‘On Thirard’s land?’
Annick jumps in surprise.
‘Thirard, who owns the stables where we shot the ad? Do you know him?’
‘Yes. A little. He’s providing the land for the operation and Perrot the capital.’
‘I’m in,’ says Deluc. ‘I’ll reinvest my recent profits from the stock market.’
So he’d also been involved in the takeover bid.
‘I’m not. The links between Pama and Perrot are too close, my personal involvement in the operation wouldn’t go down well.’
Michel brings in a grapefruit and crab salad, served in the shells, places it on the plates and goes back to the kitchen.
Annick invites the two men to sit at the table.
‘Suppose we move on to the serious business?’
Jubelin gets straight to the point.
‘I and other company bosses are wondering about the effects of the measures taken at the Arche summit to clamp down on the laundering of drugs money.’
Deluc launches into a diatribe against the deathmongers and the danger they represent for civilisation…
‘The new official line,’ retorts Annick acerbically. ‘Useful for reclaiming the moral high ground cheaply, in these times…’
‘Don’t act all virtuous, Annick, you’re in no position to.’
Slight unease. During which Michel changes the plates and brings in a sauté of veal with leeks and raisins, Jubelin wonders why Annick is always so aggressive towards Deluc. Her childhood friend, she says, and so useful in his position…
A heated conversation about drugs money ensues. It touches on everything. True, these vast sums of cash risk causing international disruption and crisis. But the global economy also needs it, and besides, the Americans can make as much fuss as they like, but actually, when it comes down to it, they are the chief beneficiaries of the narcodollars. So, don’t be naïve. And above all, above all don’t interfere with banking secrecy on the pretext of fighting against dirty money, or the tax havens, which all businesses badly need. A section of the business community is worried about these two issues, seriously worried, and wants assurances. Message received, it’ll be passed on to the necessary quarters who will act on it as they see fit.
When they rise to move on to coffee and liqueurs, the conversation switches to international politics.
Deluc embarks on a defence of Gorbachev, which amuses Annick. A few years ago, Deluc refused to shake a Communist’s hand…Age, probably. And Jubelin is clearly sceptical.
‘You know, we have associates in Munich who already have bridgeheads in the Communist countries…’
‘The Munich correspondents of the Mori group who we met at Perrot’s?’
‘That’s right. I guarantee that their contacts never go through official state channels, but through direct relations with very diverse and often rival interest groups. And our associates are banking on the implosion of the USSR and its satellites, not on the success of Gorbachev. I see it as a very tempting opportunity for Pama. The gambler and hunter in me, presumably.’
‘But as for us, we have other concerns: European stability…’
They fix a date for an informal exchange of information between a few handpicked individuals.
Once they’ve left, Annick and Michel have one last drink, sitting side by side on the sofa.
‘I’m getting old, Michel. Sometimes I feel as though I can’t stand them any more, or perhaps I can’t stand myself.’
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I like you indomitable.’
Wednesday 4 October 1989
Perrot is a man of punctilious habits. He lives in the penthouse apartment of the building he owns in Rue Balzac. A hundred square metres, Slavik-style interiors, done by Slavik, plus a fifty square-metre terrace with a view over the Arc de Triomphe, the Bois de Boulogne and La Défense, maintained by a landscape gardener. Every morning, at eight o’clock, his housekeeper brings him eggs, processed cheese, bread and his newspaper, Le Figaro. By this time, he is already up, she hears him showering in the bathroom. She brings him his breakfast in the living room or out on the terrace if the weather is warm enough. He has soft-boiled eggs with soldiers, the juice of two freshly squeezed oranges, and the cheese spread on the baguette. He drinks a lot of coffee. This is the only meal he eats at home, the routine never varies. There are no bookshelves in the apartment, he doesn’t appear ever to read books, nor is there a desk, never any work documents. In the bedroom, a big radio, which he probably listens to before eight o’clock. A huge bathroom, with a round bath tub. And a living room dominated by television: two TV sets, several video players and a whole cupboard full of cassettes, which is kept carefully locked. He never invites anybody home.
Every weekday at nine o’clock, he goes down to the car park where his chauffeur is waiting for him.
After he has left, the housekeeper tidies up, does the washing (Perrot changes his clothes during the day), cleans the apartment and leaves at the end of the morning. For this work, six days a week, she is paid a full salary, which is why she says it’s a good job, even though he generally tends to be rather rude: never so much as a good morning or a goodbye, as though she didn’t exist. It’s hard to take, day in and day out.
(Source: the housekeeper.)
