“Come on, Goémond, let’s have it.”
“We’ve found the Ford Consul used in the abduction. In a Champs-Élysées underground parking garage, as I told you over the phone. No usable fingerprints. Fiber fragments, dust, all that has gone to the lab. We’ve still not discovered anything that would allow for quick action.”
“Unfortunate, very unfortunate,” said the chief of staff in an angry tone. “I suppose you know that we have only until noon Monday, according to their sort-of manifesto?”
Goémond produced a Dutch cigarillo and lit it morosely.
“Well, carry on,” said the chief of staff. “Hurry it up.”
“The car,” said the commissioner, “belongs to a computer specialist. No hope there: it was stolen. In the parking garage nobody saw anything, noticed anything. What a world!”
Goémond gave a deep sigh. The chief of staff drummed his fingers on his desk.
“Let me come now,” he said, “to the matter of the woman, Gabrielle. She is still in custody, and griping. Still, maybe she’ll help with Identi-kit pictures of the two guys who . . .”
“The facts!” cut in the chief of staff, exasperated. “Get to the facts, Goémond, the facts!”
“Excuse me?”
“I couldn’t care less about your normal procedures. For the love of God, tell me what’s happening with the two maverick RG guys!”
“Maverick is right,” replied Goémond. “For a start they are not even RGs. They claimed they were ‘correspondents.’ I very quickly let them know that this was no time for joking. Locked them up for two hours. They weren’t expecting that. They really believed they could get us to let Grabeliau and his group off the hook for their separatist tendencies and abandon our prosecution of the Druidic Brotherhood. Mind you, these are just details. I let them know that French justice cannot be so easily manipulated.”
“Stop your tomfoolery, Goémond,” said the chief of staff in a threatening tone. “What do I care about how you do your job? Do you have the confounded film? That’s all I want to know.”
“I have the identity of the man who did the filming, one Jean-Pierre or Jean-Paul Bouboune. We are looking for him. We’ll catch him, never fear.”
“When?”
Goémond spread his arms wide.
“Obviously,” he said, “we’d catch him more quickly if only we made concessions to the Grabeliau group but, as I say, I told those gentlemen that that was impossible.”
The chief of staff gazed at his policeman with loathing.
“That’s all you have to tell me?”
“That’s all.”
“Very well. Get back to work, Goémond. We have both lost too much time already.”
Goémond rose. He still wore the same lugubrious expression.
“You’ll phone me?”
“What about?”
“If there is any news.”
“You will be informed. Good day, Goémond.”
18
A FEW YEARS earlier, in the run-up to the presidential elections, the SAC had undergone a series of purges, including that of Joseph Grabeliau, the agency’s national secretary. By no means prepared to die poor and powerless, Grabeliau took his archives with him and undertook to set up his own networks within various security and police organizations, networks that he financed in several ways. At the same time, he became the grand master of the World Druidic Brotherhood of Vexin. He was arrested some months later along with several of his top advisers and charged with extortion. When the U.S. Ambassador was abducted, Joseph Grabeliau was incarcerated in Fresnes Prison. At noon the next day he was released provisionally on medical grounds. That same evening he would go to bed in Madrid. A few hours after Grabeliau’s plane took off, two police officers picked up the felon Bouboune in a full-board lodging house in Enghien. In his room they found the Sankyo movie camera and a dozen or so reels of 8-mm film. They delivered everything, man and camera and film, to Commissioner Goémond.
19
TREUFFAIS had bought several morning newspapers, and at around four thirty in the afternoon he went down again and bought Le Monde and France-Soir, along with a can of mediocre choucroute. He went back upstairs to his apartment. After closing the door he saw his reflection in the hallway mirror and sighed. A four-day beard, red eyes, pimples, wild hair, shirt filthy and rumpled under a jacket showing four or five new cigarette burns. He put the choucroute away in a kitchen cabinet, fetched the old Radialva from the bedroom and installed himself in the bathroom with the radio and the newspapers. He ran the water for a bath and flipped thorough the papers. Hardly any fresh news. Treuffais had already learned from the radio that statements had reached newspapers and press agencies, mailed overnight from Paris and signed by the Nada group, taking credit for the kidnapping of the ambassador and demanding the nationwide publication of a manifesto and the payment of a two-hundred-thousand-dollar ransom by the State. The authorities had been given forty-eight hours to respond; the deadline was Monday at noon. In the event of a refusal, the ambassador would be executed. If the State agreed to the terms, the manifesto must be published immediately in the press and broadcast over radio and television. And new instructions would then be sent by the Nada group concerning the payment of the ransom.
Le Monde had already summarized and analyzed the manifesto. “The style is disgusting,” the paper said, “and the childishness of certain statements of an archaic and unalloyed anarchism might raise a smile in other circumstances. In the present situation, however, they inspire disquiet, a deep anxiety in face of the nihilism embraced, seemingly with delight, by this Nada group, which chose such an apt name for itself but which, in its text as in its actions, expresses itself in an utterly unjustifiable way.”
