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10
Villa Bérrangar
In the Middle Ages, when English kings laid claim to all of France, the picturesque village of Saint-Macaire was designated aville royale d’Angleterre. It seemed that little had changed in the intervening centuries. A medieval tower stood guard over the entrance to the old city, its clockface showing half past five. Next to it was a café called La Belle Lurette. Gabriel handed the waiter twenty euros and asked whether he knew the address of Madame Valerie Bérrangar.
“She was killed in an auto accident on Monday afternoon.”
Gabriel wordlessly handed over another banknote.
“Her villa is near Château Malromé. About two kilometers to the east.” The waiter slipped the money into the pocket of his apron. “The entrance will be on your left. You can’t miss it.”
The château stood on a broad hillside north of Saint-Macaire, in the commune of Saint-André-du-Bois. Renowned for the quality of its gravelly clay soil, the forty-hectare property was acquired in the late nineteenth century by Countess Adèle de Toulouse-Lautrec. Her son, a painter and illustrator who often found inspiration in the brothels and cabarets of Paris, had passed his summers there.
East of the château the road was dangerously narrow and lined onboth sides with vineyards. With one eye on the instrument panel of his rented sedan, Gabriel drove two kilometers exactly and, as promised, glimpsed a dwelling on the left side of the road. Parked in the forecourt was a Peugeot estate car, metallic blue, Paris registration. Gabriel drew up next to it and switched off the engine. The instant he opened his door, a dog barked ferociously. But of course, he thought, and climbed out.
Warily he approached the entrance of the villa. As he stretched out a hand toward the bell push, the door opened to reveal a woman, dark in dress and demeanor, with the pale skin of someone who assiduously avoided the sun. She looked to be in her early forties, but Gabriel couldn’t be sure. An Old Master painting he could reliably date to within a few years. But modern women, with their age-concealing balms and injections, were a mystery to him.
“Madame Lagarde?”
“Oui,” she answered. “May I help you, monsieur?”
Gabriel introduced himself. Not with a work name, or one he plucked from thin air, but his real name.
“Have we met somewhere before?” asked Juliette Lagarde.
“I rather doubt it.”
“But your name is very familiar.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your face, too.”
“You might have read about me in the newspapers.”
“Why?”
“I used to be the chief of the Israeli intelligence service. I worked closely with the French government in the fight against the Islamic State.”
“NotthatGabriel Allon.”
He offered her an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid so.”
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your mother.”
“My mother—”
“Was killed in an accident on Monday afternoon.” Gabriel glancedover his shoulder toward the large Belgian shepherd berating him from the forecourt. “Would it be possible for us to talk inside?”
“You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”
“Non,” said Gabriel. “Only dogs like that.”
Asit turned out, Juliette Lagarde didn’t much care for the dog, either. It belonged to Jean-Luc, the caretaker. He had worked for the Bérrangar family for more than thirty years, looking after the house when they were in Paris, tending to the small vineyard. Juliette’s father, a prosperous commercial lawyer, had planted it with his own hands. He had died of a massive heart attack while Juliette was still a student at the Paris-Sorbonne University. Having earned a useless degree in literature, she now worked in the marketing department of one of France’s largest fashion houses. Her mother, unnerved by the jihadist terrorist attacks in Paris, had lately been spending most of her time in Saint-André-du-Bois.
“She wasn’t an Islamophobe or a follower of the far right, mind you. She just preferred the countryside to the city. I worried about her being alone, but she had friends here. A life of her own.”
They were standing in the villa’s spacious kitchen, waiting for the water to boil in the electric kettle. The house around them was silent.
“How often did you speak to her?” asked Gabriel.
