Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  I put my foot down and start racing again. In a few seconds, the white cloud and the red body of his car are just blurs in my rearview mirror.

  “Everything should be all right from now on, Charles.”

  “Ah well good,” he says, “easy as pie.”

  “Easy as pie” . . . he must be the only person left in the world who uses phrases like that. I round things off:

  “I’m meeting Dorfmann . . . just dropping in to nail his balls to his desk, then I’ll pick up Nicole. After that it’s finished.”

  Charles is over the moon, thrilled.

  “I couldn’t be happier for you my friend. You deserve it!”

  Hearing that from Charles sends me over the edge. To be so genuinely happy for someone else . . . I’d never be capable of that level of selflessness.

  “You already shafted that other prick whatshisname again Montana?”

  “Fontana.”

  “That’s the one!” Charles shouts.

  And he’s off again on another round of jubilant celebrations.

  My victory is certain. The meeting called by Dorfmann is in itself an order to fall back, a thinly veiled request for an armistice. I will get Nicole released and meet her at the apartment. We’ll take home the compensation we’ve earned, the fair price for all our misfortunes. Our miserable existence will come to an end. I want Charles to be with us. Nicole will love him.

  “Ah well no,” says Charles, “after all this you have to just be with your sweetheart you don’t need me there standing around!”

  I insist.

  “I want you to be there, Charles. It’s important to me.”

  “You sure?”

  I fumble in my pocket, unfold the piece of paper Fontana gave me and read him the address.

  “Wait,” says Charles.

  Then:

  “Say it again?”

  I read it again and Charles lets out a shriek.

  “Ah you have to say that’s strange I lived in that neighborhood when I was a boy no even younger than that when I was a nipper.”

  That’ll help.

  “Listen wait,” Charles continues, “I’ve got to make a note of the number of the street because I’m not sure I’ll remember it.”

  I picture him lurching spectacularly from left to right then pouncing toward the glove compartment.

  “No!” I shout.

  In his state, if he doesn’t remain completely focused on his driving, it’s going to end in disaster.

  “Don’t sweat, Charles, I’ll send you a text message.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Okay, let’s do it that way. Shall we say eight-thirty? I’ve got to go now. Promise? I’m counting on you, all right.”

  The first photograph is of her hands, and I’m completely fixated by it. No doubt this is because mine still hurt so much, and because driving for the first time in months has made me aware that they will never work like before, that some of my fingers won’t bend until I die, or even after I die. I recognize her wedding ring. The sight of her two hands, open and exposed as though waiting for the hammer, leaves a horrible impression. The second photo is marked with the right day and the right time, but it’s of the wrong Nicole. My Nicole from before, from always, has been replaced by a woman in her fifties with graying hair and drawn features, and she’s standing facing the camera with a combination of fear and defeat. Nicole looks ravaged by this ordeal. In the space of a few hours, she’s become an old woman. It tears at my heart. She looks like one of those pictures of hostages you see on television in Lebanon, Colombia, or Chad, her eyes inexpressive, blank with anxiety. In the third image, her left cheekbone is marked by a cut, around which a violet bruise has spread. From a fist, or maybe a baton.

  Did Nicole fight back?

  Did she try to escape?

  I bite down on my lip until it bleeds. Tears prick my eyes.

  I smack the wheel, screaming. Because that Nicole, the one in the picture, is my doing.

  I mustn’t let the guilt overwhelm me. I have to pull myself together. No giving up now. Must stay focused for the home stretch. I sniff and wipe my eyes. Quite the opposite—seeing her like that on the screen must renew my strength. I will fight to the very end. I feel happy in the knowledge that what I’m bringing her will reconcile everything: it will heal all the wounds, erase all the scars. I’m coming home to her, with all the riches to secure our life and our future. I’m coming home with the solution to each and every one of our problems.

  All I want now is for the time to pass quickly, for her to be freed, to come home; to hold her in my arms.

  I must call her. The tone barely rings before Fontana answers with a clear, firm, definitive “No.” I’m about to unleash more insults but he’s faster than me.

  “You’re not getting anything else until I’ve received instructions from my client.”

  He hangs up right away. The fine thread between Nicole and me has been broken. Everything is in my hands. I must free her, save her, right now.

  I step down on the accelerator again.

  46

  La Défense.

  I look up. At the summit of the gleaming glass skyscraper, a fiery gold sign bearing Exxyal Europe’s name and logo spins on its axis. You can imagine it turning into a deity when night falls, transfiguring into a tremendous, shining beacon that lights up the world.

  Paul Cousin’s car is equipped with a device that can open the garage gate remotely. It’s past 7:30 p.m., but on the second level, which is reserved for company executives, most of the spaces are still full. Space no. 198 lights up automatically as my car enters and the aluminum barrier sinks into the ground. I park and walk quickly toward the elevator. Cameras follow my every move. They are everywhere, making it hard to concentrate. I’m unsure about my destination, so I push the button that shoots me to the top floor of the building. This is where the gods have resided since the dawn of time.

