Following a long run of mild sunny days, this morning was chilly and dismally damp. It was not just raining. Paris was sustaining a mighty downpour. So I thought that to avoid a soaking I would stay by a window in my flat looking down, until I could spot my car to work drawing up at my door. It was not as punctual as usual and as soon as I saw what I thought was my transport stopping, I ran downstairs (our lift was faulty) and automatically got straight in.
But I had a monstrous shock in passing through its back doorway. This was not my customary lift. Nor was it my usual taciturn companion in front who was driving. It was a suspicious looking individual—and I had surprising back row company too, a tough swarthy man in a military sort of uniform staring dourly and insisting with a wilful flourish of his hand that I should join him. As I saw a gun at his waist, I did not think I could show unwilling. With my door now shut and our car pulling out rapidly into that busy morning traffic, my captor took out an official pass with his photo and thrust it on display, saying with a surprisingly colloquial command of my idiom, and only a slight Gallic intonation:
“Paul Morrison, if I’m not wrong. Found you at last! I am taking you into custody as it is thought you can probably assist us in looking into a major criminal act. It’s to do with an astonishing misappropriation of a quantity of historical gold dug up in a park in South London. I trust you will, (how shall I say?), play ball with us all”.
I was dumbstruck and could only concur with a nod. My captor swung forward to prompt our man in front to put his foot down:
“Caporal, vas-y, illico. Au commissariat.”
I instantly thought in panic: “What about my job?” How could I warn my work contacts about such a fortuitous AWOL? But it was as if this guardian was tuning into my mind at that instant, by continuing…
“You should not worry too much about not turning up for work today. First thing this morning, I told your Ministry collaborators that you cannot go in for a day or so. I simply said that my branch has to obtain your aid as a linguist in a sub-rosa inquiry. This short hiatus should not disturb in any way your ongoing position in that institution. That is, assuming any adjudication you obtain today is strictly ‘not guilty’”.
“Thank you” was all I could put into words.
As our transport was by now racing southwards into this city’s suburbs, my brain was racing in panic, puzzling as to what approach I should adopt in any discussion of my marginal part in that prodigious coup. But mindful that I was in no way a guilty participant, in truth I ought not to worry too much. Should anybody ask what I know about Dimitri’s vanishing act, I would simply impart what scant information I had from him in his various mails. In fact, I frankly thought it doubtful that anything I might say would assist much in locating him by now. Apart from that, I was wishing I could contact my confidant Doctor Smith and ask him for handy tips on managing any grilling through which I was put. But I was on my own now.
With no significant holdups, our car was soon crossing on top of Paris’s notoriously busy ring road (groaning with stationary traffic as usual) and was racing southwards.
As I was still in shock and showing no opposition to my kidnap, my guardian’s mood took a comforting turn. Smiling now and inclining my way, this official said: “I fancy that I find you puzzling about our port of call this morning. It’s our commissariat in Orly airport. That’s right, way out of town and harm’s way. And far from any prying looks from paparazzi and TV or radio hacks, or from crooks in particular.
“This is a highly hush-hush inquiry, involving fact-finding missions coming in, not just from this country of ours or Britain but from around our world. It aims to bring to light, halt and punish an alarming burst of criminality apropos of purloining and trafficking in a vast hoard of costly works of art. It is also looking into rabid corruption among high officialdom—and that ugly word “mafia” is on most folks’ lips. Russia is a major culprit in it all but it’s particularly rampant in Paris too. In fact, it is now obvious that this shady activity is using our city of light as its world HQ.
“An additional point in favour of Orly is that it allows a constant flow of participants to fly in and out again—judiciously—to input into this tribunal. All that is said in this location must stay untold and unknown. Any publicity at this point could turn out disastrous. So I must insist that “mum is your word”. Is that plain?”
“Obviously” was all I could say.
Our transport was by now off that busy motorway south, taking minor roads through Orly town and driving into its airport through a military control point. It took a right turn along a narrow out of bounds approach road, past hangars and aircraft parking bays to stop at an anonymous long squat building. A guard post stood in front with a national tricolour flag flapping on top. As I got out, I got a wink from my custodian who said “good luck” and was away. I was hoping that all my inquisitors this coming day would turn out as convivial.
I was shown into a spacious courtroom and told to sit in a solitary high chair in its midst, waiting in isolation almost half an hour. Finally an imposing group of officials was filing in and sitting down on high chairs on a platform facing my box.
It was a cosmopolitan crowd. A pair of British consular officials, two backroom assistants from Scotland Yard, various MI6, CIA and Russian NVD staff (or should I say FSB or SVR—how was I to know?), hand in hand with a group of local criminal consultants, all sat around a broad circular dais looking my way, with a tall bald chairman in its midst.
