and he had a weariness about him, as if he was ill or had been through an intense physical struggle.
‘Can I help you?’ the man said in a thick, distinctly French accent.
‘François Laporte?’
‘My name is Victor,’ he said.
Harris was not put off. He knew this was his man. ‘I’m Walter Harris. And this is Tom Jacobs,’ he said with a contrived politeness intended to put possible suspects at their ease before he delivered his next sentence - which usually had the opposite effect. ‘We’re with the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.’
Victor eyed the two men’s sweat-stained and muddy clothes. ‘Are you lost?’ he asked.
Harris maintained his polite smile, noting that the man had a sense of humour. ‘I don’t believe so, no.’
‘You’re a long way from home,’ Victor said wearily, showing no outward sign of surprise.
‘Not really,’ Harris said. ‘This is part of my patch.’
‘A patch,’ Victor echoed. ‘Yes . . . that’s about all this place has ever been to America.’
‘Aren’t you a visitor yourself ?’
Victor looked a little annoyed. ‘I live here.’
‘Aren’t you French? You were born in the Dordogne - as François Laporte.’ ‘I was born in a small village called Masseube - near the Pyrenees, actually. And my name is Victor. At least your trip was not entirely wasted. You now have my name and place of birth correct.’ Victor stepped back into the hut and closed the door.
Harris continued to smile, appreciating what he took to be the man’s bravado. ‘Mr Laporte . . . Victor,’ he called out. ‘I’ve come a long way just to ask you a few questions.’
The door remained closed.
Harris waited patiently, his smile fading.
Jacobs looked at his boss. ‘What do we do now?’
Harris ignored the question and stepped forward onto the porch. As the FBI man reached for the door the old Indian came to life. He jerked his head up and looked at Harris who froze as the Indian pointed the knife at him.
Jacobs was unnerved. He wasn’t used to this. He glanced over at the soldier, hoping that the man might help. But the little fellow was sitting back, his eyes closed, slowly munching his food and oblivious to everything else going on.
Harris stood his ground. If Victor’s watchdog got to his feet he would back off. ‘Did you know that Colonel Steel was dead?’ he called out. ‘He was murdered. In Washington DC.’
The porch awning flapped gently in the breeze. Harris began to wonder if this was a waste of time. He couldn’t force Victor to talk. He had been aware that Victor might not have been at home but he hadn’t thought that he’d find him and then be ignored by the man.
Harris looked back at Jacobs in the vain hope he might have a suggestion, but the young agent’s expression was vacant. Harris stepped back off the porch. He had no intention of giving up yet, not after the damned slog to get here. But this was beginning to look a little tricky.
‘What do we do now?’ Jacobs asked.
‘Is that all you can say? Why don’t you try coming up with a suggestion now and then instead of acting like some stupid schoolkid?’
Jacobs wasn’t offended by the insult. ‘We could offer to pay him.’
‘What?’
‘Pay him.’
‘You’re suggesting the FBI starts paying for interviews? ’
‘No. Just this time. We’ve come a long way. It would be a shame to go back empty-handed, that’s all.’
‘A shame? Are you still high?’
There was a sudden crack of thunder so loud that it unsettled both of them. Seconds later the heavens opened up and it started to rain heavily.
‘This is just great,’ Harris grumbled as the downpour instantly soaked him.
Just then the hut door opened and Victor stepped onto the porch. He looked confused. ‘Did you say Steel was dead?’ he asked.
Harris glanced down at his feet as the ground around them flooded quickly. ‘That’s right.’
‘You think it was me,’ Victor said, a grin livening up his face.
‘You haven’t been out of this country since you arrived here ten years ago,’ Harris said above the noise of the rain.
‘I willed it to happen. Every night before I went to bed I prayed,’ Victor said, looking up at the sky. ‘And every morning I woke up I prayed. God finally heard me. The Antichrist is dead. My wretched life is finally complete. I can die in peace.’ Victor’s eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t be joking, would you? That would be in very poor taste.’