  Stylish, luxurious elevator, postmodern design, with uplighting and a plush carpet. I look like a rag doll in my rumpled, horribly out-of-date suit. As the floors file by, a creeping anxiety comes over me.

  This is how battles are lost.

  Management theory says: avoid irrational behaviors and choose to deal in what is real and measurable.

  I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Alexandre Dorfmann—big French business leader, pillar of European industry—is about to greet me. Confronting one so powerful is getting the better of me. I run through the facts, and one doubt still lingers: why does he want to meet me?

  He doesn’t stand to gain anything from it.

  All he needed was to relay his instructions anonymously. Proposing to meet me seems an imprudent move on his part. I feel certain he doesn’t know the details of Nicole’s kidnapping—he pays Fontana handsomely enough to be exempt from knowing details, making sure he is safe from any allegation of wrongdoing.

  So why does he feel the need to step into the ring himself?

  There must be something I haven’t considered. The cards have been stacked without me noticing. I’m convinced he’s going to squash me beneath his thumb. He’s going to skin me alive. Such an easy victory against a man like this is simply not possible. It never happens. I’m climbing the scaffold. When the elevator door opens, I’m already half defeated. There’s a veil before my eyes, and printed on it is Nicole’s beleaguered face. I, too, am drained as I step out of the elevator.

  Up here, the secretaries are all men. Young and highly qualified. They’re called advisers or associates. One of them flashes me a corporate smile. Very professional. The sort of guy who’s never happier than when he’s at some smug media event with all his pals. He’s been briefed: “Monsieur le Président” will see me.

  A quilted, carpeted, padded antechamber. I stay on my feet. I know the rules of the waiting game—long simmer over a low heat. My breathing is steady, but my heart must be racing at 120 beats a minute. Clearly I don’t know the rules, because there’s no wait at all: thirty sec
onds later, the door opens, and the young associate makes himself scarce.

  I am summoned.

  The first thing that strikes me is the unbelievable beauty of the city glittering through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. God has a wonderful view over the world. One of the many perks of the job. Alexandre Dorfmann is engrossed in some paperwork, but he pulls himself away from his desk. Despite the interruption, he removes his glasses in a dignified manner. His face transforms as he directs a smile at me that’s as thin as a blade.

  “Ah, Monsieur Delambre!”

  The voice alone is an instrument of domination. Immaculately honed, down to the smallest intonation. Dorfmann takes a few paces toward me, shakes me warmly by the hand, all the while holding my elbow with his left one, before drawing me to a corner of the room covered with bookcases, a small library that screams: “I am a business leader, yes, but above all I am humanist.”

  I sit down. Dorfmann takes his place next to me. Casual.

  My feelings at this point are indescribable. This man has an astonishing aura. Some people are like that: electrifying. They emit waves.

  Dorfmann radiates power in the same way Fontana radiates danger. He personifies the instinct for mastery.

  If I were an animal, I’d start growling.

  I try to remember him on the day of the hostage taking, sitting mute on the ground. But neither he nor I are the same men as then. Here we are back in the real world. The social order has corrected itself. I might be wrong, but I think the real reason we’re here face-to-face today is to explore just that: what I put him through.

  “Do you play golf, Monsieur Delambre?”

  “Er . . . no.”

  They say prison ages you, but surely not so much that I look like a fucking golfer now?

  “That’s a shame. I had a metaphor in mind that summarizes our situation nicely.”

  Dorfmann waves his arm as though swatting a fly away.

  “No matter,” he says, before adopting an air of regret and spreading his arms in apology:

  “Monsieur Delambre, I don’t have much time . . .”

  He smiles at me. An outside observer would swear that he felt a deep fondness for me; that I was a dear old friend with whom he’d love to talk at length if the circumstances permitted.

  “I’m rather pressed myself,” I say.

  He nods, then pauses, looking me up and down for a long time in perfect silence: observing me, detailing me, studying me without the slightest embarrassment. Finally he fastens his dispassionate eyes on mine. He keeps them there for a long while, and it unsettles me right down to my belly. This moment feels like a distillation of every fear I have endured throughout my professional life. Dorfmann is an expert in the intimidation department: he must have terrorized, tortured, and frightened an incalculable number of colleagues, secretaries, and advisers, filling them with enough panic to want to throw themselves out of a window. His entire bearing is an assertion of one simple, clear truth: he’s where he is because he’s killed the competition.

  “Good . . . ,” he says at last.

  The reason for my presence before him finally dawns on me.

  From a technical perspective, it’s impossible to justify. In practical terms, everything advises against it. But he wanted to make absolutely sure. From the start, this conflict has involved two men who have virtually never seen each other, with the exception of a few minutes when I had a Beretta pressed against his temple. It’s not Dorfmann’s style to conclude business in this manner.

  In any professional contest, there has to come a moment of truth.

  Dorfmann couldn’t let me go without satisfying the burning need to see me in the flesh, to assess whether his power really has been put in check.

  And, by extension, to see whether I represent any threat to him. He’s measuring any potential risk.

  “We could have settled this over the telephone,” he says.

  Evaluating the harmfulness of my intentions toward him.

  “But I wanted to congratulate you personally.”

