Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  From a distance, I saw Monsieur Lacoste deep in discussion with Monsieur Dorfmann, the CEO of Exxyal Europe. He had that air of detachment that people affect when they’re delivering bad news as though it was of little importance. If Monsieur Dorfmann was annoyed by this, he didn’t show it. Now there’s a man who knows how to stay cool under pressure; there’s a man I can respect.

  A little after 9:00 a.m., someone called to say that two people had arrived, so I headed downstairs. The deserted main lobby made for a truly depressing sight, with twenty or so enormous armchairs and two lone people. They were sitting more than thirty feet apart and hadn’t even dared to greet each other.

  I immediately recognized Monsieur Delambre. As I approached him, I rolled back the tape in my head, pausing on a frame from a few days earlier. I had just come out of a meeting with Monsieur Lacoste. I was on the pavement, about to move out, when I sensed I was being watched. It’s a very particular feeling, and years of hazardous exercises have taught me to pay great attention to it. It has saved my life on more than one occasion. So I stopped right where I was, took out a piece of chewing gum to buy myself some time, and while I was unwrapping it I mentally scoured the area to identify the enemy’s position. As soon as my intuition turned to certainty, I looked up with a snap. On the corner of the building opposite, a man was watching me. He pretended to look at his watch, before—just by chance—his cell phone decided to ring. He took out the device and clamped it to his ear, turning around as though he were engrossed in the call. It was Monsieur Delambre. He must have been on a reconnaissance mission. But the person in front of me was unrecognizable from the man I’d seen on the pavement that day.

  From the start, his anxiety struck me as disproportionate. A real bundle of nerves.

  His face was haggard, almost deathly pale. He had clearly cut himself shaving as there was an unpleasant red scab on his right cheek. A nervous tic made his left eye twitch intermittently, and his palms were sweaty. Any one of these symptoms would have been enough to suggest that he was feeling extremely out of his depth in this situation, and that he had little chance of seeing it through to the end.

  Picture it: two withdrawals in quick succession, Mademoiselle Zbikowski AWOL (Monsieur Lacoste was leaving her endless messages, and with greater and greater urgency), and one candidate on the brink of cardiac arrest . . . The whole adventure was threatening to be a lot more perilous than expected. But that was none of my business. The premises met the brief and were suitably equipped, the devices all worked, and my team had been well trained. I had done my part, and whatever the reasons for their monkeying around, they didn’t concern me. All I cared about was receiving the balance of my fee.

  Having said that, part of my brief did involve “consultancy” services, so I decided to cover my back: after shaking hands with Monsieur Delambre and Madame Rivet (sorry, Mademoiselle Rivet), I asked them if they’d be so kind as to wait a moment. I went over to the reception desk and put an internal call through to Monsieur Lacoste to explain the situation.

  “Monsieur Delambre strikes me as being in very poor shape. I think he’s a nonstarter.”

  Monsieur Lacoste didn’t react right away. After the series of mishaps he had sustained since our arrival, this news seemed to knock him further. It even occurred to me that if Monsieur Lacoste himself were to show signs of weakness, then that would be game over; but he pulled himself together just in time.

  “What do you mean, poor shape?”

  “He strikes me as very nervous.”

  “Nervous? Of course he’s nervous! Everyone’s nervous! Me included—I’m nervous!”

  In my head, I added the raw tension in Monsieur Lacoste’s voice to the growing list of calamities blighting this affair. He quite literally wouldn’t hear another word said about it. The wheels were in motion, and even though the operation was starting to resemble the mad runaway train from La Bête humaine, he could see no way of halting it without losing face in front of his client. He was making these problems out to be nothing but minor inconveniences. I’ve seen a lot of this since I started working with businesses. Like heavy machinery, these projects gather so much momentum (in terms of energy, capital, and time) that no one has the balls to stop them. You see it with advertising or marketing campaigns or big events. When their backs are against the wall, the people in charge always acknowledge in hindsight that the warning signs were there—they just chose not to acknowledge them. But they only admit this to themselves, never out loud.

