“Okay, you,” Mourad said.
He pointed at Monsieur Cousin, who straightened up immediately. In the face of adversity, that’s what he does: he straightens. I made a mental note that he’d be a tough one to crack.
“You come here,” Mourad said (he motioned to where Madame Camberlin was standing) “. . . you, there . . .” (gesticulating to Monsieur Renard) “. . . and you, around here . . .” (somewhere between Madame Camberlin and Mademoiselle Tràn) “. . . next to you . . .” (pointing at Monsieur Guéneau) “. . . and you . . .” (Mademoiselle Tràn) “. . . you come and stand here . . .” (this time the intended destination was very unclear, a spot somewhere near Madame Camberlin, but it was hard to tell) “. . . and you, uh . . .” (Monsieur Lussay was on tenterhooks) “. . . okay, you, here . . .” (he was pointing at his feet) “. . . but in a circle!” Mourad blurted out for good measure.
The hostages didn’t feel remotely threatened. Mourad’s orders lacked any edge—he came across as finicky, almost relishing the moment, like a greedy teenager picking out his favorite treats at the patisserie counter. And to top it off, he now stood there looking pleased to bits with his job. Except no one had moved. In the hostages’ defense, even I—the person responsible for designing the desired configuration—had no idea what he was trying to get them to do.
“Come on, move!” Mourad said, in the most convincing voice he could manage.
Understand that when a character like Mourad tries to act all assertive with a submachine gun slung over his shoulder and the barrel swinging around in front of him, it makes the weapon considerably less maneuverable. So despite his attempt at vigor, the order fell flat—everyone hesitated yet again.
That was Monsieur Cousin’s cue. As I’ve said, it’s in situations like this that a person’s true character comes through. No one knew what to do, but Monsieur Cousin kicked into action. In retrospect . . . no, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Monsieur Cousin stepped forward and stood in his assigned space, as did Mademoiselle Tràn, followed by Monsieur Guéneau. Then Madame Camberlin moved to her right and Monsieur Renard headed left before everyone stopped, uncertain. Monsieur Lussay bumped into Monsieur Cousin, who sent him back toward Madame Camberlin.
Mourad was disappointed: he thought his orders had been nice and clear. But what he did next was inexplicable. I’m telling you, this guy was full of surprises . . . He put down his Uzi and walked up to the hostages. He grabbed Madame Camberlin by the shoulders and peered at the floor as if he were looking for specific markers on the carpet. It was as if he’d invited Madame Camberlin to partner him in a tango lesson and was desperately trying to remember his steps. He shoved her three feet along and said: “There.” He was so absorbed in his task that it didn’t even occur to him that the hostages might take the opportunity to seize the submachine gun and attack him. Mademoiselle Tràn, her body extremely tense, took a step toward the weapon . . . I felt an icy chill run down my spine. But Mourad turned around just in time, busily taking Monsieur Renard by the shoulders and positioning him a little farther away. Then it was Mademoiselle Tràn’s turn, followed by Monsieur Lussay, Monsieur Guéneau, and Monsieur Cousin. The hostages were arranged back-to-back in a broad semicircle, each one about three feet apart. No one was facing the door.
“Sit down.”
Mourad had picked up his weapon again.
“That’s good like that,” he announced with a satisfied tone, before turning to the camera, as though hoping the lens might congratulate him on his outstanding performance.
Then the hostages heard the door open and close again.
Silence fell. Two or three minutes passed by.
Mademoiselle Tràn risked a sideways glance.
“He’s gone,” she said, blankly.
22
“I . . . I have a telephone . . . ,” Monsieur Renard said, turning to the others. His face was very white, and he had to swallow back his saliva a number of times. “It’s my wife’s, I’d forgotten about it . . . ,” he went on, speaking in a bewildered tone.
He sank his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out the tiny cell phone.
“I’ve . . . They didn’t find it . . .”
He examined the phone lying flat on his palm.
