The Crowded Grave

looking normal within the hour.”

28
    A form of panicked calm had descended over the château. The security guard had indeed been spared the full blast of the explosion thanks to the remote device with which he had started Carlos’s car. One of Isabelle’s aides was arranging for the delivery of a replacement Range Rover for Carlos.
    England was an hour behind French time, Bruno knew, and he assumed Scotland would be the same. It would be a little early to call Pamela. And she’d said she would call him once there was news from the brain scan. Bruno had an appointment with the paratrooper major and the
mobiles
from the gendarmes in not quite two hours to walk the grounds and review the patrol system. So he had time to think about Isabelle’s supper. It would have to be something he could make quickly, and he’d cleared out most of his fresh food when he moved to Pamela’s. And in case some new emergency meant the meal had to be canceled, it had better be something he could easily save and warm up again.
    The house would be cold; he’d have to make a fire. They had eaten foie and pork the other evening, so he was thinking steak or veal. He had some
soupe de poisson
in the freezer. He’d need bread for the croutons and some spring vegetables, and avisit to Bournichou’s
boucherie
for the meat, and at some point he’d have to pick up Gigi, who was evidently the star of the show.
    He had time to get to the market, which on this day of the week was held in Le Buisson, where he knew he’d find Stéphane selling his cheeses. Stéphane pointed Bruno to Madame Vernier whose stall across the street carried spring onions, new carrots and
navets
, the small turnips Bruno loved, and even some early green beans. Instantly he decided on a
navarin d’agneau
, a lamb stew with fresh spring vegetables. It would take time, but it was a dish he enjoyed and he’d never made it for Isabelle. He bought his cheese and vegetables and a big
boule
of bread, raced back to St. Denis to buy the lamb and quickly went home.
    Once in his kitchen, he splashed duck fat into a heavy iron pot and cut the boned lamb shoulder into inch-and-a-half chunks. While the callers on a Radio Périgord show were hailing the charms of foie gras, he browned the lamb on all sides and spooned off the excess fat. Then with the lamb on medium heat, he added his secret ingredient, a large spoonful of honey, and stirred to coat the meat. He sprinkled on some flour to soak up the juices and stirred again. He added a glass of dry Bergerac white wine, a can of peeled tomatoes, some crushed garlic and a bouquet garni, and then grated in a little nutmeg. He added salt and pepper and just enough water to cover the meat and brought it to a steady simmer.
    Normally he would leave it for an hour, but before then he would have to see the troops who would be manning the cordons. He set the table for two, with some candlesticks and a vase into which he would put daffodils from his garden when he returned. He took the
soupe de poisson
from the freezer to thaw and then cut some slices from the bread so that they would harden by the evening, making them just right for thecroutons. He washed the vegetables and left them ready by the counter.
    With another twenty minutes before he had to leave, he went outside to feed his ducks and chickens and check on the fencing and his own
potager
. Up here on the ridge, and with no greenhouse to bring on his early plantings, his own
navets
and carrots were still two or three weeks from being ready, his potatoes and beans even further behind. His mâche was in fine shape to make a salad, and he had some early radishes. He raised his eyes to the view across the slope to the low ridge ahead, and on to the ridges that rolled all the way to the horizon. He never tired of it and it never failed to lift his spirit. As he looked at the land spread out before him he knew there was one thing he had to do today that would make him feel better about himself, more worthy of this place and this view.
    He used his phone to track down the number in Paris for Médecins Sans Frontières, gave his name and rank and asked for the head of the press office. He was put through to a woman who gave her name as Mathilde Condorçel and asked what she could do for him.
    “It’s about Annette Meraillon. She used to work for you, in Paris and in Madagascar. You probably saw the story in
Libé
today.”
    “I saw it and I didn’t like it. We worked together here