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“I know.”
“Or perhaps you do not regard as unusual-”
“I know, I know.”
She stepped close to me. Her hand fastened on my upper arm. It was impossible to believe that just a little while ago she had emerged from bed looking like incipient death. But most people, and especially women, look better entering a bed than leaving it.
“Emile will arrive in an hour,” she said.
“How unfortunate.”
“You do not recall? He wishes to meet with you to plan the arrangements for the Queen.” Her eyes flashed. “I know you will develop a brilliant plan, Evan. It is vital to us.”
“I know.”
“And when he arrives, I will leave. Or perhaps I will go just before he gets here, to the fair. To the Pavilion of Cuba. You follow me?”
“Anywhere.”
“Pardon? But Emile will not arrive for an hour, cherished one. If I were in fact Jea
“The spawn of Satan.”
“But certainly.” She shook her head again. “Since then I ca
“Why not?”
“Because I will have the most extraordinary reaction.”
“Well, fine. My own reaction-”
“Ah, but of course! Two portions of eggs, no?”
“It would not have done to let them go to waste.”
“Nor would it do to let this go to waste. Let us become unclad, eh?”
And shortly before Emile arrived (and shortly after we did): “I will tell you this about the Maid, Evan.”
“Eh?”
“In a way, I am her superior. I blaspheme, you say?”
“I say no such thing-”
“But my words are true. With all of this, I remain passionately devoted to my country, to my people. But if Jea
Emile brought friends. The Berton brothers, Jean and Jacques. Both were about my height, with wavy black hair, long, straight noses, and sharply defined features. I could not place their accents at first but later learned that they were from Algeria. Though still in their middle twenties, both had fought valiantly with the OAS in a last-ditch attempt to keep Algeria in French hands. Before De Gaulle managed to disunite the two countries, it had seemed that only two possible solutions to the Algerian question existed – one might liquidate eight million Arabs or one million French colons. Jean and Jacques had done their best to bring the former solution into being.
Jean, the older of the two by a year, had a
It had thus become imperative for them to leave Algeria and to stay out of France. They went at first to Israel – though they were not Jews, they were anxious for the opportunity to go on killing Arabs. Their OAS experience, however, had not prepared them for the task of distinguishing between enemy Arabs and the presumably friendly Arab citizens of Israel, and it presently behooved them to find another home. They were now in Montreal; I wondered where they would go next.
“I have brought Jean and Jacques to this meeting,” Emile said, “not only because they are experienced and intelligent” – the brothers beamed – “but also because they are among the more levelheaded and peaceable of our contingent.”
The brothers exchanged glances.
“They realize the distinction between valid political action and the perpetration of an outrage. While such as Claude-”
“Claude is a fool,” Jean said.
“A madman,” Jacques echoed.
“It would be sheer folly,” said Jean, “to assassinate the Queen.”
“Before,” said Jacques, “our demands have been a
“If they are then refused, it is another matter.”
“Then she would of course be killed. She would be tried, found guilty, and executed.”
“There is a difference between execution and assassination.”
“The difference between pla
I looked at Emile, who looked substantially less alarmed than I felt he ought to. If these bright boys were his moderates, I didn’t want to have anything to do with his extremists.
“The longest journey begins with a single step,” he said.
“In the wrong direction?”
He sighed. “One takes things a step at a time, my friend. A step at a time. One must not be too intent on working out every little detail too far in advance. The picture can change, is it not so?” He drew on his pipe. “One has a vision, a picture of a bright tomorrow. But it is not sufficient merely to have a vision. One must take steps to achieve it.”
“I could not agree more. But-”
“But no. One takes steps. One feels one’s way, and when two forks in the road present themselves” – or even one fork, I thought – “one unerringly selects the right path. If the vision is always in sight, if the steps are certain-”
“If anything happens to Mrs. Battenberg, they’ll be able to bury Quebec in a matchbox.”
“Mrs. Battenberg? I do not-”
“Her married name. Before he changed it. The hell with it. I’m getting a headache.”
“You have been thinking too much.” He shook his head in reproach. “It is no time for thought, my comrade. We must plan.”
I honored that statement with a moment of silent devotion, and then we did in fact get down to the serious madness of pla
I got rather wrapped up in it.
Well, why not? It was an idiotic game, but it was also, as the gentleman said, the only game in town. If we were going to abduct the Queen of England, the least I could do was make sure the operation went off as well as it possibly could. If nothing else, I could try to ensure her being kidnaped instead of abducted. And I might be able to have her released safely.
And, when you came right down to it, wasn’t there a certain appeal, a certain unmistakable beauty, in the notion of kidnaping Brita
Emile was absolutely correct. It was no time to think. It was a time to plan.
When Emile and the Berton Boys left, I made a fresh pot of coffee and rummaged through Arlette’s refrigerator and cupboards. Evidently the girl had solved the problem of what to do with leftovers; she chucked them out. I eventually gave up trying to find something already prepared and began improvising a pilaff of rice and onion and raisins. Arlette didn’t have many of the right sort of spices on hand – the dish could have done with a bit of coriander – but in cookery, as in secret agentry, one must work with the materials at hand. I ate well and drank more coffee and listened to the radio. The bright, clear, early morning gave way to deadly hot midday. I sat around perspiring, bathed, dressed, and began perspiring some more.