A Death in Sweden(44)

“You knew him?”

“I met him a few times. We didn’t serve together—he was quite a bit younger than me—but I had a drink with him once or twice. He was a good man.”

Dan nodded. He’d been a good man who’d tried to settle down and move on, and that had probably made him an easier target and helped seal his fate.

“The man who killed him is dead.” Florian looked grudgingly satisfied with that. “But I’m after the man who ordered his death.”

“The same man who also wants you dead? Bill Brabham?” Dan nodded. “So, according to Patrick, you want to talk with me about Jack Redford, and the events of fourteen years ago.”

“That’s correct. What can you tell me, Georges?”

“Nothing at all. You and I never met.” He smiled, took a long sip of his wine. “It seems there’s a foreign bank with a building across the street from the entrance to the alley where Sabine Merel was killed. It has twenty-four-hour security, and it has cameras. On the night in question, the security guard on duty was a man named Gaston Bergeron. He saw nothing at the time, but early the next morning, just before his shift ended, the body was found. Normally, they reused the tapes unless there was something of note. Well, as I said, Gaston had seen nothing unusual, but because of the body being discovered, he put the night’s tapes in the security locker and loaded new ones. He might never have checked them but, two days later, two people from the US Embassy came to the bank and asked for the security tapes from that night. They were told the tapes were reused and so there was nothing to see. Of course, Gaston became suspicious. Why would the Americans want the tapes? So that night he went through them and, we think, he saw the man walking with Sabine Merel into the alley where she died. He thought of going to the police, naturally, but the involvement of the Americans worried him. He knew his nephew’s father-in-law, Jean Sainval, was in quite a powerful position at the DGSE, so he mailed the tape to him.”

“That name’s familiar, Jean Sainval. Maybe from when I was starting out.”

“Of course, you were in SIS for a time. Yes, you probably heard about his death, but we jump ahead. Sainval watched the tape and put a call through to a friend at the Interior Ministry, who agreed to come over the following day. But it seems someone was listening. Sainval was killed in a traffic accident that night.”

“And the tape?”

Florian gave him a roguish smile and said, “So this is the crux! Did the great Jack Redford infiltrate La piscine and steal the tape, with just one day’s notice?” He nodded, impressed even by the memory of it. “The tape disappeared, and it took several days before we were positive that Redford had been in the building. But the body in the Seine—that was nothing to do with us.”

“It wasn’t Redford anyway.”

“We know that now. We didn’t for fourteen years.”

“So whether or not he saw the tape himself, he knew what was on it, and knew that Brabham would come after him for that knowledge.”

“Or maybe he handed it over and they tried to kill him. Who knows why he ran? Maybe he just felt it was time, that he’d . . . ridden his luck too long.”

“The security guard, Gaston . . .?”

“Bergeron. Gaston Bergeron.”

“Did any of your colleagues speak to him?”

“I think so, but he couldn’t tell anything, or didn’t want to—he knew Jean Sainval was dead, and had his suspicions about how.”

Dan drank and Florian topped up both glasses.

“So, we can have all the suspicions we like about who killed Sabine Merel and why Jack Redford went on the run, but there’s no proof, no witness . . .”

“Apart from Gaston Bergeron.”

“Who didn’t know anything.”

“Who didn’t say anything. I don’t know even if he’s still alive—he would be quite old by now, but sometimes old men talk more than young ones.”

“Do you know how I could get in touch with him, if he is still alive?”

“Let me see.” He got up, taking his phone out as he walked over and leaned on the far end of the bar.

He spoke briefly into the phone and then put it on the bar and chatted amiably with the two barmen, laughing and joking about something. Maybe he was a regular here or just the kind of raffish charmer who could drop into any drinking hole around the world and make new friends.

Even from there, Dan saw the phone light up a few minutes later. Florian answered, then gestured to the barman who hastily furnished him with a pen and a piece of paper.

When Florian came back he was smiling, and as he handed over the piece of paper, he said, “Still alive. He retired back to the village he came from, in Burgundy, not far from Auxerre.”

“Thanks, I’ll head out there tomorrow.”

“And if he can’t help, or won’t?”

Dan thought it through quickly, realizing they were running out of leads, but knowing he could only count on one outcome.

“As long as Brabham’s still in circulation I’ve got the dot on me. If I can help Patrick to rein him in, great, if not . . . I won’t go down easy.”

“I like your style. But the reason I ask is, it might also be an idea to speak to Eliot Carter, if you haven’t already.”