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check out what I might say in my sleep. Or did she play some other unsuspected
role in this strange household where no pork was eaten, and where the night
air smelled of burning incense.
I said, 'It's just that I've stopped believing in Santa Glaus, reincarnation
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and love at first sight.'
'And which of those am I supposed to be?' she asked. 'You want me to go? If
you want me to go, say so.'
'A man can suss out Santa,' I said, 'without stuffing his presents back up
the chimney.'
Chapter Fourteen
THE N562 ROAD from Grasse deteriorates after Draguig nan. From its sharp
hairpins you can see the Mediterranean on a fine day, or at least the shiny
new autoroute that swings inland at Cannes and goes past Aix and Avignon.
That--if you have the right son of car, and keep your foot on the floor--will
take you to Paris within five hours.
But to the north of that 'route sinueuse' is a barren region of scrub and
rock that the French Army have possessed since the early years of this
century. There are no autoroutes there. In fact, the local people will tell
you that there are no roads there at all, although they themselves drive
north. The raincoated policemen and armed soldiers who huddle around the zone
mlitaire barriers wave the grey corrugated vans of the grocer, the butcher and
the baker through the cordon, except when the gunnery ranges are in use.
Champion's black Mercedes was well known to the sentries. Champion had a local
resident's pass, for the Tix mansion and the quarry were dose to the military
zone, and the most direct route was through the barriers.
The chauffeur showed the pass to the sergeant of gendarmerie. The sergeant
leaned into the car and stared at all three of us before handing the papers
back. There was a buzz as the window was raised, and the car rolled forward
into the military exercise zone. With a rattle of gravel we passed over, the
junction of the communications roads. Soon we reached the reinforced surface
that the army built to withstand the weight of the AMX 50s, brought up here to
'the Atelier' for testing under battle conditions.
Even in fine weather it is a grim place. Like all such military
establishments, it is an example of decades of neglect interspersed with panic
spending. The buildings at the north-western tip were built by the Germans
during the war. It is a walled compound, with guard towers and ditches. The
emplacement area, which the U.S. Army built in 1946, included a cinema and
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swimming-pool that are still in use, but a more important legacy from the
Americans is the line-up of artillery stands, where the big guns are anchored
during the firing trials.
The heart of the Atelier is to the south of the plateau. It is called the
Valmy complex. It was built in 1890, and the name of the great victory for
French artillery is carved in stone above the main entrance. It's a
curious-looking place: probably designed by some architect who had waited all
his life for a chance to use poured concrete, for almost every wall is curved.
It stands amid the stone barracks and the metal tank-hangars like a set for
some old Hollywood musical, and it's not difficult to imagine lines of dancers
kicking their way along the curved balconies, tap-dancing on the prow, or
poking their smiling faces out of the circular windows.
'Stop a moment,' Champion told the driver.
They'll move us on,' he replied.
'Go and look at the plugs or something,' said Champion. He turned to me.
'Quite a place, isn't it,' he said. 'That's the research block.'
I pushed the button to lower the window. The clouds were scudding low over
the superstructure of the block, tangling in the aerials to make it look more
than ever like a ship at full steam.
'Real research?'
'Missiles, atomic artillery... some interesting heat-seeking ideas, and one
of the best electronic counter-measures research teams in the West.'
'And what are you interested in?'
'What are we interested in, you mean.'
'That's it'
Champion had his gloved hands locked together. I noticed him pinching his
fingers to find the place from which the tips were missing. I wondered if it
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gave him pain. 'I wouldn't pass anything to the bloody Russians, Charlie.'
I didn't answer.
He looked at me to see how I'd reacted to his promise about not working for
the Russians, but I didn't react in any way. Champion wiped the back of his
glove across his mouth as a child might after an indiscretion. The Arabs will
pay for the best anti-aircraft defence that can be bought ... defensive
weapons, Charlie ... you've been good not to ask before, but you deserve an
explanation of what you are doing.'
'I've never had one in the past.'
Champion smiled grimly. 'No, I suppose not.'
'Fuses? Working drawings? One of the research team, is it?'
They've taught you to think wholesale,' said Champion. 'Is that the way the
department would do it?' He didn't expect an answer. He looked through the
rain-specked windscreen to watch the driver prodding the engine. The bonnet
closed, and Champion spoke hurriedly to provide an answer before the driver
came back inside the car. 'You know what I'm trying to say, Charlie. If you've
got any doubts about what I'm doing, for God's sake tell me.'
'O.K.'
'Not just O.K., Charles. Promise me!'
I smiled. It was not like the Champion I used to know. 'Scout's honour, you
mean? Will it make you feel more secure if I say I won't betray you?' I asked
him.
'Funnily enough,' said Champion irritably, 'it will.'
'I'll give you a contract,' I offered. 'And then if I shop you, you can sue
me.'
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Then even Champion saw how ridiculous it was to seek assurances from men who
were professional betrayers. 'You killed the men at the quarry,' he said.
'Admit it!'
The driver opened the door and got in. I nodded.
The car turned away from the Valmy complex, and took the main road west.
There is a large hotel only ten miles down the road. Crowded into the
smoke-filled bar there were civilians from the administration and from the
laboratories. In the restaurant sat a few off-duty artillery officers in
uniform eating lunch. Three of them had wives and children with them.
Champion pushed his way through the noisy men at the bar and ordered drinks.
He had dressed to be inconspicuous here--a short brown leather jacket and a
stained hat. He made some joke to the bartender and the man smiled. We took
our drinks to a battered wooden table under the window, and an old woman put a
checked tablecloth on it and set the cutlery for four. She gave a nod of
recognition to Champion. We had come a long way round by road, but as the crow
flies Champion was almost a neighbour.
'One of the lab workers will be here,' said Champion, 'An old-time Communist,
he thinks I make regular trips to Moscow. Don't disillusion him.'
'I'll try not to.'
'The test firings begin next week. He'll let you have whatever he can get
hold of, but we might have to lean on him.'
The waitress brought three beers, and the menu. Champion tapped the plastic
menu on the edge of .the table and said to me, 'Remember what I told you,
Charlie. I'm trusting you.'
I reached for my beer and drank some. It seemed unlikely that Champion
trusted me, for he'd told me countless times that a spy should trust no one.
Champion stared at the menu. 'Chaucroute! It's a long time since I last had
choucroute garni,' he said. He pursed his lips as if he was already tasting
it. But he didn't order sauerkraut, he had fillet steak and imported
asparagus. '
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