The revelation fell like a bombshell.
“You’ll get us killed, you bastard!” Monsieur Guéneau cried, beside himself.
“Calm down,” Madame Camberlin said.
Monsieur Renard looked thunderstruck, his eyes flicking between the phone and the faces of the execs.
“They’re watching us,” Monsieur Lussay added through pursed lips, his voice hushed.
With a discreet movement of his chin, he indicated the top corner of the room, where a small black camera had been installed. Everyone turned either left or right to look at the ceiling.
“When the red light’s blinking, it means it’s not working,” Mademoiselle Tràn said.
“You can’t be sure of that,” Monsieur Lussay replied.
“It’s true! When it’s on, there’s a green light, if it’s red it’s off,” Mademoiselle Tràn said with a tone of pure disgust, even hatred.
“These cameras . . . ,” Madame Camberlin cut in, “they don’t have sound. They can’t hear us.”
Only Monsieur Cousin remained silent. He was still ramrod straight, inflexible, as stiff as a corpse.
“So what do I do?” Monsieur Renard asked.
He made his voice quiver to perfection. It was a remarkable performance, which I found reassuring after Mourad’s woeful display.
“We’ve got to call the police,” Madame Camberlin said, who was trying to sound calm.
“We have to give them the phone!” Monsieur Guéneau shouted.
“Shut your face for a second!”
All eyes turned to Mademoiselle Tràn, who was glaring at Monsieur Guéneau.
“Try thinking for a second, you idiot,” she snapped, turning to Monsieur Renard and holding out her hand. “Give it to me.”
It was my turn to intervene.
“Mourad! Quick, get back to the hostage room!” I hissed into the microphone, and a second later I heard him crashing down the corridor.
Monsieur Renard had put the handset on the floor and was about to slide it over to her like a puck across an ice rink. He drew it back and forth on the ground, summoning all his concentration, before releasing it with a flourish. The telephone careened across the carpet toward Mademoiselle Tràn, whirling around like a spinning top, but his aim wasn’t good.
On the screens, we saw Mourad open the door right at the moment the phone came to rest at Monsieur Guéneau’s feet. Caught by surprise, he slipped it up his right sleeve and tried to look calm, as if he hadn’t moved a muscle since his captor had left.
In front of me, Monsieur Delambre was furiously taking notes, which at the time I found encouraging, I suppose. Perhaps at the start he was only suffering from pre-match nerves. Now he was in the zone, fully focused. Mademoiselle Rivet was scribbling away, too.
A long silence ensued. Mourad was fiddling with his earpiece, struggling to keep it in place. In fact he was so consumed with his earpiece-insertion maneuver that he seemed to have forgotten about the hostages. All eyes (with the exception of Mourad’s) were bearing down on Monsieur Guéneau, who looked as if he might expire at any moment. I zoomed in on his arm momentarily: he was clearly holding the little cell phone in his sleeve and trying to cup it there, before clearing his throat.
“Excuse me . . . ,” he said.
As Mourad turned toward him, the earpiece fell out.
“The bathroom . . . ,” Monsieur Guéneau said, his voice barely audible. “I need the bathroom.”
Not only was he failing to demonstrate any sangfroid, he wasn’t being very creative either. His trousers were as wet as a mop, and there he was asking for the bathroom . . . But Mourad is not the sort of person who thinks like this. In fact, he seemed delighted at the opportunity that had presented itself.
Monsieur Guéneau immediately realized that he’d made a strategic error, and so he made eye contact with Madame Camberlin, who cottoned on right away:
“Me, too! I need the bathroom, too.”
Mourad closed his eyes then opened them again.
“Okay, there’s a plan for that, too,” he said triumphantly. “You have to go one at a time. You asked first, so you get to go first,” he said to Monsieur Guéneau.
I breathed a “very good” into Mourad’s earpiece and he smiled like a giant baby. Monsieur Guéneau hesitated, unsure what to make of this sudden show of happiness.