With all this commission in situ, its authoritarian adjudicator hit a small brass gong in front of him for our tribunal to start and said to all around: “Good day and bonjour to you all. It is most gratifying to find so many of you with us today. My thanks for coming. I trust this will turn out a satisfactory convocation for us. But first, to all in this room, I must insist again that this is not strictly a court of law. It is a fact-finding mission run in total privacy. I say this as our task boils down to obtaining input from individuals having only a minor implication in art traffic, but who might in addition harbour occasional links with mafia organisations.
“Our pact with such folk as you (said looking fractiously my way) is providing you with immunity from adjudication for any information you might hold on any such criminal consortium or activity. That is to say, it’s all about catching and absolving minnows to land big fish.
And turning to a row of silk gowns on his right: “You may now start our inquiry. Carry on with our first informant, s’il vous plaît”.
I had to say who I was and I was told that a suspicion of a major misappropriation of works of art of significant worth was laid at my door. Notwithstanding our chairman’s conciliatory affirmation, I was put through a constant antagonistic grilling by a typical old British public school sort of inquisitor, rapt on proving my guilt.
“But your implication in this illicit act is obvious, my man. According to our laboratory analysis, a batch of old gold coins, found in a local church charity box, all had prints of your DNA. And I am told that a match of that DNA has shown up on a lift button and your doorknob in that Parisian Ministry building in which you work. Your guilt is obvious. How can you possibly contradict such a finding?”
I could not do so, calling to mind with horror Doctor Smith’s warning about my foolhardy disposal of such booty in that church trunk. But I did my utmost to claim that I was constantly trying to avoid any wilful implication in that criminal act. That handful of coins was an unsought parting gift from my companion who ran away with his haul, and my wish was to unload that trivial portion as soon as I could. A snort of disdain was my inquisitor’s backlash.
A taciturn Parisian official sitting on his right was starting to murmur to him. Turning back again my way, my assailant was now fully wound up.
“This worthy functionary on my right is anxious to know how you got into this country. His staff has found no proof, via passport scrutiny or CCTV, of you passing through any immigration control point.”
Now I had to start lying, which I was not good at doing. I obviously did not wish to talk about Doctor Smith’s participation in my flight. So I told that judicial body about my vocal shortcoming and how I had had an invitation to work in Paris with Oulipo, an organisation caring for individuals who display similar symptoms. For transport, my option (taking my financial hardship into account) was hitchhiking to Ashford, boarding a train across to Calais and thumbing lifts down to Paris—all of which I did without coming across any passport controls.
Both had a short mumbling discussion, following which my assailant did a nod towards his chairman, who said I should now stand down but stay in that courtroom to await any additional probing.
A factotum in uniform at that point slid warily into our room to murmur to that adjudicator, who was soon nodding and smiling at what was obviously surprising but important input.
“I am told that a significant participant in criminal activity with assiduous links to our art world and who is right on top of our priority list for today has just flown in. Bring him in straight away for quizzing”
A buzz ran around our throng. A back door was quickly ajar and a familiar individual was slowly walking in… It was Dimitri.
My worthy companion, with a stubbly chin and sporting an ill-fitting khaki uniform was looking haggard and thoroughly downcast. Such a contrast in my mind with that vibrant runaway I last saw scaling that back wall with his box of bullion. Dimitri was glancing suspiciously around that broad courtroom panorama. But on his finally looking my way, I saw an instant transformation in him. From a scowl to a broad grin and a rapid wink of affinity. At last I had convivial company!
His particular inquisitor was also draconian but Dimitri was showing an amazing ability at first in handling a razor-sharp inquisition and lying in a most convincing way. My companion was claiming that his plan all along was to transport that gold straightaway to a Swiss bank, strictly so that it did not fall into Mafiosi hands, whilst hoping for a thankful bonus from any organisation with a right to own it. But this plot was to miscarry badly. Shortly following his arrival in his Swiss sanctuary, his British paramour put a strong drug into his usual nightcap (a vodka and tonic) which had him out flat and unconscious for a full day and a half. Whilst that cool lady took flight with his total hoard, planning to hand it across to a rival pack of Russian contacts, claiming a quota of that loot.
For this act of charity, as Dimitri was shortly to find out from his own contacts, Barbara was bound in chains and cast away in a small dinghy a long way off Savona (a Ligurian coastal town) by that band of rascals who got going southwards, sailing with that box of numismatic antiquity, in a 40 foot yacht first to Sicily and onwards to Cyprus and to who knows what distant harbour, out of harm’s way.