The bathtub was full. Treuffais turned off the faucets, undressed and got into the water. There he went on with his reading, letting the dirt wash off his body slowly. According to the editorialist of France-Soir, the terrorists of the Nada group were aping the Tupamaros in demanding the publication of their manifesto. But it needed to be stressed that following the example of the Tupamaros made no sense, especially in France, which was a democratic and certainly not an underdeveloped country. If sometimes violent protest had, alas, become part of French life, political terrorism met neither the needs nor the desires of the population. The Nada group was surely beginning to realize this already, and the editorialist hoped that reason would carry the day.
Meanwhile Le Monde also gave lengthy coverage to the police operations and asked who profited from the infernal cycle of violence and repression. Under the title “A Dark Page,” a jurist with a reputation for seriousness drew an imbecilic parallel between the blackness of the misdeed and the blackness of the anarchist flag. A whole page was devoted to communiqués and declarations from various organizations and personalities, with a special sidebar for the points of view of fifteen leftist groups. Treuffais almost fell asleep in his bath and the newspapers fell into the water. He cursed and set them to dry on the edge of the tub. He washed his hair furiously, scratching his scalp with his fingernails. Mentally, he replayed the bitter exchange he had had with Buenaventura on the previous Monday in the Catalan’s filthy room, with playing cards strewn on the floor, cigarette butts in a bowl, and Buenaventura standing in shadow with his back to the window lit up by the street signs outside.
“You’re not really saying that we should abandon the operation?”
“Yes, I am,” said Treuffais.
“So drop out if you want.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to split from you. I’m just asking you to suspend the operation until we’ve had time to discuss it.”
“No dialogue is possible between us now. I’m sorry, Treuffais, but you’ve gone over to the other side.”
“Damn it, Buen, it’s because I’m a libertarian communist that I’m asking you to postpone the operation until we have had time to think things over.”
“Libertarian communist my ass. You all catch the bug�
��you’re not the first case I’ve seen; you all catch it, the political bug, the compromise bug, the Marxist bug. Get the fuck out, Treuffais. I already know exactly what you want to say to me, and the official press will be saying the same thing in five days. Stop so we can talk? You must be kidding. We know what a lot of good that does. Let me remind you that my father died in Barcelona in ’37.”
“Yes, and I’ve had it up to here with hearing you say it. It’s not because your father got himself killed during an insurrection that his surviving son is smarter than the next guy. In fact you’re probably stupider. You’re falling under the spell of terrorism, and that’s really stupid. Terrorism is only justified when revolutionaries have no other means of expressing themselves and when the masses support them.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Yes,” said Treuffais, suddenly exhausted and sick with despair.
“I’ll convey your remarks to my comrades. And now, get the fuck out.”
“Buen, we’ve known each other for four years and—”
“Get the fuck out before I knock your teeth out.”
“I’m going. I don’t want it to come to that, it would be too vile. This is truly vile.”
Treuffais rinsed himself off, got out of the bathtub, and went to shave at the sink. What stank was not the fact of disagreeing with someone with twisted ideas; it was the fact of having loved him and thought for four years that they were fighting shoulder to shoulder.
20
“HAVE a seat, Madame Gabrielle. This won’t take much longer, then you’ll be able to return home. But I must ask you to take a look at these photos.”
The brothel keeper nodded with a sigh. She was getting used to this. Goémond walked around so as to be next to her and leant a hip against her side of his desk. He was holding two folders, one of which contained enlargements of stills from the film shot by the felon Bouboune. The commissioner showed the brothel keeper the pictures one at a time.
“Oh! Why, yes!” exclaimed Madame Gabrielle. “Yes, yes. Where did they come from, these photos?”
“The police are well organized,” answered Goémond unwisely.
“If they were, none of this would have happened!” retorted the madam. “I pay a stiff enough price. And I have been given enough assurances to have every right to expect . . .”
“Do you recognize these men?” Goémond cut in.
Madame Gabrielle’s lips continued to move silently for a moment, then she gave another sigh and got to work.
“It’s not very clear,” she said, “but yes, this older guy. And then this one with all that hair. They’re the ones who came in and attacked us. I didn’t see the others—they put those drapes over my head. I thought I was going to suffocate. I have at least two thousand francs’ worth of damage,” she went on irately, “but that’s nothing! Think of my business losses, commissioner. Do you realize that my operation is screwed? Screwed!”
“We’ll see about that. Let’s get back to the photos.”
“I told you, I didn’t see the others. Just those two bastards!”
The commissioner pointed out a third, rather heavyset individual.
“And this one? Your, ahem, escort, who was with the ambassador, also recognized the older guy, but she said it was this one who came into the bedroom with him. She didn’t see the long-haired one.”
“Quite possible. I didn’t see what went on after they put those drapes over my head. There were more of them. But I didn’t see them.”
“Okay,” said Goémond, closing the folder. “Now look at these.”
He handed the madam a thicker sheaf of photographs. He held out very little hope. Goémond had assembled every picture he could find of leftist demonstrators with slingshots. The images varied greatly in quality, shots taken during various demonstrations and riots since 1968. Unfortunately, it now seemed almost certain that Madame Gabrielle never saw the slingshot user who murdered the motorcycle cop. Goémond was relying far more on the guys at Anthropometry, at present comparing images taken from the film, photos of leftists on file, and a set of pictures of unidentified individuals wearing bandanas as masks—more slingshot artists. The commissioner was therefore taken aback when the madam let out a vengeful cry.
