The Spy Quartet. Len Deighton

one eyebrow and adopting that patronizing tone. One of my girls.’ He said it slowly to make it easy for her to understand. He was so pompous that Maria almost giggled. ‘One of my girls, working for me as an informant.’

      ‘Don’t all the tarts do that?’

      ‘She wasn’t a tart, she was a highly intelligent girl giving us first-class information.’

      ‘Admit it, darling,’ Maria cooed, ‘you were a tiny bit infatuated with her.’ She raised an eyebrow quizzically.

      ‘You stupid cow,’ said Loiseau. ‘What’s the good of treating you like an intelligent human.’ Maria was shocked by the rusty-edged hatred that cut her. She had made a kind, almost loving remark. Of course the girl had fascinated Loiseau and had in turn been fascinated by him. The fact that it was true was proved by Loiseau’s anger. But did his anger have to be so bitter? Did he have to wound her to know if blood flowed through her veins?

      Maria got to her feet. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. She remembered Loiseau once saying that Mozart was the only person who understood him. She had long since decided that that at least was true.

      ‘You said you wanted to ask me something.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Of course it matters. Sit down and tell me.’

      She shook her head. ‘Another time.’

      ‘Do you have to treat me like a monster, just because I won’t play your womanly games?’

      ‘No,’ she said.

      There was no need for Maria to feel sorry for Loiseau. He didn’t feel sorry for himself and seldom for anyone else. He had pulled the mechanism of their marriage apart and now looked at it as if it were a broken toy, wondering why it didn’t work. Poor Loiseau. My poor, poor, darling Loiseau. I at least can build again, but you don’t know what you did that killed us.

      ‘You’re crying, Maria. Forgive me. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘I’m not crying and you’re not sorry.’ She smiled at him. ‘Perhaps that’s always been our problem.’

      Loiseau shook his head but it wasn’t a convincing denial.

      Maria walked back towards the Faubourg St Honoré. Jean-Paul was at the wheel of her car.

      ‘He made you cry,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘The rotten swine.’

      ‘I made myself cry,’ said Maria.

      Jean-Paul put his arm around her and held her tight. It was all over between her and Jean-Paul, but feeling his arm around her was like a shot of cognac. She stopped feeling sorry for herself and studied her make-up.

      ‘You look magnificent,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I would like to take you away and make love to you.’

      There was a time when that would have affected her, but she had long since decided that Jean-Paul seldom wanted to make love to anyone, although he did it often enough, heaven knows. But it was a good thing to hear when you have just argued with an ex-husband. She smiled at Jean-Paul and he took her hand in his large tanned one and turned it around like a bronze sculpture on a turntable. Then he released it and grabbed at the controls of the car. He wasn’t as good a driver as Maria was, but she preferred to be his passenger rather than drive herself. She lolled back and pretended that Jean-Paul was the capable tanned he-man that he looked. She watched the pedestrians, and intercepted the envious glances. They were a perfect picture of modern Paris: the flashy automobile, Jean-Paul’s relaxed good looks and expensive clothes, her own well-cared-for appearance – for she was as sexy now as she had ever been. She leaned her head close upon Jean-Paul’s shoulder. She could smell his after-shave perfume and the rich animal smell of the leather seats. Jean-Paul changed gear as they roared across the Place de la Concorde. She felt his arm muscles ripple against her cheek.

      ‘Did you ask him?’ asked Jean-Paul.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t. He wasn’t in the right mood.’

      ‘He’s never in the right mood, Maria. And he’s never going to be. Loiseau knows what you want to ask him and he precipitates situations so that you never will ask him.’

      ‘Loiseau isn’t like that,’ said Maria. She had never thought of that. Loiseau was clever and subtle; perhaps it was true.

      ‘Look,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘during the last year that house on the Avenue Foch has held exhibitions, orgies, with perversions, blue movies and everything, but has never had any trouble from the police. Even when a girl dies there, there is still little or no trouble. Why? Because it has the protection of the French Government. Why does it have protection? Because the activities at the house are filmed and photographed for official dossiers.’

      ‘I’m not sure you’re right. Datt implies that, but I’m not sure.’

      ‘Well I am sure,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I’ll bet you that those films and photos are in the possession of the Ministry of the Interior, Loiseau probably sees every one of them. They probably have a private showing once a week. Loiseau probably saw that film of you and me within twenty-four hours of its being taken.’

      ‘Do you think so?’ said Maria. A flash of

       fear rose inside her, radiating panic like a two-kilowatt electric fire. Jean-Paul’s large cool hand gripped her shoulder. She wished he would grip her harder. She wanted him to hurt her so that her sins would be expiated and erased by the pain. She thought of Loiseau seeing the film in the company of other policemen. Please God it hadn’t happened. Please please God. She thought she had agonized over every aspect of her foolishness, but this was a new and most terrible one.

      ‘But why would they keep the films?’ Maria asked, although she knew the answer.

      ‘Datt selects the people who use that house. Datt is a psychiatrist, a genius …’

      ‘… an evil genius.’

      ‘Perhaps an evil genius,’ said Jean-Paul objectively. ‘Perhaps an evil genius, but by gathering a select circle of people – people of great influence, of prestige and diplomatic power – Datt can compile remarkable assessments and predictions about their behaviour in everything they do. Many major shifts of French Government policy have been decided by Datt’s insights and analysis of sexual behaviour.’

      ‘It’s vile,’ said Maria.

      ‘It’s the world in our time.’

      ‘It’s France in our time,’ Maria corrected. ‘Foul man.’

      ‘He’s not foul,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He is not responsible for what those people do. He doesn’t even encourage them. As far as Datt is concerned his guests could behave with impeccable decorum; he would be just as happy to record and analyse their attitudes.’

       ‘Voyeur.’

      ‘He’s not even a voyeur. That’s the odd thing. That’s what makes him of such great importance to the Ministry. And that’s why your ex-husband could do nothing to retrieve that film even if he wished to.’

      ‘And what about you?’ asked Maria casually.

      ‘Be reasonable,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘It’s true I do little jobs for Datt but I am not his confidant. I’ve no idea of what happens to the film …’

      ‘They burn them sometimes,’ Maria remembered. ‘And often they are taken away by the people concerned.’

      ‘You have never heard of duplicate prints?’

      Maria’s hopes sank. ‘Why didn’t you ask for that piece of film of us?’

      ‘Because you said let them keep it. Let them show it every Friday night, you said.’

      ‘I was drunk,’ said Maria. ‘It was a joke.’

      ‘It’s a joke for which