At nine o’clock, Perrot gets into his car, a black BMW, the only car he owns, and is driven to his office in Rue de l’Université, a small private mansion set between a courtyard and garden, surrounded by high walls with a wide carriage entrance.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
His entire operation is in this building. He himself occupies a rather austere, medium-sized office on the top floor overlooking the garden. He never has any contact with the lawyers, architects, surveyors, designers and accountants who make up his staff. But he begins his day with a conversation with Dumas, his right-hand man, with whom he discusses everything, and who passes on his orders and ensures they are executed. The length of this conversation varies from one day to the next. For the rest of the day, Perrot works on his company’s financial dossiers. It is always he, and he alone, who deals with the financial arrangements for his various business ventures. When he hands the dossiers over to the various departments, they are finalised. He receives a lot of telephone calls, vetted by his secretary, or on a personal direct line. Or on his car phone. He never holds meetings in his office, to which only Dumas and his secretary have access. His secretary believes he is the most powerful property developer in Paris. He specialises in renovating old houses and converting them into office buildings, mainly in Paris’s 8th arrondissement. With residential space in this district worth about 20,000 francs per square metre, and office space around 80,000 francs per square metre, it’s not hard to imagine the profits Perrot reaps from the dozen or so conversions he always has on the go. (Given that my personal office space is five square metres, if I sold it at that price, I could contemplate retiring in two years.) Furthermore, property prices in general have doubled in two years, which boosts his profits even further. At six o’clock, Perrot leaves his office.
There are only two exceptions to this strict schedule: from time to time, his chauffeur drives him to visit a building site with Dumas. And once a week, he has lunch in town. That is all. His secretary, a woman in her forties, rather unprepossessing, admits that her boss is authoritarian and rude, but he is also well-organised and not temperamental. She considers herself very well paid, and feels that all things considered, it’s a very good job.
(Source: the secretary.)
Once a week, Perrot has lunch at Le Pactole, a classy restaurant on Boulevard St Germain.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
At Le Pactole, he has a table for two reserved. And there he meets a modest-looking woman, well into her fifties. He is attentive, pulls out her chair, chooses the menus himself (that day, fresh foie gras, a tureen of steamed scallops, cheese, pears cooked in wine). Their conversation is lively, he gives her the latest society gossip, she talks
to him about the shows she’s seen: lengthy account of the opening night of a concert at the Bastille Opera.
(Source: Inspector Romero, sitting at the next table, expenses attached.)
On leaving the restaurant, Perrot drives his companion back to her office. She works at the Paris City Hall planning applications department.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
This department deals with applications for change of use, for converting residential property to offices. In central Paris, developing office space at the expense of housing is prohibited. If you want to convert housing in one part of Paris, you have to obtain authorisation and compensate for it by converting office or industrial sites into housing elsewhere in the capital. And obtain permission from the Mayor of Paris for the entire operation. Mademoiselle Sainteny (Perrot’s guest) is a lowly employee in this department: she registers applications, checks that they are in order, and passes them on to the appropriate department which makes the decisions. It normally takes six or seven months to obtain a reply. Which represents a major lost opportunity at a time when the price per square metre is doubling every two years. Thanks to Mademoiselle Sainteny, Perrot’s applications are always on the top of the pile, and he receives a reply within two weeks. She is a sort of “application pusher”, which has little risk attached, for there is no actual fraud involved, and which brings pleasant rewards: she, a low-down official on a paltry salary, a rather lonely spinster, has lunch once a week in an excellent restaurant, receives regular invitations to the opening nights of prestigious Paris shows, and, from time to time, little gifts – perfume, or leather gloves – which she shows off to her colleagues. Once, a rather smart suit. But never any money. Mademoiselle Sainteny therefore has a clear conscience and is perfectly happy.
(Source: Mademoiselle Sainteny’s colleague.)
Every evening at six o’clock, the chauffeur drives Perrot from his office back home to Rue Balzac. There, the chauffeur parks the BMW in the car park, and awaits instructions. Perrot then goes up to the apartment on the first floor, where he has installed Madame Paulette who runs a call-girl network. There, for an hour or an hour and half, he has sex with one of the girls, the way other people go for a quick workout at the gym. And he always uses a condom. He asks them with whom and in what positions they had sex the night before, and gives them advice for the night to come. The girls, who often come down to chat with the chauffeur in the car park, don’t complain about his ways because they are very well paid: a combination of a fixed wage and a fee for each trick. They often end the night in exclusive night clubs with Perrot’s friends.
At eight o’clock, Perrot informs his chauffeur whether he’s giving him the evening off or whether he wants to be driven into town for dinner. Dinners that are always in the expensive areas of Paris, and sometimes even at the Élysée. The chauffeur’s job is therefore very demanding, but it will very likely enable him to open a bar-cum-tobacconists in his home town of Lyon within the next five years.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
After eight o’clock, if he’s not dining in town, Perrot goes down to his restaurant, Le Chambellan, where a private dining room is reserved for him and his friends, sometimes one or two, often around twenty. He’s a well-liked host, entertaining, elegant, excellent food and fine wines and spirits. He only invites men, and talks a lot of business. The guests shower the staff with tips. Aubert is a regular at these dinners, to which Jubelin is sometimes invited, along with many others whose names do not seem to have appeared in our files before.
(Source: the barman at Le Chambellan.)
Daquin closes the report on Perrot, signed by Romero who is sitting in the armchair facing him, waiting.
‘Is this what’s called a detective story?’
‘I can copy out my notebooks if you prefer.’
