I was headed in the direction of the lake in Vantôme, intent on stashing my car on its little escape route and getting to the boat dock, where I was to meet Burdmoore.
The rest of the Moulinards would be in their staging area, waiting for the moment to descend onto the D79 and set up their blockade. Would Pascal notice I wasn’t among them? Naturally. But the plan would be in motion. He’d figure, she’s just a translator. She doesn’t want to involve herself in this. She’s with Lucien, after all. My mediocre friend. Like him, she’s got the heart of a good bourgeois. Even if she didn’t seem exactly “good.” What did she seem? There was an emptiness to her. A sense her lack of affect went all the way down.
He’d think all that, or he wouldn’t, and it didn’t matter.
I would get there on time, despite having grossly overslept. My grogginess was wearing off, helped by the beauty of this day, sunny and fresh. The sky was a deep blue and decorated with storybook clouds, clean and round and puffy, scudding over the valley and creating cool shadows on the green hills.
As I neared the lake, there were cars full of fairgoers backed up the little D79, normally so empty. This was the big event. Once a year. People from all over the region. Vehicles were parked along both sides of the shoulder as far as I could see, with families streaming down the road in groups toward the fair. The main lots for the lake were already full, with cars turning in to park on a field. I inched forward, the road bumper to bumper.
Along the meadow next to the lake were displays of old tractors and food trucks in rows. A band was setting up their equipment on a soundstage.
I got through the chaotic lake entrance and kept on the D79 past the fair, as I headed toward the little connector where I planned to deposit the Škoda.
From this section of the D79, cars were traveling in only one direction, toward the fair. I was on the other side, which was empty, as I backed onto the secret road, the little route the Maos and I had cleared. I reversed more than halfway down and parked the Škoda so that it was positioned for a quick escape, by the time cops of every kind stormed this place.
I walked down the D79 toward the fair. I passed the displays of antique tractors and the rows of concessions and picnic tables. The Moulinards would be off-site still, coordinating, as I was meant to be, as a group, with subgroups. I wasn’t afraid of encountering them here because I knew they would not be here. But also, I already felt free of them.
I passed the old heifer scale, a metal plate on the ground with a wood awning built over it. A farmer was threatening to weigh his thick-waisted wife, picking her up, as she feistily demanded he put her down.
I felt the buzz of an alert. I had been getting updates on Platon’s coordinates; they’d put a tracking device in his car. The phone was in the outer pocket of my fanny pack, whose inner compartment contained my Glock and minirevolver, as well as the vintage pistol for good old Burdmoore.
I unzipped the outer pocket and snuck a glance at the alert. Platon was on schedule.
Old men in cardigan sweaters and shirts and slacks in monochrome acrylic, outfits they didn’t intend to look ironic and hip, and instead were their “Sunday best,” lined up for high-powered gasoline water. Their wives, with dyed hair of unnatural hues that were not intended to look edgy, their village beauty parlor best, waited at picnic tables for the husbands to bring them their booze. Younger people stood in lines for fried fish or hamburgers or ice cream. There was a vendor advertising marinated bear meat, and a sweaty man over a grill, flipping this bear meat with tongs.
I was meant to connect with Burdmoore at the boat dock, beyond the last booth, which offered cuisine from the West Indies. The young man and two women running it were the first non-white people I’d seen since leaving Marseille a month ago. Their banner said “NOT SPICY” in huge letters. They had no customers.
I sat down on the concrete and waited.
Burdmoore knew the plan. He would separate Platon and his bodyguard from the crowds, walk these two men to the edge of the lake, and shoot them.
He was supposed to be here at noon.
He wasn’t.
An update came through on Platon’s coordinates:
“He is early.”
I stood on the dock’s concrete embankment to get a better look.
The Crossback appeared on the road, ink black, with a spinning blue light on its roof, indicating state provenance, official business.
Dusty old farmers’ cars were moving over to let it pass.
The fair’s official greeting committee, old men in special red vests and berets, understood the car as important and began to clear a lane for it in the parking lot, close to the fair’s entrance. The car pulled in and parked, its blue light spinning. Fair officials surrounded it, looking pleased and excited. It was a rural functionary’s dream to have a surprise visit like this by state officials, and all the way from Paris!
The Serb got out of the car. He spoke to two of the red-vested men.
Platon’s driver, Georges, was next. Georges went around to open the rear door, but in no hurry, with his hallmark attitude of dutiful contempt.
Paul Platon emerged from the car, his nose up, sniffing the air for his photo opportunity.
Where was Burdmoore?
Michel Thomas stood from the opposite rear door. The celebrated author, French national treasure, with his strange wig of destroyed hair, his sunken features, but the sharp gaze of an eagle.
The men in their red vests spoke into walkie-talkies. Summoning the prizewinners to meet Platon, I assumed. They nodded eagerly at the deputy minister. This was their big moment. They didn’t seem to understand who Michel Thomas was and he didn’t look to them like someone to whom special treatment at the Guyenne Agricultural Exposition should be bestowed.
I watched the author as he took in the scene, the booths, the old tractors, made notes on a little pad. I could see that he was primed to soak in the environment, deploy it in one of his books and thereby fix himself in posterity, instead of disappear like people are meant to. He’d be in libraries, the rest of us dust or mulch, an unkempt headstone.
Where was Burdmoore?
Georges leaned against the Crossback, putting tobacco in his pipe, waiting, which was what drivers like him actually do. Sometimes they drive, but mostly they wait.
I heard the bwap bwap of an off-road motorcycle. Its rider was splitting lanes between cars, coming down the D79. The rider turned into the lake entrance, coasting with his clutch in, loudly and obnoxiously revving the motor for no reason but to create a disturbance. Some arrogant local youth.
The rider straddled his cycle and flipped up the visor on his motocross helmet, surveying the crowd. It was Franck.
Vantôme Franck. Being a kid, free to roam, despite having a kid.
I watched from the boat dock as officials ushered Platon into the fair. Michel Thomas paused to light a cigarette. The group kept walking.
The Serb was behind Platon and the fair officials. He’d been lifting weights, I could see, his muscles testing the stretch of his suit.
A band was about to begin their set as I lurked near the stage, keeping Platon in sight, and an eye out for Burdmoore. They launched into their first number. It was a cover of “Used to Love Her” by Guns N’ Roses. The singer wore a do-rag like he thought he was Axl. He held the microphone and moved like Axl. He even did the little muttered preamble over drumstick clicks, and the high-pitched coyote howl.
I used to love her. But I had to kill her.
