and should be in charge of Exphoria. You must bear that in mind when considering anything he says.” He paused, and a sudden thought came to him. “Did he tell you his wife left him?”
“Yes, he was quite open about that.”
“Did he tell you why?”
Bridge shook her head, so Montgomery pursed his lips and made a slapping motion with his hand. She nodded, understanding, and found it easy to believe. Voclaine hadn’t threatened her in any way, but he’d shown more than once that he was, to put it politely, a tactile man. “I see,” she said, “no, he didn’t mention that. But he also said nothing out of order about this facility, or about you. In fact, I don’t think your name came up at all.” She’d meant it to sound reassuring, but regretted it the moment the words passed her lips, and she saw Montgomery’s disappointed expression.
“Oh. Well, well, that’s good. But I insist you don’t do it again, with Voclaine or anyone else for that matter. If you do, I shall have no choice but to inform the MoD and have you removed.”
Bridge was taken aback by Montgomery’s sudden hostility. “That really won’t be necessary. Besides, I’m not entirely sure that’s your call to make.”
“I am in charge of a multi-million euro project facility, Ms Short. You are an HR functionary. I strongly doubt the PUS would prioritise your concerns over mine.”
If only you knew how wrong you are, thought Bridge, but said, “I suppose you’re right. Please accept my apologies, Mr Montgomery. I assure you it won’t happen again.”
He straightened a little at being formally addressed, and opened the door for her. “Very good. Now, do you have anything nice planned for the weekend? I can recommend some excellent local restaurants.”
They left the office together and walked through the quiet, empty corridors toward the exit. “I thought I’d take a drive around and see some of the area while I’m here,” said Bridge. “This is vineyard country, isn’t it? Have you visited any?”
“Oh, yes,” Montgomery smiled, grateful for the chance to show off his superior local knowledge. “I can thoroughly recommend the Fortalbis, about ten miles north-east. It’s a sublime grape, and the sampling is excellent. The owners are descended from Italians, but they’re lovely people all the same.”
Bridge sighed inwardly at Montgomery’s offhand racism. Some things, the English just couldn’t leave behind. “Thank you,” she said, “I’ll be sure to look it up.”
They’d reached the security barriers. Bridge placed her briefcase on the scanner belt and emptied her pockets, making a mental note to research the vineyard. She had no intention of visiting, but James Montgomery didn’t need to know that.