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Max Hernu had been involved in all that, had hunted the OAS down as ruthlessly as anyone, in spite of having served as a paratrooper in both Indochina and Algeria. He was sixty-one years of age, an elegant, white-haired man who now sat at his desk in the office on the first floor of DGSE’s headquarters on the Boulevard Mortier. It was just before five o’clock and Hernu, wearing horn-rimmed reading glasses, studied the report in front of him. He had been staying the night at his country cottage forty miles out of Paris and had only just arrived. Inspector Savary watched respectfully.
    Hernu removed his glasses. “I loathe this time of the morning. Takes me back to Dien Bien Phu and the waiting for the end. Pour me another coffee, will you?”
    Savary took his cup, went to the electric pot on the stand and poured the coffee, strong and black. “What do you think, sir?”
    “These Jobert brothers, you believe they’re telling us everything?”
    “Absolutely, sir, I’ve known them for years. Big Pierre was OAS, which he thinks gives him class, but they’re second-rate hoods really. They do well in stolen cars.”
    “So this would be out of their league?”
    “Very definitely. They’ve admitted to me that they’ve sold this man Rocard cars in the past.”
    “Of the hot variety?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Of course they are telling the truth. The ten thousand dollars speak for them there. But this man Rocard, you’re an experienced copper, Inspector. How many years on the street?”
    “Fifteen, sir.”
    “Give me your opinion.”
    “His physical description is interesting because according to the Jobert boys, there isn’t one. He’s small, no more than one sixty-five. No discernible color to the eyes, fair hair. Gaston says the first time they met him he thought he was a nothing, and then he apparently half-killed some guy twice his size in the bar in about five seconds flat.”
    “Go on.” Hernu lit a cigarette.
    “Pierre says his French is too perfect.”
    “What does he mean by that?”
    “He doesn’t know. It’s just that he always felt that there was something wrong.”
    “That he wasn’t French?”
    “Exactly. Two facts of interest there. He’s always whistling a funny little tune. Gaston picked it up because he plays accordion. He says Rocard told him once that it was Irish.”
    “Now that is interesting.”
    “A further point. When he was assembling the machine gun in the back of the Renault at Valenton he told the boys it was a Kalashnikov. Not just bullets. Tracer, armor piercing, the lot. He said he’d seen one take out a Land-Rover full of British paratroopers. Pierre didn’t like to ask him where.”
    “So, you smell IRA here, Inspector? And what have you done about it?”
    “Got your people to get the picture books out, Colonel. The Joberts are looking through them right now.”
    “Excellent.” Hernu got up and this time refilled his coffee cup himself. “What do you make of the hotel business. Do you think he’s been alerted?”
    “Perhaps, but not necessarily,” Savary said. “I mean, what have we got here, sir? A real pro out to make the hit of a lifetime. Maybe he was just being extra careful, just to make sure he wasn’t followed to his real destination. I mean, I wouldn’t trust the Joberts an inch, so why should he?”
    He shrugged and Max Hernu said shrewdly, “There’s more. Spit it out.”
    “I got a bad feeling about this guy, Colonel. I think he’s special. I think he may have used the hotel thing because he suspected that Gaston might follow him, but then he’d want to know why. Was it the Joberts just being curious, or was there more to it?”
    “So you think he could have been up the street watching our people arrive?”
    “Very possibly. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t know Gaston was tailing him. Maybe the hotel thing was a usual precaution. An old resistance trick from the war.”
    Hernu nodded. “Right, let’s see if they’ve finished. Have