“There he is!” she exclaimed, pointing. “There he is, the long-haired creep. He is much clearer here. I can see his evil eyes! He has a look, you can’t imagine. The way he looked at me!”
“Well, this is a beauty!” muttered Goémond, following the direction of Madame Gabrielle’s finger, which was placed on an angry face.
It was purely by chance that the face in question figured there at all. The picture had in fact been clipped to highlight a sling shooter with a motorcycle helmet, ski goggles, and a handkerchief over his mouth. He was caught in full motion, using his teeth as he tried to prevent the handkerchief, which masked him and protected him in some measure from tear gas, from slipping down. But he was not the one that the madam had recognized: instead, it was the long-haired guy, whose ferocious visage could be seen just over the shoulder of the masked sling shooter.
“Looks like you’re right,” said Goémond as he compared the picture of the demonstrator with the fuzzy still from the film that showed the longhair opening the Ford Consul’s right-hand door. “Are you sure though?” he asked mechanically.
“Well, listen, I couldn’t swear to it, but . . .”
“Don’t worry, you’ll never be asked to.”
“Anyway, I think it’s him.”
“I’m going to get further details. Have a glance at the other photos anyway. You never know, you might score a twofer. It happens.”
Offended by his vulgarity, Madame Gabrielle shot a glacial glance at the commissioner. He paid no attention, went and half opened the door to his office and spoke in low tones to someone outside in the hallway. Then he closed the door again and came back to the madam. She had almost finished going through the photos, but her heart was no longer in it.
“So, may I go now?” she asked.
“Just a few more minutes. The guys at Anthropometry are trying to identify the individual.”
“But that will take hours!”
“No, no, no,” said Goémond gently. “They have a computer. Just a matter of minutes.”
And indeed, twenty-five minutes later, a new set of photographs was brought to Madame Gabrielle, much clearer this time, just twelve of them, and she had no trouble identifying her hirsute assailant.
“Buenaventura Diaz,” Goémond kept saying as he leant against the doorjamb and smiled at a police officer. “Why do we put up with scum like this within our national borders? Oh well. I know this Longuevache Hotel—it’s a gambling den full of Americans. Let’s go.”
“Do I get to go home now, yes or no?” protested Madame Gabrielle from the middle of the room.
“Yes you do, but remain available. Duty officer, take Madame home.”
21
“I'M PERFECTLY awake now,” declared Richard Poindexter. “I want to speak to your leader.”
“There is no leader,” said Épaulard.
“All right, but you know what I mean.”
“We don’t have a leader. You can talk to me if you want to talk to someone.”
The ambassador passed a coated tongue over his plump little lips.
“Would you have a cigarette?”
Épaulard tossed him the pack of Gauloises and the book of matches lying on the chair next to him.
“Don’t try to start a fire or throw anything in my face.”
“What? Oh, no, I’m not a fool.”
Poindexter lit a Gauloise.
“May I know what time it is?”
“A quarter to six in the evening. It’s Saturday.”
“I see. I was drugged.”
“A soporific,” said Épaulard. “Nothing dangerous, but it might upset your stomach.”
“Right now, on the contrary, how to put it, I could eat a horse.”
“We’ll h
ave something brought up for you. Give me back the matches instead of trying stupidly to hide them in your bed. You say you’re not a fool, but it’s hard to believe it when I see that. You should realize that your life is hanging by a thread.”
The ambassador took the matchbook from under his bedclothes and tossed it to Épaulard with a wry pout.
“Good,” said Épaulard. “I’ll let them know to bring you up something to eat.”
He stood up and stamped on the floor with his heel. He kept his automatic in his hand in case the diplomat got any more smart ideas. Then he sat back down.
“For a prisoner everything serves, everything has a purpose,” Poindexter said dreamily. “As a rule he doesn’t yet know himself what that purpose is. I was a prisoner in Germany. You too, perhaps?”
“Don’t try to make me talk about myself.”
The ambassador chuckled. The door opened. D’Arcy came in.
“What’s up?”
“He’s wide-awake. He’s hungry.”
“You want a sandwich?” the alcoholic asked the ambassador. “Because you could also have something hot, but then you’d have to wait till dinnertime, quite a while.”
“As you wish, my friend,” said Poindexter. “I see I’m in good hands. I feel like a clam at high tide.”
“It’s obvious you’re a diplomat, smartass,” remarked D’Arcy. “I’ll bring you a sandwich.” To Épaulard, he added: “And relieve you.”
“Just what exactly are you?” Poindexter asked when the alcoholic had left. “Maoists?”
“You’ll find out later, er, smartass,” said Épaulard with annoyance.
What exactly was he? He couldn’t fucking say, and it bugged him.
“May I get dressed?” asked Poindexter.
“No.”
“Are you expecting to hold me for long?”
“You’ll see.”
“Or to kill me?”
“If I told you that, where would be the surprise?” said Épaulard.
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