  “We’ll manage just fine,” Lacoste said to me with a reassuring tone. “And anyway, there’s nothing to say that Delambre won’t turn around and prove himself a much stronger candidate than we’re giving him credit for.”

  Faced with such willful blindness, I decided to hold my tongue.

  At the far end of the lobby, Monsieur Delambre’s shrunken figure seemed apprehensive; a bomb ready to blow. Barring a technical screw-up (which would have brought my role into question), I didn’t foresee any danger. This was just a little role-play exercise.

  If I’m honest, it didn’t bother me much to see the operation foundering. To begin with, at least, it even amused me. Understand that I’ve spent twenty years in various theaters of operation. I’ve risked my life as many as twenty times, and I’ve seen a lot of people die. So when a company shows up wanting to stage a virtual hostage taking . . . Fine, I’m sure they had their reasons (linked to their balance sheet, undoubtedly), but over the course of the planning, I noticed the schadenfreude they were taking from it. Monsieur Dorfmann and Monsieur Lacoste have mind-blowing levels of responsibility, but this hostage-taking escapade had gone further: it frightened them, and they relished the fear. The consequence of this was now plain to see.

  Monsieur Lacoste joined us downstairs soon after. It was hard to tell whether his nervousness was merely caused by the situation or whether, like me, he had an inkling that the exercise was entering a tailspin. This is typical of successful people: they don’t have a shred of self-doubt and consider themselves capable of overcoming any difficulty. They think they’re untouchable.

  Monsieur Delambre’s whole demeanor jarred with that of the svelte, ethereally pretty Mademoiselle Rivet, in her figure-hugging gray-flecked suit. She knew what she was doing when she picked that outfit. Slumped in his sizeable lobby armchair, Monsieur Delambre suddenly appeared old and jaded. It seemed like an unfair contest. Not that it was a fashion competition . . . No, this was a test in which the participants would need to demonstrate considerable interpersonal skills and genuine proficiency, and on this front, Monsieur Lacoste was right: Monsieur Delambre still had every chance. In fact, now that there were two of them instead of four, on paper his chances had doubled.

  The two candidates stood up in a single movement. Monsieur Lacoste made the introductions:

  “Monsieur Delambre, Mademoiselle Rivet . . . and Monsieur David Fontana, who is our noble stage manager.”

  A warning light immediately started flashing in my head: there was something about the woman’s collectedness and Monsieur Lacoste’s insistence; a certain manner about them . . . I remember being convinced that these two were already—what’s the word?—acquainted. And I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Monsieur Delambre, because if I was right, he was in danger of being nothing more than a walk-on part.

  I also noticed that Monsieur Delambre was carrying a briefcase, while Mademoiselle Rivet just had her handbag, which only served to further highlight their difference. It looked like he was on his way to work, while she was on her way home.

  “It’s just the two of us?” Monsieur Delambre asked.

  The tone of his voice stopped Monsieur Lacoste in his tracks. It was low and shaky. The voice of a man under intense pressure.

  “Yes,” Monsieur Lacoste replied. “The others have withdrawn. Your chances are all the higher . . .”

  The news didn’t seem to please Monsieur Delambre in the slightest. He had a point: even if it did improve his chances, it still seemed
. . . all this rigmarole and only two candidates? Monsieur Lacoste sensed his misgivings.

  “Forgive me for speaking frankly,” he added, “but the fundamentals of this operation have nothing to do with you!”

  He glared at Monsieur Delambre, realizing the importance of wresting back control of the situation.

  “Our client needs to select the most suitable candidate from five executives to carry out a vital restructuring process. This is the primary objective of the exercise. However, an HR assistant will be recruited simultaneously over the course of the assessment; after all, the main role of an HR executive is, of course, to evaluate personnel. We are simply killing two birds with one stone.”

  “Thank you, understood,” Monsieur Delambre said.

  It was difficult to tell whether his tone carried bitterness or a thinly veiled anger. Whatever the case, I felt it better to change the subject, so I showed the candidates to the elevator and took them upstairs.

