All that remained was to play this bit down. I felt good, as though I had started believing my own lie.
“It’s nothing more than a charade, my love! In fact, it’s utterly pointless now because the game’s already been decided . . . We’re talking about a couple of guys with plastic guns who’ll scare everyone for a bit and then it’s finished. The role play will last about fifteen minutes, just a way of seeing whether or not the folks completely lose their cool, and then the client will be happy. Everyone will be happy.”
Nicole carried on thinking for a second, then said:
“So, there’s nothing more you have to do? You’ve paid and you’ve got the job?”
I answered:
“Correct. I’ve paid. All we have to do is wait.”
If Nicole had asked one more question, just one, it would have been my turn to break down in tears. But she had nothing left to ask—she was satisfied. I was tempted to point out that she didn’t have such a big problem with the hostage taking now that she knew I would get a job out of it, but I’d already tried my luck and, in all honesty, I was exhausted with myself, with all my lies and trickery.
“I know that you’re a very brave man, Alain,” she said. “I know how desperate you are to get out of this. I know full well that you do menial jobs that you never talk about because you’re afraid I’m ashamed of you.”
I’m astonished she knows all that, too.
“I’ve always admired your energy and willpower so much, but you have to leave our daughters out of this. It’s up to us to overcome this, not them.”
In principle I agree, but if they hold the only solution, then what? We pretend not to see? Does solidarity only work one way? Of course, I don’t say any of this aloud.
“This money thing, about buying your job, you have to explain all this to Mathilde,” Nicole continued. “Reassure her. I’m telling you, you have to call her.”
“Listen, Nicole, all of us are caught up in anger, emotion, and panic. In a few days, I’ll have a job, I’ll give back her money, she’ll buy her apartment, and everything will be back to normal.”
Deep down, each of us was as exhausted as the other.
Nicole gave in to my scummy reasoning.
14
I’ve more or less finished my research into Exxyal Europe’s activities.
I know the European group’s organization chart by heart (as well as the major shareholders in the American group), and I’m proficient in the key growth figures from the last five years, the backgrounds of all the top dogs, the detailed breakdown of their capital, the main dates relating to the group’s market history, and their future plans, especially the initiative to trim back production sites and close down several refineries across Europe, including the one at Sarqueville. The hardest was getting acquainted with the sectors in which Exxyal operates. I spent two whole nights familiarizing myself with the principal aspects of the industry: deposits, exploration, production, drilling, transport, refining, and logistics. At first it all frightened me because I’m not that hot on the technical side, but I’m so pumped up that I’m ready for the challenge. It’s weird, but every now and again, I feel like I’m already there, already in the company. I even think that some of the execs might be less well informed about the group than I am.
I’ve made myself flashcards. Almost eighty of them. Yellow for the group’s finances and stock market history; blue for technical aspects; white for partnerships. I wait for Nicole to leave, then recite them to myself as I pace around the living room. I’m completely in the zone—the immersion technique.
Four days now I’ve been cramming. This is always the most thankless part, where the ideas have registered but are still muddled. A bit longer and everything will start settling in my brain. I’ll be as ready as anything when the test day arrives. Nothing to worry about from that perspective.
According to their role in the group, I start envisaging the questions I’m going to put to the exec hostages, ones that are likely to derail them. The lawyers must have access to confidential information on previous arrangements with subcontractors, partners, or clients; the finance guys must know about various bits of foul play in the negotiation of major contracts. That side of things is still a bit vague . . . I need to dig deeper, prepare more, be totally ready for the big day. I’m also making notes about hostage taking, which I then revise with Kaminski.
Yesterday I received the first investigation reports from Mestach’s agency. Reading them terrified me: in terms of their private lives, these people are perfectly ordinary. I mean representative-sample ordinary. Degrees, marriages, a few divorces; children who get degrees, get married, get divorced. Humanity can be so fucking depressing sometimes. Looking at their details and track records, these people are commonplace. Even so, I have to find their faults, to lay them bare.
I’m waiting for Kaminski. Despite being on the ropes himself, he managed to take advantage of my urgent situation to negotiate favorable terms. He’s expensive, and I’m scraping the financial barrel, but I like the guy, he’s decent. I couldn’t keep the novelist act up for long. I told him the real story, which has simplified our working relationship no end.
Yesterday he read the “hostage” profiles, which I find so lackluster, and he saw my concern.
“If you were to read your own profile,” he said, “it would look like that. But you’re not just some average unemployed guy: you’re planning a hostage taking.”
I knew this, but in Nicole’s absence, I don’t have anyone to tell me the simple things I need to hear.
So I read and reread the profiles. As Kaminski said, “However exhaustively you prepare, when it comes down to it you’re always forced to follow your intuition.”
If I bear in mind the possible mistakes in my list of hostages, my chances of success are moderate at best. But even if I slip up in my preparations, I’m still banking on the fact that none of my competitors will have the same level of insight into the hostages’ private lives.
I only need to crack two or three to come out on top. And to achieve that, I need to source some “hard-hitting” information.
