Martin Walker - The Crowded Grave

“Better not let the brigadier hear you say that,” Bruno replied. “He’s on the warpath.”

“I can understand after they found that bomb at the chateau. The patrols are all in place, my men briefed, and the mobiles and CRS are on static patrol at the key points you suggested. I changed a couple of your dispositions because they sent us two armored cars from the Limoges barracks. I’ve got one at the main gate and another at the side of the gardens, commanding the route up from the river. They radioed in. So I’ve made sure everybody on the radio net knows that a horseman in police uniform is a friendly.”

Bruno nodded an acknowledgment and accepted the major’s invitation to ride the perimeter together. They had deployed just after dawn, the major said, and had found the brigadier’s security teams already in place at the Domaine and the winery. Since then, the only arrivals had been the brigadier’s car and the separate Spanish team.

The major put his binoculars to his eyes as a large bus turned into the gate of the Domaine. “What’s this?”

“We’re expecting the caterers,” said Bruno. “It’s in your brief, along with numbers, names and photographs. They’ve all been vetted, and I know most of them personally.”

“Let’s go down, then.” The major took the opportunity to spur his mare into a reluctant canter. Riding down a parallel row of vines, Hector easily overtook the other horse, and Bruno had dismounted at the bus by the time the major lumbered up. A gendarme mobile was in the bus, checking the ID cards and passes one by one. Bruno gave his rein to the major and climbed into the bus, nodding at the familiar faces from Julien’s regular restaurant staff and the extras from the Campagne hotel. No strangers were aboard and he’d known the bus driver for years and taught his two sons to play tennis. All cleared, Bruno climbed out, and the bus drove slowly up the tree-lined avenue to the Domaine.

Bruno and the major followed on horseback, pausing at small knots of two and three paratroopers to check that their radio communications were functioning and their orders were clear. The men were alert and cheerful, evidently respecting their officer, and even the gendarme mobiles and CRS officers seemed to accept his authority without resentment. Gigi’s appearance triggered the usual smiles, the men kneeling down to pat him and stroke his trailing ears.

“I’ll probably come out again, once the helicopters land and the meeting’s under way,” said Bruno. He checked his watch. The choppers should have taken off from Bordeaux ten minutes ago. “There’s not much for me to do inside.”

This time the salon seemed calm. The brigadier and Carlos were nowhere to be seen. There were large urns filled with flowers at the walls, pads and pencils and mineral water and glasses on the long conference table. The black-clad security men, French and Spanish, were still in place. Isabelle was standing at the passage to the lobby, talking to Julien, who was dressed as if for a formal wedding in pin-striped trousers and coattails. She smiled at the sight of Gigi and beckoned Bruno to join them.

“I’m not sure what more we can do, but it’s all been very last minute,” she said, her eyes shining in a way that said much more to Bruno than the brisk tone of her voice.

“The outside patrols are all in place and in good hands,” he said. “I just rode the perimeter with their commander. Not much will get past him.”

Isabelle’s radio buzzed, but there was just a crackling when she tried to listen. “Damn radios are all out of calibration since we had to move here. They were fine yesterday. I’d better check with the radio room.”

“Bruno!” came a cry from inside the Domaine. It was Isabelle’s voice. He turned and ran up the steps and into the salon, Gigi lumbering behind. She was standing by the table, the useless radio in her hand, pointing at a black-clad security man standing by one of the giant urns, a Spanish flag on his arm. Carlos was standing halfway down the steps, a cold expression on his face, another burly security man in black beside him wearing a balaclava and one more just emerging from the wine cellar behind her.

Bruno, baffled, scanned from one face to the other.

“I wanted to check the flower urns and he wouldn’t let me, and I looked at his face.” She tossed the radio aside in frustration at his slowness and reached for the gun under her jacket. “Think eyebrows,” she shouted as she pulled out her automatic and pointed it at the Spanish security man.

And then Bruno realized that he was staring at the Identi-Kit face of Fernando, but the eyebrows that had met in the middle had been shaved away. As Bruno reached for his own gun, Carlos leaped down the remaining stairs to grapple him, and the man coming from the cellar grabbed Isabelle’s arm from behind her and twisted it until her gun dropped, leaving her staggering on her cane and half falling.

Carlos had his finger inside Bruno’s trigger grip to prevent him from firing. Bruno dropped to his knees and used his momentum to turn Carlos over his shoulder, hearing a cry of pain and the crack of a finger breaking as the Spaniard went sprawling. Bruno’s gun had been wrenched out of his hand, but Gigi jumped at Carlos, going for his throat but yelping in pain as Carlos punched him aside.

As he groped for the gun Bruno heard the rasp of metal. Isabelle had pulled the swordstick from her cane and thrust the gleaming blade into the groin of the man who had grabbed her arm. She jerked her arm to deepen the damage and fell on her weak leg as she withdrew the blade and tried to turn. Bruno slammed the heel of his riding boot into Carlos’s nose and then stood to meet Fernando’s rush when with a guttural cry of “Scheisse” the third man in black jumped on Fernando from behind, slamming his gun onto Fernando’s head with a loud metallic clang.

Fernando dropped, but his black cap was made of Kevlar armor and with the speed of a striking snake he pulled a long combat knife from his boot and sliced it into the belly of his attacker. He followed it with another slash at the face. The victim’s balaclava ripped apart and through the line of blood that welled from eye to mouth Bruno recognized the face of Jan the blacksmith. Wounded as he was, Jan wrapped his burly arms around his attacker and clung on, trapping Fernando’s arms and roaring harsh Germanic oaths.

“Bruno,” came Isabelle’s cry and he turned to see her limping forward, her swordstick pointed at Carlos, whose face was a mask of blood as he reached for Bruno’s gun, his hand almost on it, but Gigi was hanging on to Carlos’s outstretched arm.

Bruno dived at him, but his riding boots slipped on the polished floor, and he sprawled, his hand managing to clutch Carlos’s leg below the knee. He tightened his grip and rolled to try to break the ankle, scrabbling his feet on the floor for some purchase. Carlos’s shoe came off in his hand, and the Spaniard was on his feet, grabbing the back of a chair with one hand and hurling it at the advancing Isabelle as Gigi leaped in again and fastened his jaws onto Carlos’s ankle. Then he picked up another chair and threw it at Bruno’s legs as he tried to stand.

Bruno sprawled again, but in a moment of clarity took in the entire tableau in the salon: Jan still squeezing the life out of a squirming Fernando; the man Isabelle had stabbed mewing in the fetal position as he clutched his groin, a pool of blood spreading around him; Isabelle herself using the table and swordstick to stagger to her feet; and Carlos with bloodied face, Gigi savaging his stockinged foot. Carlos staggered as he glanced wildly around, his shoulders sagging as if realizing it was over. But he still had Bruno’s gun in his hand.