The Grave Gourmet

It took Capucine nearly an hour to drive to the “Pool,” but once there her meeting had been very brief. There was no love lost between the Police Judiciaire and the DGSE. The officer who had taken the call for the nonexistent agent succinctly summarized the situation: a certain Lionel Vaillant had called asking for Agent Arnaud Etienne. This Vaillant was a researcher in Renault’s R & D department and based in the headquarters building in Billancourt. There was no Arnaud Etienne at the DGSE nor had there ever been. Also, the DGSE had no current interest in Renault and had no open dossiers involving the company at that time. Relaxing a little, the officer said he was sure it was a case of fraudulent impersonation of a government agent, which was a police matter, not a national security concern. Capucine signed a form certifying that the case was now the responsibility of the Police Judiciaire and that a follow-up report would in due course be furnished to the DGSE. The meeting was over in less than ten minutes. On her way out she was sorely tempted to make a surprise visit to Jacques. The two incidents involving Renault’s R & D department and the DGSE just couldn’t be a coincidence. She needed to talk to Jacques. It really did seem like something was being held back. But she was a good hour from Renault and wanted to interview the caller while the episode was still fresh, particularly before he had a chance to mull it over during lunch. Jacques would just have to wait.

When he arrived Capucine led him over to an ensemble of uncomfortable-looking steel-and-leather Bauhaus furniture at the farthest corner of the reception area, well out of earshot of the receptionists. She produced her identity wallet—badge on one side, ID card on the other. Vaillant recoiled, galvanized as if electrodes had been applied to his temples. He looked around wildly.

“Yes. Yes, I did. I gave Agent Etienne a tour of one of our installations last week. I had some additional information I wanted to give him, but the only number on his card was his cell phone. I didn’t want to presume to use that so I looked up the office number. Surely there’s nothing wrong in doing that. Is there? Is it some kind of breach of security? Should I have used the cell phone number?”

“Well, he’s the agent in charge of our security, of course. Monsieur Guyon—he’s the directeur in charge of all of R & D—asked me to take him out to this test site and show him around the test vehicles. Monsieur Guyon called me himself,” he said with a show of pride, as if a direct call from on high not only established his status but was also full validation of any possible action on his part.

Lionel became as sullen as an adolescent caught in a fib. “There’s really not all that much more to tell. Monsieur Guyon called and gave me instructions to take someone on a tour of a site. Which I did. The gentleman asked some questions I couldn’t answer during the visit. Once I had the answers I tried to call him. Voilà. I’m not sure I have anything more to add.”

Capucine’s friendly girl-next-door manner vanished. “Look, Lionel,” she said, using his given name for the first time. “Either you cooperate here or you’ll cooperate at the Quai des Orfèvres. Keep this up and I’ll march you out of here to my car. Show the slightest signs of resistance and I’ll be happy to cuff you in front of these charming ladies,” she said, inclining her head at the battery of receptionists, most of who were now bobbing up and down to peer at them over the top of the counter like ducks in a fun-fair shooting gallery.

“You mean he wasn’t? Of course he was. Monsieur Guyon himself told me an agent was coming.” Lionel paused. “He gave me his card. Look, it says so right on it.” Lionel dug in his pockets and finally found a card with a stylized French flag over the words MINISTÈRE DE LA DÉFENSE—DIRECTION GÉNÉRAL DE LA SÉCURITÉ EXTÉRIEUR. The card looked perfectly authentic except for the single phone number listed. The prefix “06” was used for cell phones throughout France, and no agent would put that on his card.

“I have no idea. At the time I thought it might be because Monsieur Guyon thought I was good at public relations. I took it as a pat on the back. Now I guess it just makes me look dumb.” He paused. “Look, I have no idea what’s going on here, but whatever it is I really have nothing to do with it. Nothing.”