I can afford supplementary investigations into five people, no more. After a huge amount of deliberation, I kept two men (the economics specialist Jean-Marc Guéneau, forty-five years old, and the civil engineer in his fifties, Paul Cousin) and two women (Évelyne Camberlin, fifty, structural engineer, and the business school grad, Virginie Tràn, thirty-five). And I threw in David Fontana, the organizer from Bertrand Lacoste’s e-mails.
With Paul Cousin, there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt: his bank accounts show that his wages are not paid into either his personal account or his family account. Very mysterious indeed. His wife has an account that he tops up himself each month. He doesn’t transfer huge amounts—smells like separation. Or if their relationship is stable, she must be in the dark about the real situation. The fact is that Cousin’s salary (he’s a civil engineer in his fifties with more than twenty years under his belt, so it’s hardly inconsiderable) doesn’t show up anywhere: it’s stashed elsewhere in an account under a different name.
Very promising indeed.
Bonus information.
I examined Jean-Marc Guéneau’s file in microscopic detail. He is forty-five years old. At the age of twenty-one, he married one of the Boissieu girls—tidy little fortune. They have seven children. I found virtually nothing on Guéneau’s family, but on the flip side, his wife’s father is none other than Dr. Boissieu, a fervent Catholic and a very vocal anti-abortion lobbyist. As such, they’re at it like rabbits at Guéneau HQ, firing out an offspring every five minutes. You don’t need to be too cynical to suspect he’s got a few beauties waiting in the wings. The moment people start wearing their morals on their sleeves, you can be positive there’s something unmentionable going on behind closed doors.
Bonus information.
Out of the ladies, I kept Évelyne Camberlin. Fifty, single, high ranking . . . scratch away at a woman like th
at and something is bound to come up. My decision to keep her was very much based on her photographs: I’m not sure why, but I find her interesting. When I told Kaminski as much, he smiled and said: “Well spotted.”
I rounded off my lineup with Virginie Tràn. She’s in charge of several major accounts, Exxyal’s biggest clients. She’s ambitious, calculating, moves up the ladder quickly: I don’t think this girl is held back by scruples. Surely some leverage somewhere in there.
There’s every possibility that these additional investigations won’t come to anything, but I’m making progress.
How am I ever going to get out of this shitstorm? Sometimes the thought makes me dizzy. Not least because the rest of the landscape is looking so bleak.
I’ve not heard a peep on the Pharmaceutical Logistics front since sending off my letter to the lawyer. Every morning as I pretend to come home from work, I empty the mailbox to find that nothing has come. I’ve called Maître Gilson two or three times a day but never managed to get hold of her. A gnawing sense of anxiety has set in. So when the postman makes me sign for a letter sent by registered mail, and I see the Gilson & Fréret firm heading, I feel an unpleasant tingle run down my spine. Maître Gilson informs me that her client has decided to uphold their complaint against me and that I will receive a court summons to make a statement on the assault committed against my supervisor, Monsieur Mehmet Pehlivan. To my astonishment, Maître Gilson picks up this time.
“There’s nothing I can do, Monsieur Delambre, I’ve done everything I can. What more do you want? My client is taking this complaint seriously.”
“But didn’t we have an agreement?”
“No, Monsieur Delambre. It was your idea to write a formal apology. We didn’t ask you for anything. You did that on your own initiative.”
“But . . . why go to court if your client has accepted my apology?”
“My client has accepted your apology, true. He then forwarded it to Monsieur Pehlivan who, by my understanding, was quite satisfied with it. But you must be aware that this letter represents a comprehensive confession.”
“So . . . ?”
“So . . . insofar as you acknowledge the facts fully and freely, my client feels he is within his right to claim for the damages he is due in court.”
When I offered to write this letter of apology, it did occur to me that things might turn out this way, but I didn’t think it was possible for an employer and his lawyer to be capable of such a craven move toward someone in my situation.
“You’re a fucking bitch.”
“I understand your point of view, but I’m afraid that won’t stand up in court, Monsieur Delambre. I advise you to find a stronger line of defense.”
She hangs up. This hasn’t made me as angry as I expected it to. I only had one card to play and I played it. No point beating myself up about it, and I can’t even blame them: it’s hard to leave the table when you know you have a winning hand.
That doesn’t stop me from hurling my cell against the wall, where it explodes. When I realize I need a new one (in other words, about five minutes later), I start looking for the pieces underneath the furniture. Patched up with tape, it now looks like a rag doll, or an old fogey’s glasses down at the hospice.
I’ve spent everything Mathilde gave me, and even though Kaminski has agreed to lower his rate from 4,000 to 3,000 euros for the two days’ work, I’ve still had to withdraw 1,000 euros of the 1,410 left in our savings account. Let’s hope Nicole doesn’t feel inclined to check the balance before all this is over.
Right at the start, Kaminski suggested a plan of action: day one would be dedicated to the nuts and bolts of the hostage taking; day two, we would tackle the psychological side of the interrogations. Kaminski doesn’t know David Fontana, but having read the organizer’s messages, he tells me that the guy knows exactly what he’s doing. Bertrand Lacoste and I each have our adviser, our expert, our coach—we’re like a pair of chess players the day before the world championships.
