We went first to the delivery area, where Georges presented his papers and unloaded his supplies. Then we drove to the main gate, parked, and approached the sentry box.
“Yes, what do you want?” said the guard.
“We’d like to visit, if we may,” Georges replied.
The guard laughed heartily. “Impossible.”
Georges and I looked helplessly at one another, and he began again. “But I’ve been delivering here since you’ve opened. We’d just like to look around inside.”
The guard stopped laughing and blew on his whistle. Within seconds, four other guards had run up, weapons at the ready. I decided to speak.
“I’d like to see Monsieur Ponty.”
At the mention of the director’s name, the guards looked at one another indecisively. Finally one of them went into the building. After about ten minutes, which seemed much longer because of the heat and the circumstances, the guard returned with a short, round, cheerful-looking man.
“You asked for me? I am Monsieur Ponty.”
“Yes. I am a friend of Tania Chessal. She’s spoken so much to me about your operation here. I’d hoped to be privileged with a look for myself. Jules Giraud is my name.”
There was a hint of recognition in his eyes, and he nodded to the guards, who started back to their posts.
“And this man?” he asked, indicating Georges.
“Georges Lavoie, monsieur. He has been delivering your medical supplies for some time, and is a personal friend.”
He stared for another moment. “Come with me.”
We crossed the wide yard of gravel, and I couldn’t help noticing the scrutiny with which we were observed from every direction. There were sentries posted at the gates, along the fence, at selected bunkers in the yard, and on the roof. Ponty seemed to notice my interest, and smiled.
He led us through the large glass doors and down a long corridor to his office, the second room on the right. I was surprised to find it so well furnished. There was a bright rug covering the floor, and several prints on the walls, including Van Gogh’s The Field at Arles which I thought a very strange choice for the director of an arsenal. To the right, behind his desk, were filing cabinets of a light, drab wood; and, to the left, an elegant bar. His desk itself was a flat and large slab of oak which rested on unfinished timbers, although the joints were perfectly matched. It was an efficient office, though not without personality.
We were seated.
“So, you are Jules Giraud. Tania speaks of you often.”