‘Don’t get mad.’ Smile. ‘This report is perfectly satisfactory.’ Glance at Romero’s expenses form. ‘I don’t know Le Pactole. I’ll check it out some time. Quite a character, this Perrot.’
Daquin falls silent and starts tinkering around on his computer. Romero gets up, goes and makes two coffees and sits down again. Daquin drinks his coffee, then:
‘There are several points to be followed up.’ Romero produces his notebook and takes notes. ‘If I’ve understood correctly, Perrot’s allowed to build new offices because he has previously converted industrial sites or offices into residential property. Is that right?’
‘Right.’
‘Where do these industrial sites come from? That’s what you have to find out. And for that, it seems to me that it’s essential to talk to either Mademoiselle Sainteny or her colleague. As for the office in Rue de l’Université, what goes on there is probably no more illegal than what goes on among all property developers. It’s not within the remit of the Drugs Squad, and we won’t nail him for that. What does interest us is of course Le Chambellan and its associated brothel, and the chauffeur is definitely a key person. Businessmen are always very talkative in their cars, they probably feel safe there. One of you must get as much gen on this chauffeur as possible. And I’d also like to know what he’s up to with the girls who come down and see him in the car park.’
‘Why? A man and one or several girls, doesn’t that seem quite normal to you?’
‘No.’ Smile. ‘Hopeless, you’re a naïve guy, Romero. I want you to get inside that car park and see what goes one between six thirty and eight o’clock. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Of course not.’
Thursday 5 October 1989
Lavorel sends the new boys to stake out Transitex, with instructions to establish an exact timetable of the company’s operations, to be corroborated by tapped phone conversations, while he pays a visit to his former colleagues in the Fraud Squad to find out a bit more about Transitex.
A quick and easy task. A small family firm which belonged to a certain Jacques Montier until last year. It imported low-quality meats from South America, which were processed into dog food in an old factory. A year ago, the company was sold. Taken over by a property developer, a certain Perrot. Too good to be true.
‘Stop. Why would a property developer want to get involved with a meat business?’
‘Perrot split Transitex into two companies. He kept one of them, Transimmobilière, a real estate company, which took over the factory and the land it stood on, 10,000 square metres in the middle of Paris’s 20th arrondissement. Then he demolished the factory and is building a housing development on the site. Let’s do a quick calculation… the price Perrot paid for the whole of Transitex is lower than the sale price of 10,000 square metres of building land in the 20th. There are two possibilities: one, there was some restriction on developing the land which was removed after the sale, or the former owner is an idiot. In any case, Perrot’s come off very well. We should talk to the lawyer.’
‘Get me the details of this supposedly idiotic former owner. What about the other company?’
‘It’s kept the Transitex name and is continuing to import meat from South America. It’s been bought by a certain Pierre Aubert.’
Lavorel listens to the new boys’ report. Transitex’s activities are perfectly legitimate and give little cause for concern. Around midnight, a meat lorry arrives from Rungis market. The driver parks the lorry in the hangar and leaves. The secretary arrives at nine o’clock in the morning. The tapped conversations reveal that she telephones customers – butchers’ shops in the Paris area, no supermarkets or institutions apparently – to confirm or change their orders. Around midday, a driver collects the lorry, does the deliveries, then drives directly up to Le Havre where he reloads the next day. There is a rota of three lorries and four drivers. One lorry arrives at the company’s premises each night. The secretary works every morning, six days a week. The company is closed in the afternoons. The vet only seems to pay rare visits. In short, a nice little business that seems perfectly uneventful.
‘Import-export: I’m going to find out how customs clearance wo
rks at Rungis. And you, get in touch with a guy called Jacques Montier and ask him why and how he flogged Transitex to Perrot.’
At eight o’clock in the evening it’s chaos in the customs house at Rungis. A constant stream of around fifty HGVs and a perpetual coming and going – drivers, vets in white coats and uniformed customs officers. The air is heavy with the cloying smell of meat. Lavorel eventually finds the man called Mariani with whom he has an appointment. Mariani starts off by looking through his files.
‘Transitex, yes, I know them. Their lorry usually arrives around 11 p.m. Wait there. I’ll come and fetch you as soon as it gets here.’
Lavorel, sitting in a corner, settles down to do a crossword.
An hour later, Mariani’s back. He takes him to a lorry manoeuvring into the customs bay. Transitex. The driver switches off the engine and gets down from the cab. Holding a sheaf of papers, the customs official checks the door seals and watches the opening of the rear ramp. A vet in a white coat stands a little way back from the lorry. The doors open. The lorry is full of beef half-carcases hanging from hooks on a rail. On the floor of the lorry, under the carcases, are some large oblong cases.
The customs official and Lavorel enter the lorry.
‘You see, all the documents seem to be in order: shipper Irexport, Dublin. Approved slaughterhouse in Killary, Ireland. I’ll check a few carcases. Here, no problem, here’s the Killary stamp.’ He opens one of the cases, full of offal. ‘You see, you can barely make out the stamps, but it’s always the same with offal, the ink runs.’
‘Is this what always happens? Nobody else comes near the lorry?’
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