The Fifth Horseman by Larry Collins, Dominique Lapierre Page A

“You let these people go walking about Paris carrying secret papers as though they were taking shirt, to the laundry.”
    “Olivier,” Foucault protested, “these men are scientists. They lust don’t think about security the way you do.”
    “Maybe they don’t,” the Minister said. “But you’re supposed to. You’re personally responsible for the security of your agency. Which has been appallingly bad in this case.” He turned back to Lemuel. “What have you learned?”
    “Very little,” the policeman answered. “We’ll need an autopsy to be sure of the cause of death. I would guess from the expression on his face that he was either smothered or had his windpipe broken by a very forceful, expert karate blow.”
* * *
    Shortly after 4:30 A.M. the following day a telephone’s harsh summons jarred the stillness of the Minister of the Interior’s private apartment above the Place Beauvau. He groaned. From under the covers, his hand flayed uncertainly at the darkness, searching out the sound.
    His caller was the Atomic Energy Chairman. “They called,” Foucault gasped.
    “The people who killed Prevost. They want a million francs for the attache case. They just got through to our director of research at Fontenay, Pierre Lebrun. They told him if we want it back he has to be at the Cintra Bar on the Vieux-Port in Marseilles at exactly twelve noon today with one million francs in hundredfrane notes in a plastic shopping bag of the Bazaar d’Hotel de Ville. He’s supposed to wear a darkblue suit, black shoes, a white shirt and tie and a felt hat.”
    Despite the seriousness of his caller’s words, the Minister could not help laughing. “Dressed like that, your poor Monsieur Lebrun is going to stand out like a nun in a whorehouse down there.”
    He rose from his bed, looking about for his clothes. “Have Monsieur Lebrun at my office at eight o’clock,” he ordered. “I’m going to convene a meeting of my top people immediately.”
* * *
    The four senior police officials of the French Republic sat respectfully in front of the Interior Minister’s desk, a gift from Napoleon to one of his distant predecessors. rhey were Paul-Robert de Villeprieux, the director of the DST, France’s counter-espionage service; his bald, slightly stoop-shouldered colleague General Henri Bertrand, head of what was familiarly known in the Ministry as La Piscine (” the Pool”), the SDECE, France’s intelligence service; Maurice Fraguier, the forty-five-yearold director general of the National Police; and General Marcel Piqueton, commander of the forty-thousand-man Gendarmerie Nationale. The Minister quickly summarized the details of the extortionist’s call.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, sipping at the black coffee he had ordered for them all, “what are your views?”
    Fraguier, chief of the Police Nationale, began. “Quite frankly, Monsieur le Ministre, I had suspected we were dealing with an affair of state here, a theft of industrial secrets by a foreign intelligence service, the CIA probably, or the KGB. This message makes it quite clear it’s a banal case of extortion organized by the Corsican milieu. This is characteristic of the way the Corsicans behave in payoff delivery situations.” Fraguier lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. “It doesn’t require a great deal of imagination to predict how it’s going to work. Right near the Cintra Bar down there in Marseilles they’ve got the biggest Corsican neighborhood in France, the ‘Bread Basket.’ They’ll use it for the payoff, because they feel safe in there.
    “They’ll let Monsieur Lebrun sit and marinate for a while in the Cintra while they study the neighborhood to make sure we’re not around. Then he’ll get a telephone call. He’ll be told to leave immediately for another address up in the Bread Basket by a very precise route. They’ve picked l’heure du pastis, so they’ll probably send him to another bar and they’ll give him a pseudonym,