LACKING VIRTUES (29 page)

“I hope this summons is the former.”

“In fact. My brother, Michael. Never mind it’s his seventh. Hope springs eternal. How about dinner this evening? It would delight me to reminisce.”

They went to a pub at her suggestion, not some fancy restaurant he would have hated, and stayed half the night talking about those incredible six weeks in the spring of 1974. That’s when the French government had invited Warner to help investigate the crash of a Turkish Airways DC-10 in the Forest of Ermenonville outside of Paris. He’d barely arrived at his hotel when the squabbling, the rivalries and the politics made it evident he wasn’t going to be able to do his job. Then
New York Times
bureau chief, Sophie Marx, a total stranger who said she had anticipated his troubles, showed up and appointed herself his translator and adviser. She would allow him to play the role God had intended him to play, she said, that of the world’s most talented air crash investigator.

When he left France, Warner had conclusively linked the DC-10 crash, the worst crash to date in aviation history, to a defective design of the rear cargo door. He’d told Sophie he owed her one, a favor as big as any she could dream up, but she had never asked for anything in return. Helping him make air travel safer, she said, was quite enough.

Well, here he was preparing to ask her for another enormous favor. Frank Warner wasn’t an ingrate, but as he dialed Paris at one a.m. Central European Time, he felt like one.

He hung up over an hour later, discouraged by his failure to make inroads into Sophie’s friendly but immutable skepticism. He was preparing for another wave of depression to hit when he heard a car door close. He pulled open the curtain and peered into the autumn twilight.

Claire, suitcase in hand, was walking toward the front door. She had come back, and she looked as lovely as any creature he had ever seen.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Anyway,” Sophie said, “the big break came around ten last night when Father Roget telephoned me at home.”

“Father Roget?” Steven said. “He still remembered us?”

“I don’t know about you, darling, but he remembered me. I think he rather enjoyed the interview. You know how old people are. Talking about the past lets them relive a time when they had more to look forward to. I hope I don’t bore you to death with
my
reminiscences.”

“Are you kidding? You’ve had the most fascinating life of anyone I know. I dreamed a few nights ago you stole my motorcycle and roared off through town chasing a story. It seemed credible enough.”

“You know how to charm a woman, Steven, even an ancient one. While you were having your dream, I was no doubt fumbling through the medicine cabinet for laxatives and sleeping aids.”

Steven laughed. His mood was finally improving after Sophie’s unannounced five a.m. wake up call. He had wanted to meet with her today: he had his own pressing agenda to discuss. But after last night, seven o’clock would have suited him better.

He had dragged himself out of bed, and Sophie had led him down deserted city streets to the Jardin de Luxembourg. They had been here talking ever since.

It was dawn now, the cloud cover broken and spotty, the rain of the previous night over. Plants and flowers in the opulent park glistened with moisture in the pale morning light.

The scent of freshly baked bread wafted in from somewhere, a deceitful scent, Steven thought, a prelude to the diesel stench of a Parisian rush hour.

“So what’s this big break?” he asked.

Sophie took his arm at the elbow. They stopped walking. She looked at him earnestly. “I trust you remember the essence of our interview with Father Roget. There were times your mind seemed to be wandering.”

“It was, but I remember the important part.”

“Which was?”

“What is this, Sophie, an exam? He really zeroed in on how the ‘Anglo Saxons’ treated De Gaulle and the Free French during the War, on how the history of that humiliation stoked young Michelet’s hatred of us Yanks. Did I pass?”

“C minus.”

“C minus?”

“Steven, every Frenchman to the right of the Anarchists agrees the British and Americans pushed the Free French around. It’s no surprise they’re still bitter. Michelet has made his feelings on the subject clear. In fact he does so in every campaign speech. It isn’t even newsworthy.”

“It is to me. Shows you how much I know about the guy. The daughter . . . now that’s a different story.”

She didn’t say anything, didn’t laugh or even smile. He had better quit playing buffoon, he thought. She didn’t want to joke around; she had something she needed to tell him. If he didn’t shut up and listen, he might end up with a D minus for the morning – a morning for which he had great expectations.

“Sorry, Sophie. Maybe I
was
asleep. What was the important part?”

“Our discovery of the little clique of patriots Michelet put together at Saint Claude prep school. If you will recall, one of his followers was Albert Haussmann, now the richest entrepreneur in France. But there was another boy Father Roget referred to as extraordinarily gifted in mathematics. Roget hadn’t had him as a student and couldn’t remember his name.”

“Now Monseigneur has suddenly remembered?”

“That’s right. When he called, he said he didn’t want us to think he had held the name back intentionally. He swore up and down that he’d been trying to think of it ever since the interview. The instant it popped into his mind, he picked up the phone.”

“You don’t believe he delayed us? He didn’t need to say all those things.”