  We entered the meeting room at precisely 9:17 a.m. Yes, I’m certain of that. In my line of work, precision is paramount. Over the years, I’ve managed to internalize my timekeeping: at any hour of the day, I can tell you the exact time, correct to within a few minutes. But that morning I also had my eye on the clock. The meeting had been called for 10:00 a.m. and the Exxyal Europe execs were scheduled to arrive at least ten or fifteen minutes in advance: all the final arrangements needed to be made before then.

  I introduced Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet to the team, starting with the two actors who would be playing the role of the clients. Malik was wearing a large, brightly colored djellaba and a violet keffiyeh with geometric patterns, while Monsieur Renard was wearing a traditional suit.

  “At the start of the role play,” I explained, “Malik and Monsieur Renard will play the clients that the Exxyal Europe execs are invited to meet. Malik will exit right away; Monsieur Renard will stay until the end.”

  Throughout this presentation, I paid particular attention to the candidates’ reactions because, while Monsieur André Renard may not be an actor of any great renown, a few years ago he did appear in a fairly successful ad for a household product, and I was worried that the participants might recognize his face. But Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet’s concentration was already fixed on the three members of the commando. It’s important not to understate their impact, complete with their fatigues, balaclavas, and combat boots, and their three Uzi submachine guns lined up on the table alongside rows of ammunition. Even though everyone knew full well that this was a role play, the whole thing made for quite a spectacle, not least because (without wanting to brag) I had picked my teammates well. Kader, the commando chief, has a calm, determined face; and Yasmine is capable of looking terrifyingly stern. Both of them started their careers in the Moroccan police, and their records speak for themselves. As for Mourad, in spite of his shortcomings, I’d decided to keep him on because of his rugged features: with his full, unshaven cheeks, he has a brutal face that suits his role perfectly.

  Everyone greeted each other with a simple nod of the head. The atmosphere was fairly tense. That’s always the way in the minutes before the start of an operation—it can be misleading.

  Next I showed them the three rooms: the meeting room where the role play would begin and where the group of hostages would be held; then the interrogation chamber where the executives would be called individually or in pairs, should Monsieur Delambre or Mademoiselle Rivet want to play them against one another. There was a laptop computer connected to the Exxyal Group system sitting open on a small table. Lastly, I took them to the observation room, from where the two candidates would administer the interrogations. One monitor would display images from the waiting room recorded on two different cameras; another showed images from the table in the interrogation chamber. The final room, from where Monsieur Dorfmann and Monsieur Lacoste would oversee the operation, was none of their concern.

  Monsieur Lacoste left us at that point. We could see that he had some concerns. My guess is that he went to call Mademoiselle Zbikowski yet again, even if, given the time, we both knew she wouldn’t be coming. I have no idea what happened between the two of them, but it wasn’t hard to guess that his assistant had stood him up, leaving him to take care of things on his own.

  Mademoiselle Rivet attempted a smile at Monsieur Delambre, probably as a way of easing the tension, but he seemed far too anxious to respond. They sat down next to each other and turned to the screens that were relaying live footage from the meeting room.

  That was when Monsieur Dorfmann arrived. I had only met him once before, a few days earlier at our only rehearsal. He had been very gracious and very receptive to my suggestions; both of which were effective ways of emphasizing his authority. For a man of his age, he is remarkably flexible—it took him no time at all to learn how to collapse the right way.

  We went into the rest area so that I could bring him up to speed. I reminded him of his instructions, but Monsieur Dorfmann was less accommodating than at the rehearsal. It irritated him hearing information for a second time, so I kept it short, and he promptly returned to the meeting room. Everyone was on edge.

  As per the plan, Monsieur Renard was seated to his right. He seemed to be getting in the zone for his role as an important client, while Malik was sipping a very strong coffee on Monsieur Renard’s other side.

  And we began the wait.

  20

  The images relayed by the cameras were clear. I was happy with everything from a technical perspective.

  Monsieur Lacoste was stationed just behind Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet with a pad of paper. I pulled up a chair and watched them. I was a bit nervous myself. Not because of what was at stake, no—there was nothing in it for me—but because I like a job well done. And because I was still owed a third of my fee, to be paid on completion of the operation. The mission was very well paid, I have to admit. The truth is that business role plays come with a serious price tag, but they’re not all that interesting. They’re there for the amusement of companies and managers. I like my missions a bit more real.

