She chuckled, warm, throaty and infectious, so that I laughed too. A sound unfamiliar in my father’s house. I stood in the dim light of the hallway, alone in the house, and I hadn’t decided whether to be worried or relieved.

‘Come on, Clarisse, what have you found out?’

‘He’s a hard nut to crack, your Gilles.’

‘He’s not my Gilles. And anyway, you are always an expert with the nut-crackers.’

Again the low chuckle. I heard her light a cigarette, and I could almost smell the whisky on her breath though it was only mid-afternoon.

‘What have you got?’

She kept me waiting just long enough to start to annoy, then she slipped into professional investigator mode. ‘All right. Gilles Bertin was born and raised in Brittany. In Concarneau. Parents were strict Jesuits. Dead now.’

‘Jesuits.’

‘I know. It fits with Intelligence work.’

‘I agree. Both systems of thought can be fanatical about an idea. Anything more?’

‘He lives in a smart apartment near the Trocadéro. Keeps a low profile. Works at the Ministry of Defence as an analyst and has a weakness for opera.’

‘You’re good, Clarisse. I’m impressed.’

She exhaled smoke with satisfaction. ‘There’s more.’

‘Let’s have it.’

‘He is down in Arles on an assignment to liaise with the USAF at the air base.’

‘Liaise on what?’

Another soft chuckle. ‘Ah, there you have me, chérie. That is for you to find out.’

I frowned at the telephone in my hand. I was disappointed. Clarisse had given me nothing new, despite all her good work. I already knew from André that the MGB Soviets had him embedded in the Ministry of Defence.

‘Thanks, Clarisse.’

‘I haven’t finished.’

I heard a secretive smile in her voice. ‘What else?’ I asked quickly.

‘Gilles Bertin is cousin to your mayor, Charles Durand.’

I let out a whoop of relief that echoed through the empty house.

‘Clarisse, I love you.’

*

I dialled again. This time a local call. It was picked up immediately at the other end.

‘Good afternoon. Dumoulin Air Base. Airman Starkey speaking. How may I help you?’

Americans were very polite.

‘I wish to speak with Major Joel Dirke, please.’

‘That’s not possible right now, I’m sorry, ma’am. Would you care to leave a message?’

‘Yes, I would. Could you please ask him to telephone Eloïse Caussade.’

I supplied my father’s telephone number and was assured my message would be placed in the mail box in the orderly room.

‘Thank you very much.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’

I hung up. Wheels were turning.

*