“On you go,” Mourad said, holding out his hand as reassuringly as possible, before opening the door. Standing there was Yasmine, stony faced, her legs set, as though they were planted in the ground. She looked Monsieur Guéneau in the eyes without blinking.
“Go!” Mourad repeated.
So Monsieur Guéneau stood up, both fists clenched at the end of his straightened arms, the only way he could prevent the phone from slipping out of his sleeve.
Monsieur Delambre looked up. He seemed to be mulling over an intriguing idea, made a few notes on his pad, then laid down his pen.
And we waited. A few minutes passed. Provided my instructions were being carried out to the letter, I knew that Monsieur Guéneau had made it down the corridor, all the while under close guard. He’d entered a cubicle, turned, and tried to shut the door, but the barrel of Yasmine’s Uzi had blocked him.
“Do you mind . . . ,” Monsieur Guéneau said, scandalized that she was standing there facing him.
“Up to you. I could always take you back?” Yasmine said coldly.
Monsieur Guéneau turned and lifted the toilet seat with a frustrated motion before opening his fly, rummaging around a little, and then urinating noisily. He kept his eyes down as he slid the telephone along his wrist. On his own cell phone, he could have written a text with his eyes closed. They’re all the same, he told himself: same functions, same keys. Head still lowered, he clutched his tummy to gain a few more precious seconds, then ran his index finger down the keypad to find the button at the bottom, and started typing discreetly.
That was when the phone started ringing. The volume was so loud we could hear it all the way down the corridor.
On hearing the blaring ringtone echo around the toilet cubicle, the blood drained from Monsieur Guéneau. He fumbled for the phone as it vibrated in his sleeve and only just managed to catch it in his fingertips. Then he froze for a second, his eyes closed, probably waiting for his captor to unleash a burst of gunfire into his kidneys. But nothing happened. He blinked and turned toward Yasmine. What was he expecting? A blow to the face? A bullet in the head? A kick in the balls? He had no idea, but his whole body trembled. Yasmine didn’t move, even when the phone rang a second time. She pointed to it with her submachine gun as it continued to vibrate in his hand. He shivered from head to toe as though he was being electrocuted.
Yasmine jerked her weapon toward his waist.
Monsieur Guéneau looked down and closed his fly, blushing, then held out the device to Yasmine, who simply repeated the same, categorical gesture.
He looked at the flashing screen—unknown number—pressed the green button, and heard a man’s voice. Kader’s voice.
“Do you think this is acceptable behavior, Monsieur Guéneau?”
23
The first thing Monsieur Guéneau saw as he entered the room was the Uzi on the table by Kader. Submachine guns always make so much more of an impression than a simple pistol. And should a hostage try his luck and grab it, they’re just that little bit harder to maneuver, allowing the captor plenty of time to intervene. Kader is very experienced: these amateurs didn’t pose any threat, not least because the weapons were loaded with blanks. Plus, I had the utmost confidence in Kader and Yasmine, having enlisted their services for several challenging operations. I was aware of their quality. Kader just sat there holding the Sig Sauer he had used to “kill” two men a few minutes earlier. Monsieur Guéneau turned in a panic, only to meet the steely expression of Yasmine, who shoved him in the back with her Uzi toward an empty chair.
This was the moment of truth.
The first interrogation would set the tone for the remainder of the role play. If it went well, it would mean that the strategy was right for the task. Up to that point, my scenario had proved effective, and everything had gone according to plan. That’s experience for you. But now we were entering the “active” phase, in which Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet had to interrogate the executives to assess their behavior, and which would involve a certain amount of improvisation. I therefore remained attentive to every little detail.
Mademoiselle Rivet approached the microphone between herself and Monsieur Delambre and let out a faint, dry cough.
Monsieur Guéneau sat down. He was shaking violently—his sodden trousers must have made him cold. On the screen, we could see him mouthing words, but we couldn’t hear anything through the speakers.
