The Rift by Rachel Lynch (good book recommendations txt) 📕

person running the operation, and thus watching the cam footage, was a woman, and she was indeed unmarried.

‘I want those two brought here,’ Helen said.

‘Agreed,’ Sylvia said.

‘What are your names?’ the capitaine bellowed into the faces of the two men. He handled them roughly and Helen waited, used to witnessing forceful apprehension techniques in her time. Eventually, one of them had his head banged on the floor and decided to reply.

‘Fudail,’ he said.

‘I can’t hear you,’ the capitaine said, bellowing in his ear and holding his neck at an awkward angle. The man looked into his body cam and repeated his name.

Helen seethed and forced herself to look away to the warehouse search. It was a coincidence, she told herself. Unless Khalil… No, that was absurd.

‘Look,’ said Sylvia, bringing her out of her pondering.

Inside the garage, all the boxes had been opened and photographed. They contained oranges and rugs.

Chapter 49

Three catering lorries and four minibuses carrying the staff entered the back gates of the Palace of Versailles. It would be a long security check-in and the catering company had factored this in to their employees’ shifts. A tightening of perimeter surveillance and defence had been ordered by Special Agent Roy White, and seven French gendarmes took responsibility for this particular entrance to the west of the Grand Canal. The convoy had to pull over into specially designed bays provided for the purpose of the summit, and the staff climbed out while checks were done.

The gendarmes had in their possession a whole armoury of gadgetry: thermal imagers, extender mirrors for checking under vehicles, infrared cameras, carbon dioxide sensors, as well as good old-fashioned canines. Four German shepherds, considered the best breed for olfactory prowess, barked and pulled against their leashes and the catering staff huddled away from them.

A gendarme apologised: they weren’t here, after all, to scare anyone, and if they had nothing to hide, then they’d be on their way very soon. Once well away from the jaws of the animals, several of the staff lit cigarettes and chatted amicably about their excitement at catering, serving, and – for some of them – cooking, at the great palace. The entrance was surrounded by trees and hedges, so they couldn’t see the grand building yet, but it had been a large contract for the company to land so the excitement was palpable. Versailles didn’t keep its own standing kitchen staff any more; those days were long gone. They’d been given maps, equipment lists, timings and dietary requirements months in advance, and each knew their job. Cooking for the president of the United States at a NATO summit would look good on any CV, and it was a chance to stand out.

Maybe the president was already there, inside the palace? Maybe he was even staying there? They gossiped and smoked as the checks were carried out inside the vehicles. Boxes were opened, the spaces under chairs were searched, inside the engine and side panels were photographed and imaged, and the gendarmes took notes and nodded. A few of the cooks gazed nervously at the officers, worried that some of their cold storage might be compromised.

Finally, one of the gendarmes walked over to them and handed one of the drivers a piece of paper. They were free to carry on towards the great kitchens, where, they apologised, further personal checks would be made. They’d been instructed to bring their passports, a staffing list, spare photographs and one other form of ID. It was worth the extra hassle, and they piled back into the minibuses. They were given directions and were escorted by a gendarme on a motorbike. The buzz of being so close to something on the world stage pushed exhilaration around their bodies, and they peered out of the windows, trying to get the first glimpse of the palace itself.

There were slight logistical problems – as there often are when catering in large stately homes – but the Palace of Versailles was a whole other ball game. It was colossal. Luckily, the main kitchen was only two storeys underneath the Hall of Mirrors, where the welcome banquet was being held. The staff had to get five courses for sixty people up five different dumb-waiter systems. There was so much that could go wrong. What to serve? It needed to travel, stay warm – or cold – present perfectly upon arrival and be tidied away with the same efficiency. The executive chef had worked for six months on the details.

Suddenly, they were in the open, travelling next to a beautiful gully of water, which was crystal clear and surrounded by flowers of all shapes and colours.

‘That’s the Grand Canal!’ one shouted.

As they neared the centre, white marble statues adorned the treeline, and they spotted the golden sculptures in the middle of the water. Animals, nymphs, cupids and virgins frolicked in the water and stared as the catering trucks rounded the fountain. They’d had no idea that they’d be allowed to drive around it. They’d wholly expected to be sent on circuitous access routes and service roads, but, they supposed, with no one around – the palace being shut until next week to the public – it was the quickest way.

The motorbike stopped in front and the gendarme turned back and smiled, he pointed in the distance and, as each truck rounded the fountain, they knew why. Up on the higher ground to the south east, framed by perfect blue sky, sitting as regally as she had for centuries, was the palace. Box bushes, preened to the ultimate precision, lined the route to the house, which sat white and resplendent. No one talked.

The small cavalcade carried on, not directly to the house, as the gravel walkway wouldn’t allow, but over the crossroads and round past the Grande Trianon. No further such view was available as they made their way around the back of the great house and reached their destination, but they didn’t need it; they’d seen everything they’d wanted and more.

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