“As I said before, Steven, I think he enjoyed the interview. I think he wants our good will.”

“Your good will. So, don’t keep me in suspense. Who was this mystery boy?”

  “Paul Delors.”

“Who the hell is Paul Delors?”

“Presently, Steven, he is Deputy Director of the SDECE, French Intelligence. I’ll know a lot more about him by nightfall.”

Steven reflected for a minute. “Okay, I admit this is very fascinating. Of the three fire-breathing patriots who hung out together in prep school, one is now Minister of Industry, one is Deputy Director of the French CIA and the third is the richest man in France.

“I guess it could be a conspiracy that began long ago and is now bearing fruit. But what’s the present connection among these three guys, Sophie? Isn’t that what counts? And how can you say getting Delors’ name is a big break. I mean, it might be, but how can you say for sure before you’ve done any research on him?”

He thought for a moment. “Or is there something I don’t know? Something you haven’t told me? Such as, he’s a member of
Nouvelle France
?”

Sophie said, “He’s not officially a member, of course, or he would not have been able to maneuver himself into such an important post in the Eighties. But you’re right; there’s something you don’t know. I was going to come down and tell you last night, but it sounded rather like you had a visitor.”

Steven grinned. “I did. Father Roget wasn’t the only active one last night. My visitor also supplied us with an incredible piece of information. So incredible I came upstairs to fill you in the moment she left. But you were on the phone, Sophie. I didn’t want to disturb you. Were you still talking to the good father at one o’clock in the morning?”

“Heavens, no, Steven. I had a call from the States.”

“An old lover?”

“No, an acquaintance, a friend. A person in the government – and also in a bind. It was a sad talk, the sadder the more I think about it.”

“Oh, yeah?”  Steven wasn’t interested, but Sophie seemed to be trying to get something off her chest. He might as well encourage her. She’d done the same for him a hundred times. “Why’s that? I mean, why sad?”

“Because, Steven, my friend is a good and competent person who is being put under pressure to explain what is causing all of those air crashes in the States. He’s unable to do this, so he’s started to grasp for straws. This is what I felt compelled to tell him at some length.”

“So what does he think’s going on? Why did he contact you?”

“He thinks, darling, that Airbus might somehow be involved in Boeing’s misfortunes.”

“Who’s to say they aren’t? These people have a real thing about Americans.”

“Steven, don’t be ridiculous. If a large public concern such as Airbus were sabotaging American planes, there’d be hundreds of leaks. You can be sure I’d be privy to at least some of them. To make a long story interminable, my friend asked me to investigate the situation here in France. He’s a good man, as I said. He’s done a lot for the safety of air travel. It was painful for me to turn him down. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue with what I brought you here to report.”

“Sure,” he said, anxious for her to wrap things up so he could present her with
his
discovery.

“Well, Steven, in our business it usually goes something like this. You chase down a lot a leads, you put out a lot of feelers. For a long time, nothing happens. Then, all of a sudden, the work starts to pay off. I’ve reached that point, darling. It sounds as if you may have, too.”

“Yep, I’d say so.”

They walked a little further in silence. She seemed to be thinking.

Morning had come. He listened to the first wave of cars and cabs on Boulevard St. Michel. Engines snarling, brakes squealing, horns being warmed up for a long day’s use.

He breathed in a lingering whiff of freshly baked bread and prepared himself for the inevitable onslaught of traffic fumes.

Sophie stopped again and looked him in the eye.

“You understand, Steven, that as far as anyone knows Haussmann is not a member of
Nouvelle France
, either. But I’ve had my doubts about that for a long time. After our interview I asked my brother in New York do some checking up for me.”

“The one who’s the international financial whiz” 

“Yes. Uncle Emmanuel has both the intellect
and
the connections.”

“Uncle? I thought you said ‘brother.’”

“I call my brother Uncle Emmanuel – that’s another story. Anyway, he has been as upset as I have about the blatant fascist overtones of
Nouvelle France
. Don’t forget, Steven, that we lost six million of our people and most of our family to similar patriotic barbarism.

“In any case, Uncle Emmanuel called in some favors. It didn’t take him long to uncover a financial link between Haussmann and Michelet that dates back more than twenty years. In fact, it looks as if Haussmann has bankrolled
Nouvelle France
from the start. We might be able to prove it.”

“No shit.”

“It could be big, very big. But let’s return to Delors. Let your mind play games for a moment. He’s listed as a member of the Republican Party, the moderate center, and has been ever since he stepped into public life. If this allegiance is genuine, it means he gave up the rabid nationalism of his youth a long time ago.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t believe so, Steven. I have a suspicion that Delors has played political chameleon for decades. If so, and if he and Haussmann are both in this movement together with Michelet, their prep-school alliance forms the core of a very dangerous adult political force. Think Pulitzer, Steven.”