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‘I know you’re upset,’ he said sitting forward. ‘But this isn’t the time or place for this.’
‘Isn’t it? Because I thought we were both in the business of getting to the truth. Why be afraid of that?’
‘I am not afraid of the truth, Lara,’ said Eduardo, putting down his cup. ‘But I’m aware that there are other people in this hotel who may not wish to listen to this.’
Lara looked up. He may have had a point; it seemed everyone else had stopped what they were doing and were looking over at Lara and Eduardo.
‘Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date?’ he said, standing. ‘Right now I need to speak to the police. Perhaps they will have some insights into what happened and then you will know where to direct your anger.’
He tapped a finger on the table. ‘But I assure you, Lara, it is not towards me.’
Chapter 6
L’Etranger Club was not what Lara had been expecting. Standing on the corner of a long terrace of whitewashed townhouses, the building was elegant, but there was an air of neglect that was entirely out of step with the club’s reputation. L’Etranger had been one of the hang-outs in Sixties London, the place Don McCullin and Francoise Demulder would carouse before grabbing their Pentaxes and heading off to the war zones. Back in the glory days of the inkies, L’Etranger had crackled with energy and intrigue, the famous ‘long bar’ attracting diplomats, attaches and thinly-disguised cold-war spies.
Right now, however, Lara thought it looked like a run-down residential hotel or a minor embassy. Marooned on a quiet side street off a major Paddington artery, the club had a polished brass plaque next to the front door, but it didn’t exactly stand out from its neighbours. But then perhaps that was point: as the venue for the collective’s annual conference, it was exclusive, but unobtrusive, anonymous without being actually underground. By reputation, Le Caché flew under the radar: they weren’t going to hold a party at Hakkasan and invite the paparazzi.
Lara walked slowly across the road. She knew she had to be here for Sandrine’s sake, but she wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, not after her fractious exchange with Eduardo at the hotel. Lara felt embarrassed by her outburst, but she still didn’t trust him. So why come? Because she was intrigued. For someone who had grown up inside the media establishment, Le Caché was radical and exciting.
A blond man in a jacket with too many pockets was standing by the door, head bowed over his phone. He looked up as Lara approached.
‘You’re here for Le Caché?’ he asked. She nodded and he pointed her to a desk where a woman handed Lara a lanyard. Clearly Eduardo hadn’t blacklisted her. Not yet, anyway.
‘First session is on the first floor,’ said the woman, directing her up the stairs and into a tall open room rumbling with excited conversation, sixty or seventy people standing around drinking coffee and nibbling pastries, an air of anticipation even this early in the morning. Lara felt the energy too, but she also felt intimidated by some of the lined, sunburned faces: she saw Orla McGuinness, the celebrated Irish writer whose ‘Tel Aviv Telegram’ had influenced a generation of travellers, Avril Katz, the Canadian badass who’d gone undercover as a volunteer on the US campaign trail and learned first-hand just how cut-throat American politics could be. In the far corner, Lara recognised Francis Barbier, the legendary scribe who had walked through police lines in Berlin to get an interview with terrorist leader Karl Haas minutes before he blew himself to bits. Barbier was white-haired and craggy, but it was reassuring to see someone of his vintage there among the younger go-getters. Lara took a deep breath and sidled over.
‘Amazing place,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of off the beaten track though.’
‘That’s because of history. Back in the 1960s, the West London Air Terminal was just around the corner.’
‘The West what?’
Francis laughed.
‘Hard to believe now, but when Heathrow was built, air travel was so expensive, they assumed passengers would arrive with their chauffeur. So when ordinary people started flying in the 60s, there was no train or tube to the airport, so they’d check you in here, then bus everyone out to the runway.’
‘So where is it?’ said Lara, looking around as if she might see a baggage carousel.
‘It’s a supermarket now. But that’s why the club was here: so people popping off to Aden or Saigon could leave it to the last minute.’
‘Last minute – no change there then,’ smiled Lara.
She could actually feel the history Francis had described, not just in the framed black and white photographs of unnamed conflicts on the walls or the famous oak bar at the far end of the room, but in the intent, that urge to get out there and find the news by seeing it happen, being first in, first out. She had spent the past few days feeling disappointed and angry with the world of journalism and yet, at L’Etranger, it was hard not to be swept back into the excitement and possibility of it all.
The good-looking blonde man from the street walked over to shake hands with Barbier, then turned to smile at Lara.
‘You found us then,’ he said, extending his hand towards Lara.
‘I’m Stefan.’
He was around her age, with sharp blue eyes and dark blonde hair that looked as if it hadn’t been brushed that morning. At first glance, he reminded her of Alex, the height and athletic physique, the careless stubble. But these days Alex looked ready for the boardroom while Stefan looked as though he had come straight from the Foreign Correspondents club in Phnom Penh.
‘Lara Stone. Eduardo invited me.’
Stefan gave a nod. ‘He told me; you’re Sandrine’s friend aren’t you? I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Sandrine Legard?’ said Barbier, perking up. ‘That was tragic. She was so talented.’
Lara smiled. She knew that Sandrine would have been thrilled to get such a glowing assessment from someone she so respected. Stefan put a hand on Barbier’s shoulder.
