Black Diamond - Martin Walker [36]
He was washing his hands in the kitchen sink when he heard a small noise behind and the words “Hands up—police.” It was a female voice, and instantly familiar. Isabelle.
“May I finish washing them first?” he asked, trying to control the catch in his voice and the thrill in his heart. The last words she had said to him nearly three months earlier had been “I miss you,” and he could remember each timbre and tone and the sound of her breath on the phone when she spoke them. “It would be good to see you again, Isabelle, if I’m allowed to turn around.”
“You’re supposed to be armed with a shotgun and on watch,” she said.
“And you’re supposed to show me an item of identification from the brigadier,” he said, shaking the water from his hands and turning. How marvelous it was to see her!
She held the shooter’s pose, knees bent, arms straight out before her and hands clasped together on a Pamas G1 pistol, the new standard issue for French police. Since Bruno never carried his old gun, he’d seen no point in burdening the budget of St. Denis for the cost of a new one. Isabelle’s eyes were cool, but there was a twinkle somewhere behind them. As always, her hair was cut short, and she was dressed in black, a floor-length raincoat over slacks and a turtleneck. She was wearing black lace-up shoes with low heels and even in the semi-uniform she managed to look the height of elegance.
“Nothing sexier than a woman with a gun, particularly when I know how good a shot you are,” he said.
“Where’s your shotgun?”
“It must still be on Hercule’s bed. I got interested in his books and put the gun down.”
“You’re going soft, Bruno.”
“Perhaps I need you to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
“Perhaps.” She lowered the gun, straightened to her full height as she turned on the safety catch and came across to exchange kisses on both cheeks. She smelled the same, some sporty soap or shampoo rather than perfume. She held him a moment longer than required by the courtesies of old lovers, and he felt again her supple strength and the muscle tone of a trained athlete.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“The brigadier arranged a helicopter. I was in Bordeaux already. What books were you looking at?”
“Algerian War, mostly. The house is stuffed with them—and photos. Come, I’ll show you.”
He led her into the main room and showed her the ranks of framed photographs, the trail of lost empires from Dien Bien Phu to Bab el-Oued and of lost leaders from de Gaulle to Giscard and one photo of Hercule lighting the flame at the Arc de Triomphe.
“Who’s the woman?” she asked. “And the child?”
“No idea. And who’s the African?” He pointed to the small photo. She leaned in closely to see, putting her hand on his shoulder as if simply keeping her balance.
“The guy in camouflage is Rolf Steiner, German, ex–Foreign Legion. He became a mercenary,” she said. “So I guess the African must be Ojukwu, the man who ran Biafra when it tried to break away in the sixties. Steiner fought for them as a mercenary.”
“What was Hercule doing there?”
“Looking after French interests, as always,” she said, stepping back, leaving a space between them. “I recall hearing something about Total Oil hoping for a deal with Biafra, breaking Shell’s monopoly in Nigeria. This other photo here is Jacques Foccart, who ran our African policy for the past thirty years. It didn’t matter who got elected president, Foccart always stayed in power.”
“And that’s the kind of work you’re in these days?” he asked, thinking, The kind of work that you were pressing me to do so I could come and live with you in Paris.
“I’m still on the personal staff of the minister of the interior, in a section run by the brigadier.” She was all business now.
“Does that make you a barbouze like Hercule?”
“Do people really use that old slang these days?” She laughed. “No, I’m still part of the Police Nationale. Mostly, I do liaison, which means keeping an eye on what other police and security