The Crowded Grave

a hurried operation in unfamiliar territory, with no military-grade explosives on hand. They raid a quarry for some dynamite, knowing it would bring a massive police operation. It might be worthwhile to use a stick or two to mount a distraction, to send some of the security forces chasing after the students on a false trail.
    Bruno slammed a fist into his hand. He was the one being distracted, and not by any terrorist group but by his own foolishness. He’d been thinking of horses and of Isabelle, of Pamela and of Maurice and the Villattes and his own people. Were there really Basque terrorists so short of explosives that they had to raid a quarry within shouting distance of the château where the summit was taking place? ETA had been in business for fifty years, despite everything the Spanish state could throw at them. They weren’t a bunch of amateurs. They’d have access to Semtex or some other plastic explosive. They could get hold of a sniper’s rifle on the black market. They might even have shoulder-launched missiles to attack the helicopters. Sticks of dynamite and cheap clock timers seemed like kids’ stuff, rather than the work of an experienced and professional terrorist organization. None of this felt right to Bruno, unless he and Isabelle and Carlos and the whole security operation were being deliberately encouraged to underestimate the opposition.
    Putain de bordel
, he’d been lazy and irresponsible, Bruno told himself. He’d forgotten the first rule he’d been taught in the army: know your enemy. He hadn’t even sat down to do some basic research on ETA and its methods here in France, let alone in Spain. He’d been going through the motions, content to let the brigadier and Carlos and Isabelle and the other specialists set the agenda and do all the work, while he sat backand thought about his farmers and that worryingly inexperienced new magistrate. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone to call Isabelle and ask her what intelligence data she had on ETA that she could share with him.
    “It was dynamite, sure enough,” came a voice. Jeannot was coming toward him, Albert by his side. He was waving something in his hand. It fluttered as he walked. “And what’s more, it’s mine.”
    “We walked around the perimeter and stopped where the slogan was painted,” Jeannot said. “Seemed a funny place to put it, away from the road where nobody would see it. But it would be the right place to put a bomb together, out of sight. They could even have used a flashlight to see what they were doing. We found this.”
    He held out a strip of waxed brown paper, about eight inches long. It had numbers stamped on it.
    “It’s wrapping from a dynamite stick. They pulled this end off when they put the detonator in. And those numbers are from the same batch that was stolen from us yesterday. I should know—I spent half the day filling in those same numbers on a stack of insurance forms.”
    “Looks like we’ve solved your case, eh Bruno?” said Albert, looking pleased with himself.
    “Could be,” said Bruno. “A pity you didn’t use gloves when you picked it up. It means we’ll have to fingerprint you, Jeannot, just to eliminate your prints from the inquiry.”
    His doubts about this whole business redoubled. He could just about accept that a terrorist group might in desperation raid a local dynamite cache, but he couldn’t see them leaving such helpful clues scattered around the landscape. Somehow he was sure they were smarter than that.
    His phone rang again. This time it was the mayor.
    “I’ve just heard Philippe Delaron live on Radio Périgordtalking about some animal rights bomb at the Gravelle place,” the mayor said. “And now Claire tells me I’ve got France Inter asking questions on the other line about a war on foie gras. That’s our bloody livelihood, Bruno. What the hell’s going on?”
    Bruno ignored an incoming call and briefly explained, promising to return to the
mairie
as soon as his security meeting was over. Then he checked the number of the call he had missed. It was Pamela and he called her back.
    “I’ve just had a call from Edinburgh,” she said, sounding distracted. “It’s Mother, she’s had a stroke. My aunt said it doesn’t look too serious but I have to get to Scotland.”
    “I can drive you to Bergerac for the afternoon flight,” said Bruno, knowing how the coming of the daily Ryanair flights to the once-sleepy nearby airport had transformed