  In any case, I always get nervous before the start of a mission, regardless of how major it is. But nothing compared to Monsieur Delambre. He was staring straight into the monitors, as though he were expecting them to reveal some hidden truth, and when he switched from one screen to the other, it wasn’t just his eyes that moved, but his entire head, a bit like a chicken. Mademoiselle Rivet seemed more concerned with her neighbor than with the test itself. She was looking at him surreptitiously, the way you might eye a messy eater at the table next to you in a restaurant. Monsieur Delambre didn’t even seem to notice her, and carried on with his mechanical actions. I found his behavior so worrying (it’s normal to be nervous in this kind of situation, but this nervous?) that I touched him on the shoulder and asked him if everything was all right. I hadn’t even finished my sentence when he leapt up as if I’d just electrocuted him.

  “Huh? What?” he said, spinning around abruptly.

  “Is everything all right, Monsieur Delambre?”

  “Huh? Yes, fine . . . ,” he replied, but he was somewhere else entirely.

  That’s what is so hard to take: right then, I had all the confirmation I needed that everything was about to go down the tubes. My concern had given way to certainty. Yet still I did nothing. Monsieur Delambre had a screw loose. We could easily have canceled the test for the HR candidates without interfering with the assessment of the execs. It was just that the two operations had always been linked in my mind, and so the idea never occurred to me. And from then on, everything went too fast.

  As the start of the operation approached, Mademoiselle Rivet seemed less and less composed. In fact, she hadn’t regained her color since seeing the members of the commando with their black shiny guns—little did she know that her tribulations were far from over. I stood up to show the two of them how to use the microphone to speak into the earpieces of the different members of the
commando. Monsieur Delambre answered with a series of groans, but he had clearly understood the instructions because he operated the controls correctly when it was his turn for a trial run.

  The Exxyal execs were beginning to trickle in: Monsieur Lussay first, followed by Mademoiselle Tràn.

  Monsieur Maxime Lussay is a legal executive. Just as well, if you ask me, because he looks like a natural-born lawyer: immaculately turned out, every movement underpinned by a certain stiffness. His eyes seemed to twitch in staccato fashion, as if they had to revert to their original position before moving to the next spot. I had read their files closely: I remembered that Monsieur Lussay had a doctorate in law and had drawn up and overseen numerous Exxyal Group contracts.

  As for Mademoiselle Tràn, you could tell right away that she worked in sales. A very dynamic woman—a little too dynamic, if you ask me, almost like she was on something. She walked with assurance, standing square in front of people. She gave off the impression that nothing could faze her, and that if you dithered at all, she would finish your sentences for you. With her physique and her six-figure salary, she must be highly attractive to men her age.

  These young executives . . . you could tell how modern and confident they were just by the way they swaggered into the waiting room. Every shake of the hand screamed: “We are powerful, productive, happy people.”

  The Exxyal executives went up in turn to greet their boss, Monsieur Dorfmann, and he treated each of them with that sort of familiar attitude you see all too often in business. I find it so puzzling. From the top of the ladder to the bottom, everyone is friends with everyone, calling each other by first name even though traditionally it should be Monsieur this or Madame that. I think this confuses the picture. In that sort of environment, people end up mistaking their office for the local café. I spent part of my career in the army, and things there are a lot more clear cut. You know why you’re there. Your colleagues are either superiors or subordinates, and when you meet someone, you know straight off whether he’s one or the other: whether he’s above you or below you. In business, it’s all become blurred. You play squash with your boss, you go for a jog with your line manager . . . it’s a mess, quite frankly. If people aren’t careful, there won’t be any leaders left; companies will be controlled by spreadsheets alone. Although sooner or later, there’ll be a return to hierarchy—make no mistake. And quite right, too . . . when the spreadsheets show that your performance isn’t up to scratch and the higher-ups demand answers, then you can’t complain just because you’ve confused them with school friends for too long.