The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

Jacqueline’s lips tightened.
    This was not going well. Bruno helped himself to some cheese and bread. Gilles finished reading, took his glasses off and handed back the typescript.
    ‘This is based on your book, which won’t be published in the US until the end of this year, early next year. Is that right?’ Gilles waited for Jacqueline’s nod of agreement. ‘But you want to get the facts out now because you’re worried that the government wants it suppressed and you think the French people have a right to know how they’ve been lied to for forty years about our precious
force de frappe
. How that nuclear arsenal isn’t really ours, it comes courtesy of the Americans, just like the British. The technology for our missiles, our guidance system, our multi-warheads, our test sites, even the triggers for the bomb itself, all come from the USA, even though we have been proclaiming for decades that we are independent. In return for this, our President agreed to modify French foreign policy. And you want me to run a vague little teaser piece in the
Match
to build up interest before you run this as an op-ed piece in
Le Monde
. Am I right so far?’
    ‘Yes, rather histrionically phrased, but in the essentials you’re quite right,’ said Jacqueline in a clipped voice.
    Gilles put his hands together, looked from Jacqueline to Bruno and back again. ‘And in return for running this teaser, rather than getting the credit for breaking what could be one of the stories of the year, all I get is the offer to write a nice soft feature with a full-colour photo all about this intriguing Franco-American historian who’s blowing the whistle on one of the biggest strategic secrets of the Fifth Republic. It doesn’t sound to me like a good deal.’
    ‘That depends how you write the teaser and what you put in it,’ said Bruno.
    ‘I could also let you have some of the documents to publish, but I’d also insist on approving whatever you write in this teaser, as you call it,’ Jacqueline said stiffly, sitting back and folding her arms. The body language between her and Gilles was cold, verging on hostile. ‘I have transcripts of Kissinger’s meetings, the jokes about France having the world’s worst nuclear programme, all headed with the words Top Secret.’
    ‘Let me explain my problem,’ Gilles said, leaning back and sipping at his drink. ‘I go to my editor with the teaser and tell him what comes next week. He looks at me like I’m an idiot and he wants to know why we don’t keep the story to ourselves and screw
Le Monde
. That’s what I’d be asking, in his shoes.’
    ‘You get the exclusive on the documents,’ said Bruno, before Jacqueline could respond. From the way she was bristling, he was sure she was about to make some cutting remark about
Paris Match
not being taken as seriously as
Le Monde
, which would only make matters worse.
    ‘The documents have been declassified,’ Gilles replied. ‘Thatmeans we could get our US correspondent to hire a history graduate student tomorrow and tell him to go to the Nixon Library first thing Monday morning and find them.’
    ‘What might help you persuade your editor to do it our way?’ Bruno asked.
    ‘What else have you got?’
    ‘Another story altogether. Have you ever heard of the great train robbery and the mystery of the Resistance billions?’

19
    Bruno woke to the smell of coffee, a tongue licking briskly at his ears and the weight of a soft, squirming basset puppy on his chest. He opened his eyes, moved Balzac’s rump out of the way and saw Pamela, already dressed in riding clothes, standing by the bed with a tray.
    ‘Breakfast in bed, what a treat,’ he said, wriggling his way upright. She put the tray on his lap, plumped up the pillows on her side of the bed to sit beside him and took hold of Balzac before the puppy could attack the croissants. They were still hot from the bakery; she must have slipped out of bed and gone down to town for them. There was also orange juice for him and a bowl of Stéphane’s thick yoghurt and a banana for her. Balzac turned to lie on his back, legs pedalling the air. The pads on his paws were already starting to darken from the pink of puppyhood but his tummy was a lovely soft rose colour.
    Bruno scratched Balzac’s belly and looked out of Pamela’s window at the sky, bright with a few high streaks of cirrus; it should be a fine day. He glanced at his watch, almost nine. The others had left around midnight and