Stomping up and down in an effort to fend off the cold, Bruno tried to work out the cost to the police budget. Thirty rural cops, each with rail fare, a hotel for three nights, a per diem for food, and overtime pay for night duty had to cost twenty thousand euros, which was close to Bruno’s annual salary. Throw in the cost of the fake oysters with their transmitters and the drones and helicopters and the overall cost had to be close to a hundred thousand.

His phone rang. It was Isabelle.

“It looks as though the man we saw on the boat is Yves Tallarin, several arrests for brawls when he was young but no convictions,” she said. “He’s got problems with the tax authorities that could be serious, and his brother-in-law owns a trucking company. I’m trying to find out if he has any connection to the tech firm that produced the fake oysters. There’s a nephew who is said to have graduated in computer studies. Tallarin has got a big new house at Andernos-les-Bains, and his own oyster beds are close to where you’re patrolling at Cap Ferret. Anything happening near you?”

“Not a thing. Cold and quiet. Any chance of reinforcements?”

“I’m working on that, but they may have to come by road. The chopper pilots are complaining about the visibility.”

“Pleven should have thought of that,” Bruno said.

“Yes, he should have, but that could also be a problem for the boat, unless Tallarin knows these waters so well he can find his way blindfolded. I think you should see a car heading your way with armed gendarmes in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“What about the naval patrol boat?” he asked. “It should be near here.”

“It’s having trouble navigating its way through the oyster beds. They don’t show up on their radar. That’s something else Pleven didn’t think about.” She paused and then said, “Keep safe, I’ll stay in touch.”

Bruno pondered whether to stay on the beach and watch for a boat or head back to the path where he’d been dropped off, which seemed the most likely route for a truck. It was close to the restaurant, and there was a stretch of tarmac that was probably used as a parking lot during high season. He walked up, saw a small dune, and clambered up. The mist seemed to be getting thicker. There was nothing to be seen, no lights from Andernos nor from Cap Ferret, no lights of any car or truck and nothing out in the bay. He checked his watch. Isabelle’s fifteen minutes were almost up. But heaven help the gendarmes trying to find their way in this damn mist.