As far as Nicole is concerned, everything’s still fine. She has calmed down, and despite my reservations, I suspect she’s phoned Mathilde to reassure her and explain the ins and outs of the situation.
So when Kaminski arrives just before 10:00 a.m., I don’t imagine for a second that I’m on the brink of disaster.
As agreed, he’s brought along a camera and tripod that we can connect to the television so we can look back over what he calls the “respective positions,” and for rehearsing the interrogations.
To help me get to grips with the technical side of things, he’s also brought two firearms: an eighteen-round 4.5mm Umarex pistol, which is a copy of the Beretta, and a Cometa-Baikal-QB57 to stand in for the Uzi submachine guns that, according to Fontana’s e-mail, will be used in the real thing. Kaminski proposes replicating the layout of the two main rooms, as per the site map from the e-mail, to show me where the pivotal action spots will be, and we’ve rearranged the sofa, table, and chairs to create the zone where the hostages will be held.
It’s just after 12:15 p.m.
Kaminski tells me how the commando will maneuver itself in the premises to ensure it retains overall control of the situation. He’s sitting on the floor—back against the partition wall, legs folded—impersonating a hostage.
I’m standing in the doorway with the little submachine gun slung across my shoulder like a bandolier, the barrel trained in his general direction, when Nicole arrives home.
It’s quite a spectacle.
If she’d walked in on me fucking the next-door neighbor, that would have been absurd and therefore easier to process. But this . . . The sight that greets Nicole belongs in the realm of hyperrealism: the weapons Kaminski brought are terrifyingly present. This is training. The man hugging his knees and staring up at her from the ground is a professional.
Nicole is speechless. She holds her breath in bewilderment. I’d pretended to her that the interview was just a formality. Now she’s fathoming the extent of my duplicity. Her eyes dart over the gun in my hands, the furniture pushed into the corners. It is such a calamity that neither of us can find anything to say.
In any case, my lies spew out so loudly that they’re unintelligible. Nicole just shakes her head and leaves without a word.
Kaminski’s being decent about it. He manages to find something to say. Later on I defrost some food in the microwave and we eat standing up. I reflect on the horror of the situation. Nicole hardly ever comes back for lunch. It would be quite extraordinary if she did it twice a year. And she always calls ahead to make sure I’m there. Of all the days! Everything is conspiring against me. Kaminski smiles and tells me that it’s in situations like this that true strength of character shines through.
It’s now early afternoon and the atmosphere is heavy. I need to dig deep to summon the energy to get back to work. The image of Nicole in the doorframe, her eyes—it’s giving me hell.
He’s a good guy, Kaminski. He’s going the extra mile, telling me real-life anecdotes so I can envisage all the possible scenarios. He’s very cagey about his own life, but one thing leads to another and I end up pretty well piecing together the details of his career. He did clinical psychology before joining the police, then he became a negotiator with RAID. My guess is that he wasn’t a user by then, or at least that the effects weren’t so visible.
As the day draws on, he gets more nervous. Withdrawal. From time to time he claims he needs a cigarette to recharge his batteries. He goes downstairs for a few minutes and comes back calmer, eyes gleaming. His drug of choice remains a mystery to me. His addiction doesn’t bother me in the slightest; what pisses me off me are his diversion tactics. In the end I snap:
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Screw you!”
He’s furious, a mutinous look in his eyes. I hesitate for a second before carrying on:
“I know you’re high as a kite all day long, but at this price I’d hope for more than a wreck!”
“What difference
does it make?”
“Every difference. Do you think you’re worth what I’m paying for you?”
“That’s your call.”
“Well, I’d say no. The girl you killed, she jumped out the window while you were shooting up behind some truck . . .”
“So what?”
“So that wasn’t your only fuckup! Am I wrong?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“It’s not the same in the police as it is in the private sector. You don’t get fired the first time you mess up. How many were there before? How many deaths had you been drugged up for before they decided to throw you out?”
“You’ve got no right!”
“And while we’re at it, this girl . . . did you see her fall or did you just see her body on the pavement? I’ve heard it makes a nasty sound. Young girls especially. Am I right?”
Kaminski slumps back in his chair and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He offers me one. I await his verdict.
“Not bad at all,” he says with a smile.
I feel mightily relieved.
“Not bad: you held your line, remained focused on impactful subject matter, and proceeded with short, incisive, well-chosen questions. No, I’m telling you, for an amateur, that wasn’t bad at all.”
He stands up and stops the camera. I hadn’t realized it was filming.
“We’ll keep that for tomorrow and go back over the sequence when we discuss the interrogations.”
Good day’s work.
He leaves at around 7:00 p.m.
Evening falls and I’m alone in the apartment.
Before he went, Kaminski suggested we put all the furniture back in place. I told him it wasn’t necessary; I knew Nicole wasn’t coming home. I scraped some change together and went to buy a bottle of single malt and a pack of cigarettes. I’m on my second whiskey when Lucie arrives to collect her mother’s things. I open the windows wide because it’s warm and the smoke from my first cigarette is going to my head. When she comes in, I must look like I’m completely off the rails, which I’m not. But appearances matter. She doesn’t comment. All she says is:
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