Without waiting for any instructions, Kader leaned toward him and asked:
“Excuse me?”
“Are you going to kill me?” Monsieur Guéneau mumbled.
His voice was barely audible, which made his fear seem even more pathetic. Mademoiselle Rivet must have picked up on this, because she kicked into action:
“That is not our primary intention, Monsieur Guéneau. Unless, of course, you leave us with no other option.”
Kader interpreted the words very well and relayed them carefully. Coming from his mouth, the word “intention” sounded like a threat—maybe because of his accent, or maybe because of his controlled, convincing tone. Mademoiselle Rivet could hear her own words being echoed. It gave all three of us the peculiar impression of being in both places at once.
Monsieur Guéneau shook his head, eyes closed.
“Please . . . ,” he murmured through his tears.
He thrust his hand into his pocket and slowly withdrew the phone, placing it on the table as though it were a stick of dynamite.
“I’m begging you . . .”
Mademoiselle Rivet turned to Monsieur Delambre and indicated the microphone so that he could have his turn to intervene, but he didn’t move and carried on staring at the screen. I realized that he was sweating, which was surprising bearing in mind how cool the air-conditioning was. Mademoiselle Rivet ignored him and continued:
“Were you going to call the police?” she said into the microphone for Kader to repeat. “You’re seeking to undermine our cause, is that it, Monsieur Guéneau?”
Monsieur Guéneau looked up at Kader, ready to swear by Almighty God, but he thought better of it.
“What . . . what do you want?” he said.
“No, Monsieur Guéneau, that’s not how this is going to work. You’re a member of the finance department at Exxyal Group. As such, a lot of confidential information passes through your hands: contracts, agreements, transactions . . . So, my question to you is this: what are you willing to do for our cause in exchange for your life?”
Monsieur Guéneau was stunned.
“I don’t understand . . . I don’t know anything . . . I don’t have anything . . .”
“Come on, Monsieur Guéneau, we both know perfectly well that in the oil and gas industry, a contract is like an iceberg: most of it is under the surface. You’ve negotiated several contracts yourself, if I’m not mistaken?”
“What contracts?”
Monsieur Guéneau thrashed his head from side to side, as if he were pleading for help from some invisible bystander.
Wrong move. From the start of the interrogation, there was a feeling that Mademoiselle Rivet hadn’t taken into account Monsieur Guéneau’s current circumstances; that she didn’t have the measure of the situation. She’d gone fishing for information, but Monsieur Guéneau hadn’t bitten,
and now he seemed to have guessed her strategy, even if he was yet to pin it down completely. A few uneasy seconds passed.
“What exactly do you . . . want from me?”
“You tell me,” Mademoiselle Rivet said.
The interview was foundering.
“But you do—you do want something from me, don’t you?” Monsieur Guéneau asked.
He was extremely distressed. The questions he was being asked seemed at odds with the brutality of the situation. It was as if the commandos didn’t know what they wanted.
I never like it when things start drifting. I swallowed hard.
That was when Monsieur Delambre snapped out of his lethargic state, stretching out a hand and taking the mike for himself:
“You’re married, are you not, Monsieur Guéneau?” he said.
Kader was taken aback, not only by the change of voice in his earpiece, but no doubt by Monsieur Delambre’s deathly tone.
“Uh, yes . . . ,” he replied to Kader’s forceful question.
“And that’s going well?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m asking you whether everything’s going well with your wife.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“Sexually . . . with your wife?” Monsieur Delambre persisted.
“Listen . . .”
“Answer me.”
“I don’t see . . .”
“Answer me!”
“Yes, uh . . . everything’s fine.”
“You’re not . . . hiding anything from her?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“Well, uh . . . I don’t see . . . no . . .”
“And your employer, too—you’re not hiding anything from him?”
“What . . . that’s not the same . . .”
“It often amounts to the same thing.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
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