Mike remembered his Foreign Office ties, and realized that yes, he did have the pull for such a move.
Madame Badour realized he was serious as well. “Then I will not stop you from making the offer as leverage. We will wait here for Couverel. It won’t be long. He isn’t dangerous; we keep him in the mixed cells. Four men to a cell, they are confined twenty hours out of the day. He’s been in isolation a few times, but he’s been well behaved for the past two years, so he’s been given work privileges. He folds pamphlets for a company we do business with. Oh, here is Couverel now.”
Even as bad as the prison was, Mike was still shocked at the man’s appearance. His dark hair was lank and greasy, and heavily streaked with white. His clothes were torn and dirty. He hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week, nor water for bathing, it seemed. French prisoners didn’t wear uniforms as they did in American prisons. They depended on the kindness of family and friends to provide fresh clothes. Couverel was obviously on his own.
She didn’t think Couverel looked well enough to stand the interview, much less many more years.
He sat down hard at the chipped Formica table and stared at them. Mike and Nicholas sat themselves opposite him.
Nicholas turned to Madame Badour. “You’ll excuse us?” It wasn’t a request.
She pursed her lips and walked out. The steel door shut behind her with a loud clang, and they were alone with the prisoner.
Nicholas asked, “Parlez-vous anglais?”
Couverel shrugged. “Non.”
In fluid French, Nicholas continued to speak, and Mike struggled to keep up with his fast, idiomatic speech. Couverel was paying attention, and when Nicholas switched to English mid-sentence, he followed along.
Liar. He did speak English.
“The lady does not have enough French to follow. We will continue in English.”
He shrugged again, a spark of humor in his eyes. “Oui, cochon.”
Nicholas ignored the insult. “You look a bit like your sister.”
Couverel’s eyes narrowed. “I have no sister.”
“Of course you do. We have DNA matching her to you. Where is she?”
Couverel stared at the table, flicked a nail against the edge.
Nicholas leaned into Couverel’s face. “Listen to me very carefully. You have something I want. In return, I will give you what you want—a transfer to Clairvaux Prison. If you’re truthful, I will make it happen. Lie to me”—Nicholas shrugged, placed his large hands on the table—“you will remain here to sleep with the rats.”
75
Couverel settled deeper into the hard metal chair, chewed on a ragged, cracked lip for a moment, then said quietly, “If you can get me to Clairvaux, I will give you what you want.”
Nicholas said, “Consider it done. You have my word. Now, your sister?”
Mike said, “We need a name, Henri. What was she called?”
“We called her Victoire. We were separated at a young age. She went to live with a family in England; I was left behind. I was old enough to be on my own, she was only a child.”
Victoire. Victoria in English. As Gray Wharton had said, the best lies were always based in truth.
“Our parents left us when she was five. I do not know if they died or were killed or simply did not care anymore. I found out later they were murdered. We were put into the Clesde Champs orphanage and stayed off and on for five years. Victoire had a family who liked her; they took her away, and I have not seen her since.”
“What were your parents’ names?”
“Isobel, she was my mother. My father was Henri as well.”
“Couverel?”
“Oui.”
“And the family who took her?”
“No idea. The woman, she had light hair and eyes. I remember thinking it would be clear Victoire was adopted; she looked nothing like the woman.”
“Victoire Couverel. How old is she?”
“Four years younger than me. I am forty-two.”
Mike was surprised. He looked to be in his late fifties if he was a day.
She said, “And you haven’t seen her since you were fourteen and she was ten?”
“That’s correct.”