had ended the discussions by commissioning Foster to compile a report on the Columbus incident for Farquharson as quickly as possible—Scotty accompanied Reddington to the roof, where a helicopter was waiting, then re-entered the building, taking an elevator down to the first floor.
Locating Lefebre's suite, he entered. Lefebre's secretary was not at her desk, but Lefebre's door was open. The Frenchman was on the phone. Scotty began to retreat, but Lefebre waved him in.
The office surprised him. He expected something sparse and uninviting. But this place was fascinating. There were potted plants about. Shelves filled with books. Hanging lithographs. An open volume of Shakespearean plays on a reading stand. A half-dozen mounted ivory carvings. And one carving in progress on a work bench in the corner.
Lefebre ended the phone conversation—he'd been talking to a perimeter security officer—and put down the receiver. "Monsieur Bruce?" he said, smiling.
"I was down the hall," Scotty explained. "I thought I'd drop in and sit for a minute. See your office."
"Make yourself at home," Lefebre said, shifting in his scat. Behind him was a duty roster clogged with names. "Would you like something to drink? Some coffee, tea, water?"
"No, thank you," Scotty said, looking about, admiring the carvings.
Lefebre smiled. "I see you have a roving eye. See anything interesting?"
"Yes. The ivory work."
"My menagerie."
"The elephant in particular. It's spectacular."
"I appreciate the compliment."
Scotty pointed to the work bench. "You carved these yourself?" he asked, very impressed.
"With considerable difficulty."
"Where'd you learn?"
Lefebre paused, thinking, then answered. "In the army. In Marseilles. There was a soldier in my regiment who'd been raised in the Cameroons. He learned the skill from a native. I learned from him."
"Are you from Marseilles?"
"No, Calais. I was stationed in Marseilles. And I remained there after my discharge. Working."
"For the Marseilles police?"
Lefebre laughed. "You seem to be compiling a dossier. So please, allow me to complete it. Parents dead, childhood status: orphan. No wife. One child . . . a bastard . . . location unknown. Six years as security director for various industrial concerns. A tenure in the French army. A long career with the Marseilles police. A degree from the Sorbonne in classical literature."
"Classical literature?"
"Does that surprise you?"
Scotty glanced at the shelves, the books. "Not really. I see the evidence." Lefebre's manner of speech included; it was perfect. "No, I guess I just find it incongruous that someone with a degree in literature would become a security man."
"Life's convolutions can never be accurately foreseen. There are roadblocks, circumstances, twists of fate, which often lead men down uncharted roads. Yes, I enjoyed literature. I still do. But long ago I found other pursuits far more rewarding."
"Like what?"
"My job. This job."
"I hope I'm not prying?"
Lefebre shook his head, laughing. "I'm flattered by the attention." He extended a pack of Gitanes. Scotty declined. Lefebre pulled one out. "So," he said, lighting the cigarette and blowing a ring of smoke across the desk, "what else can I tell you?"
Scotty looked about. The blotter was filled with papers. There were several books piled on a corner of the desk and, strangely, two boxes of chewing tobacco, something he would not have expected to find in the possession of a Frenchman. "Tell me about the submersible," he said.
"What do you mean?" Lefebre asked as he flipped some pages of the Shakespeare compendium.
"My conclusion."
"I accept it."
"Do you think it was right?"
"If you're asking whether or not I think there could actually have been a submersible in the loch, the answer is 'yes.' If you're asking whether there are people who would attempt such an attack, I refer you to my speech upstairs, and again the answer is 'yes.' And if you're asking whether I will uncover the identity of
Locating Lefebre's suite, he entered. Lefebre's secretary was not at her desk, but Lefebre's door was open. The Frenchman was on the phone. Scotty began to retreat, but Lefebre waved him in.
The office surprised him. He expected something sparse and uninviting. But this place was fascinating. There were potted plants about. Shelves filled with books. Hanging lithographs. An open volume of Shakespearean plays on a reading stand. A half-dozen mounted ivory carvings. And one carving in progress on a work bench in the corner.
Lefebre ended the phone conversation—he'd been talking to a perimeter security officer—and put down the receiver. "Monsieur Bruce?" he said, smiling.
"I was down the hall," Scotty explained. "I thought I'd drop in and sit for a minute. See your office."
"Make yourself at home," Lefebre said, shifting in his scat. Behind him was a duty roster clogged with names. "Would you like something to drink? Some coffee, tea, water?"
"No, thank you," Scotty said, looking about, admiring the carvings.
Lefebre smiled. "I see you have a roving eye. See anything interesting?"
"Yes. The ivory work."
"My menagerie."
"The elephant in particular. It's spectacular."
"I appreciate the compliment."
Scotty pointed to the work bench. "You carved these yourself?" he asked, very impressed.
"With considerable difficulty."
"Where'd you learn?"
Lefebre paused, thinking, then answered. "In the army. In Marseilles. There was a soldier in my regiment who'd been raised in the Cameroons. He learned the skill from a native. I learned from him."
"Are you from Marseilles?"
"No, Calais. I was stationed in Marseilles. And I remained there after my discharge. Working."
"For the Marseilles police?"
Lefebre laughed. "You seem to be compiling a dossier. So please, allow me to complete it. Parents dead, childhood status: orphan. No wife. One child . . . a bastard . . . location unknown. Six years as security director for various industrial concerns. A tenure in the French army. A long career with the Marseilles police. A degree from the Sorbonne in classical literature."
"Classical literature?"
"Does that surprise you?"
Scotty glanced at the shelves, the books. "Not really. I see the evidence." Lefebre's manner of speech included; it was perfect. "No, I guess I just find it incongruous that someone with a degree in literature would become a security man."
"Life's convolutions can never be accurately foreseen. There are roadblocks, circumstances, twists of fate, which often lead men down uncharted roads. Yes, I enjoyed literature. I still do. But long ago I found other pursuits far more rewarding."
"Like what?"
"My job. This job."
"I hope I'm not prying?"
Lefebre shook his head, laughing. "I'm flattered by the attention." He extended a pack of Gitanes. Scotty declined. Lefebre pulled one out. "So," he said, lighting the cigarette and blowing a ring of smoke across the desk, "what else can I tell you?"
Scotty looked about. The blotter was filled with papers. There were several books piled on a corner of the desk and, strangely, two boxes of chewing tobacco, something he would not have expected to find in the possession of a Frenchman. "Tell me about the submersible," he said.
"What do you mean?" Lefebre asked as he flipped some pages of the Shakespeare compendium.
"My conclusion."
"I accept it."
"Do you think it was right?"
"If you're asking whether or not I think there could actually have been a submersible in the loch, the answer is 'yes.' If you're asking whether there are people who would attempt such an attack, I refer you to my speech upstairs, and again the answer is 'yes.' And if you're asking whether I will uncover the identity of
Similar Books
