Brian Freemantle - The Predators

There was pre-luncheon champagne but no pretence of toasts: as yet there was nothing to celebrate. As aware as he’d always been of the significance of the Legion d’honneur and the expectations of the recipients, Sanglier accorded Coty the necessary respect, conscious of how it was being properly shown by Castille and Bigot. And it wasn’t stopping there, Sanglier realized. To a far lesser but still discernible degree the two politicians were acknowledging himself as the son of a man who had also gained France’s highest honour.

‘I knew your father,’ said Coty, in a voice clouded by too many cigarettes. ‘Not during the war, of course: I was in London, with de Gaulle, after I escaped the Gestapo. But afterwards, when the sanglier ’s bravery became known. De Gaulle invited him to come into government but he declined.’

It seemed odd, hearing the name like that, properly used as the code designation by which his father had worked before officially adopting it as the family’s legal surname after the war, like several other Resistance heroes. Coty was almost an exception for not having done so. It was the first time Sanglier had heard of the political invitation: another aspect of his father’s life that had been secret. He said: ‘He was a very modest man.’

‘And now you’ve got the opportunity to take up the offer he refused,’ said Castille, seizing the way to move on from reminiscence without offending the elder statesman.

Could he take the risk? Sanglier asked himself for the thousandth time. He didn’t know that his father’s exploits, re-routing Nazi labour-camp trains and execution orders, weren’t totally true: there were, in fact, provable Gestapo records of the failed hunt for the mysterious sanglier. But there were so many gaps, verging on inconsistencies, in those and other records, omissions blamed on Claudine Carter’s father who, as Interpol’s chief archivist, had by almost unbelievable coincidence prepared Sanglier’s wartime history for France’s archive of heroes.

His emergence into political life would inevitably re-focus attention upon his father’s history: maybe, even, rekindle interest in a new biography by a new, more determined literary investigator than the authors of those that already existed, and who had unquestioningly accepted his uncooperative father’s explanation that apparent discrepancies were unavoidable in the chaos of the war’s end.

Cautiously, determined upon assurances that went far beyond his fear of the past, Sanglier said, with false diffidence: ‘I’m very flattered to have received this approach, and I have had several months to consider it. But there are important matters for us to discuss before I can give you my reply.’

‘Food first,’ growled the husky-voiced Coty, pressing the waiter’s bell just inside the door of the private room. He was smoking through a small malacca holder.

The others had already studied the menu, before occupying themselves with the initials of long-ago whores. Sanglier refused to hurry, keeping the attendant waiting while he carefully considered his meal. By the time his choice was made Castille was scuffing his chair impatiently.

As soon as the waiter left the room Castille said: ‘There’s no doubt the present government will fall within six months. No doubt, either, that we’ll succeed them. And we’ll remain in power for a very long time, after the scandals and failed policies of the last ten years-’

‘But with a difference this time,’ Coty broke in. ‘Virtually every minor party making up the current coalition is associated with the disgrace and failures, either part of them or by association. We’re not. We’re clean: above it all. That’s going to be our manifesto: how we’re going to be seen by the electorate. It’s going to give us an overwhelming, unassailable majority so that there’ll be no need to rely on any of the smaller groupings.’

‘We’re going to be the clean party for a new Republic,’ announced Castille, almost too obviously practising an election slogan.

This encounter was just as well rehearsed, decided Sanglier. ‘I have been extremely fortunate in my profession,’ he ventured, ‘but until your approach I’d never considered a political career.’

‘Consider it now!’ urged Bigot. ‘We’ll guarantee you an electable constituency.’

‘And I can also guarantee that I will never forget those who declare for me at this stage,’ said Castille.

He needed an admission without portraying himself as naive, Sanglier knew. ‘If I were to pursue this there would have to be complete truthfulness between us.’

‘We wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t expect you to take everything that’s said with total seriousness,’ said Castille. ‘And never for a moment will I be anything but completely truthful: I intend to practise among colleagues the central core of my manifesto.’

He had learned at the EU meetings in Brussels and Luxembourg and Strasbourg! ‘Colleagues?’ Sanglier demanded, shortly. ‘More than simply members of the party in the Assembly?’

The arrival of the food covered what Sanglier guessed would have been a hesitation among the other men. His oysters were superb, the bone-dry Muscadet the perfect complement. Coty reluctantly extinguished his cigarette.

‘I’ve already made it clear we do not see you simply as a parliamentary member,’ said Bigot, with a hint of impatience.

Sanglier applied lemon in preference to onioned vinegar. It was the moment to wait, saying nothing.

Coty said: ‘You went to Brussels after an extraordinarily successful period as police commissioner here, in Paris. And continued that success there.’

Time for absolute directness, judged Sanglier. ‘What role would you see me fulfilling if I were to become part of your administration?’

‘Justice Minister,’ declared Castille.

‘I would consider nothing less,’ said Sanglier. ‘I am well aware – and proud – of my achievements here in Paris…’ He paused, determined never to be treated lightly or underestimated. ‘Just as I am well aware – and perhaps even prouder – of the cachet that goes with my name.’

Coty smiled, a flinty expression, fitting another cigarette into its holder. ‘The art of politics is assembling maximum resources to achieve optimum advantage-’

‘-consistent with honesty,’ Castille hurried in.

‘I’m glad we’re fully understanding each other,’ said Sanglier, content with Coty’s admission that like all politicians these men were observing the golden rule of expediency. He recognized that he did not have a positive guarantee – anything in writing – but acknowledged that to expect that would be naive. ‘I have your promise?’

‘My absolute word,’ said Castille.

‘Do we have yours?’ demanded Coty.

Sanglier paused, at the very moment of commitment. ‘Yes,’ he said.

The venison Sanglier had chosen to follow the oysters was excellent, like the Margaux. With something to celebrate now, it was Coty who proposed the toast.

Castille said: ‘I have given you my solemn undertaking.’

‘Which I accept,’ said Sanglier, curiously.

‘Now I am seeking undertakings from you,’ announced the man. ‘I have no wish to cause offence. But there are questions I have to ask you. My platform, remember, is that of honesty, integrity and selflessness towards the people who will put us into office.’

‘Yes?’ If Sanglier hadn’t felt the first stir of uncertainty the unctuous hypocrisy would have been amusing.

Castille turned invitingly to Coty. The eminence grise of the party said: ‘Is there anything in your past that could emerge once we’re in power – once you held a ministerial portfolio – that could cause the sort of scandal that has besmirched the present government?’