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gaze at the long room.
    “This is where the formal meeting will be held, and the final press conference.”
    Spanish and French flags were propped neatly against the far wall. Carlos walked down the length of the room to unfurl the Spanish banner, as if studying it for blemishes. He let the folds fall and walked back, studying the space as if he sought to commit its contours to memory.
    “Where will the furniture come from?” he asked, opening a door that led into a small closet.
    “Government stores,” said the brigadier. “Usual things, conference table, signing table, chairs—they’re supplying some decent antiques. Maybe a statue or two and a couple of sideboards for the walls. They’re probably in that furniture van in the yard.”
    “Upstairs?” Carlos asked.
    “We’ll have the entire place checked, but upstairs will remain unfurnished apart from a couple of bedrooms in case the ministers want to rest. Nobody’s staying overnight except the security teams. And Isabelle, of course,” the brigadier added in an aside to Carlos, carefully not looking at Bruno. “You remember from Paris, the young inspector on my staff who got shot, walks with a cane.”
    “When is she expected?” Bruno asked, his mouth suddenly dry. He suspected it always would be, at the mention of her name. He wondered what the need for a cane might do to that shining self-confidence of hers. He’d been there when Isabelle left the military hospital for the convalescent center outside Paris, still on a stretcher.
    “Tomorrow, I think, when the communications systems start being installed. Maybe the day after. She persuaded the doctors that she was fit enough to return to light duties, so she’ll be here, running the base. We’re taking over the local hotel.”
    “So I report to her?” Bruno asked.
    “Of course. Usual procedure, a morning staff meeting at nine, evening review at six. If I’m here, I’ll take it; if not, then it will be Isabelle and Carlos. I see you’re still using that secure phone we gave you.”
    “Have you selected a backup location in case anything goes wrong?”
    “What makes you think we’ll need a backup location?” Carlos asked.
    “I’ve worked with the brigadier before.”
    “Come on out to the balcony,” the brigadier said. “The sun’s out and we can take our
casse-croûte
there.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Can you find us some plates and wineglasses?”
    “Already taken care of, sir. Philippe went to the hotel across the road to borrow some.”
    “Enough for the bodyguards to have a bit of the foie, Bruno? They won’t drink on duty.”
    “Enough for everybody,” said Bruno, pulling the rubber seal on the glass jar to break the vacuum and then levering up the wire catches to open the lid. The brigadier picked it up to sniff. “Try that, Carlos,” he said as Bruno took his Laguiole knife from the pouch at his belt, levered up the corkscrew and opened the bottle of sweet golden wine. He cut the baguette into five portions and brought out a small pot of onion marmalade he had made the previous autumn.
    “Bon appétit, and welcome to the gastronomic heartland of France,” he said to Carlos. He took some of the yellow duck fat he had used to preserve the foie and spread it on the baguette before adding a healthy slice of pâté and a small dab of marmalade.
    “This is wonderful,” the Spaniard mumbled through a mouthful of fresh bread and foie gras. He took a sip of wine, and his eyes widened. “Magnificent. They were made for each other.”
    Bruno found himself smiling broadly as the brigadier sniffed at his Monbazillac and said, “Spring sunshine warming the stone of an old château, a wonderful foie gras and a glass of the perfect wine to accompany it. What do you say, Carlos? Counterterrorism isn’t always like this, eh?”

4
    Lunch with J-J was late, but Ivan offered them an omelette with the fresh, tender buds of the first
pissenlit
and brought them a carafe of his new