Such was that amazing story which was starting to unfold during that morning. I could only trust that Barbara, also a villain with a plan that would fall apart, was rapidly found and brought back to land unhurt.
Dimitri was initially on top form in monopolising court activity by holding forth for a good half hour with his affidavit and supplying copious misinformation, which had no rapport to any of his doubtful activity and in so doing, was tiring his assailants. But this was not to last till doomsday. His main inquisitor, wiping his damp distraught brow, finally had to stoop for a quick word with a swarthy individual to his right who quickly stood up with a blazing look. It was a man from Moscow.
Straightaway his attack was brutal—and was all said in Russian. Dimitri at first was smiling, thinking this was a sanction for him to talk back flowingly in his own idiom. But as Dimitri was launching into a tall story po russki, a strong command rang out from that mission’s chairman: “No, gaspodin, I’m sorry—but that’s totally out of court. Our Russian companion has a right to play his part in his local vocabulary, but you must talk back in our British idiom so that all of us around can follow your affidavit.”
From this point on, Dimitri’s showing was waning fast and his poor grasp of our idiom was now plain for all to spot. My old companion found it hard to absorb a constant flow of pugnacious grilling and probing and shouting—“Not that fairy story—I want truth!” “Pravda, tovarisch, pozhalouista!” And watching Dimitri having to switch rapidly from Russian to our own idiom and back again, I saw damp blobs start rolling down his brow and his flow of words was vacillating to a halt.
In fact with this bullying, Dimitri was by now having nightmarish flashbacks to past painful traumas—brutal brainwashing by Party manipulators, occurring in his distant childhood, following a roundup of all his family which was wrongly put into custody for committing acts of spying for capitalism. Dimitri was again a lost young boy, solo, in a dark room with a strong shaft of light blinding him and a background sound of aquatic dripping or bloodcurdling howls torturing him.
Giving in at last to his assailant’s accusations, Dimitri could only sob and admit to gross misconduct and to a host of accusations, laid at his door. His assailant was now smiling and was handing back to his chairman.
A ruling on our lot was quick in coming. My Russian collaborator was to stay in custody and to assist his guardians in unmasking that labyrinth of his country’s mafia organisations. With a sycophantic “thank you”, I was found not guilty of any misdoing, nor of any worth in supplying data on any shady activity but simply told that I should just carry on with my job in Paris.
As Dimitri was shown out by two guards, my pal, unsurprisingly in fact, was to turn my way, transmit a mutinous wink and hold up a fist of insubordination, making it obvious that his sorrowful final conduct in court was, in part, play-acting. Thus I could count on Dimitri finding a wily and victorious way out à la fin. But sadly I was not to run into him again.
This curious convocation was now standing up and withdrawing from this courtroom, gossiping about our input without looking my way, whilst I sat puzzling what might occur from now onwards. Nobody said I could or should withdraw and so I stood (or sat) my ground on my own. With this vast room now void, I was growing cross and thinking about storming out (although I was puzzling as to how I might hitch a lift back to Paris).
But through a back door in that courtroom, amazingly, I saw a familiar individual striding my way, showing a broad grin. It was Doctor Smith, in body and soul. I sat down in shock.
“It’s such a tonic to run into you again, Paul. I am bid by this organisation to thank you for your contribution to this curious mission. Your “not guilty” status was not in doubt at any point, but it was obligatory for us all to put you through today’s grilling to confirm it”.
I was dumbstruck. What was my old doctor, guru and confidant doing, taking part in this hush-hush mission, lost in a Parisian airport, acting as if an important part of its staff? I had had constant contact with him via my PC, providing tidings about my various sorts of Oulipo activity and as I did so, I normally had in my mind a vision of him in his study in sunny Slough. But to find him now, acting a major part in this incognito inquiry? Absurd!
“You and I must do a lot of catching up, don’t you think?” my doctor was continuing. “But I am still busy right now. My car is in front of this building. If that’s all right with you, I’ll ask my man to run you back straightaway to your flat in Paris.
“A final thought. As you just had to go through such a grim day, my proposal is for both of us to wind down and chat tonight in a first class culinary institution. That’s what Paris is all about, don’t you think? And it’s my invitation, Paul, I insist. It is known as Apicius. It has two stars, and its food is out of this world. Its patron is a magician with mushrooms, a virtuoso with fish, such as bass, prawns and all sorts of aquatic arthropods. To its patrons, it’s known as ‘truth cooking’. To my mind, it’s ambrosia.
“So if it’s all right with you, I’ll pick you up tonight at half six. Is that OK?”
With such a glorious finish to such a worrying day, what could I say but “thanks a million”?