  Deciding whether I’m waging all-out war, a challenge he’d have no qualms in accepting.

  “You have handled this affair masterfully.”

  Or maybe he’s figuring out whether he can take my word. Simply put: Can a pair of bastards like us trust each other?

  I don’t move a muscle. I hold his stare. The only thing Dorfmann trusts is his intuition. This may well be the key to his success: the certainty that he will never be outmaneuvered by another man.

  “We should have given you the job,” he says at last, almost to himself.

  He laughs at this notion, all on his own, as if I weren’t there.

  Then he returns to earth, like someone reluctantly coming to from a waking dream. He shakes himself, then smiles to indicate a change of tack:

  “So, Monsieur Delambre, what are you going to do now with all this money? Invest it? Start your own business? Launch yourself into a new career?”

  This is the final test in the conclusive assessment he’s just made of me. It’s like he’s handing me an invisible check for thirteen million euros but holding it tight between his fingers, forcing me to pull harder and harder. For now, he’s refusing to relent.

  “I want rest and relaxation. I just want a well-deserved retirement.”

  I’m clearly offering him a truce.

  “Goodness, don’t we all!” he assures me, as though he, too, only ever dreamed of the good life.

  On the balance of this, after a final second’s reflection, he releases the invisible check.

  This is what baffles me more than anything: the sum is of no importance whatsoever. It’ll simply be written off.

  In Alexandre Dorfmann’s world, the sum is not what makes him tick. The sum is not what he’s fought for.

  The idea that I’ve extorted him of a slush fund evaporates. I’m just a minnow leaving with a handful of change.

  47

  The car is as comfortable as it gets, but it’s still taking unbearably long. 8:05 p.m. It’s the tail end of people leaving the office. Most employees are heading back to their cars, apart from the execs, who are staring at another two or three hours’ work, best-case scenario. Even though I’ve been given the definitive green light, I don’t let myself think it’s over, that I’ve won, that I’ve nabbed the pot once and for all. My eyes are glued to the car phone. Nothing’s happening. Nothing. I reason with myself: for now, there’s nothing to worry about. I run through the numbers again, extending the margins of safety and rounding everything up: it all depends how fast Dorfmann relays his instructions. I look at the clock on the dashboard again: 8:10 p.m.

  I keep myself occupied, sending Charles a text with the address for the apartment. Quick glance at the dashboard: still nothing. I’m tempted to look at the photos of Nicole again, but I resist. They’ll scare me, and I have to believe that it’s futile to fear that everything is over. It’s counterproductive. I’m a few minutes away from the most important moment of my life. If everything goes well, this will be a great day for making amends.

  8:12 p.m.

  I can’t bear it any longer. I dial Nicole’s cell phone number. One ring, two, then a “hello” at the third: it’s her, straight through to her.

  “Nicole? Where are you?”

  I shout this. It takes her several seconds to answer. I’m not sure why. It’s as if she doesn’t recognize my voice. Maybe my screaming has sent her into a panic.

  “In a taxi,” she says eventually. “What about you, where are you?”

  “Are you by yourself in the taxi?”

  Why is she taking so long to answer my questions?

  “Yes, they . . . they let me go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  What a stupid question.

  “They told me I could go home.”

  There it is. I breathe. It’s over.

  Victory. I’ve won.

  An irrepressible wave of joy washes over me.

  My chest opens,
and I feel an urge to shout out, to howl.

  Victory.

  Move over job-center Delambre, here comes wealth-tax Delambre. Without the tax. I could cry. In fact I’m already crying, gripping the wheel with all my strength.

  Then I smack it furiously.

  Victory, victory, victory.

  “Alain . . . ,” Nicole says.

  I shriek with joy.

  Fucking hell, I managed to sink the lot of them. I can’t help gloating.

  I can spend 50,000 euros a month for the rest of my life. I’m going to buy three apartments. One for each of my girls. The whole thing’s unbelievable.

  “Alain . . . ,” Nicole repeats.

  “We won, my love! Where are you, tell me, where are you?”

  I realize that Nicole is crying. Very softly. I hadn’t noticed right away but now that I’m listening more closely, I can hear her little sobs, which are causing me so much pain. It’s normal, a normal aftereffect of fear. She needs reassurance.

  “It’s finished, my love, I promise you it’s finished. You’ve got nothing to fear anymore. Nothing else can happen to you. I need to explain . . .”

  “Alain . . .” she says again, unable to go any further.

  She repeats my name on a continuous loop. There are so many things to explain to her, but that will take time. First, I must reassure her.

  “What about you, Alain . . . ,” Nicole asks. “Where were you?”

  She’s not asking me where I am right now, but where I was when she needed me. I understand, but she doesn’t know the full extent of the problem. I’ll need to explain to her that I never left her, that all the time she was so afraid I was scoring a definitive victory over our miserable existence. For both of us. In the time we’ve been speaking, I’ve started the engine, left the Exxyal garage, and am heading for the fast lane back into Paris.

  “Right now, I’m in La Défense.”

  Nicole is taken aback.

  “But . . . what are you doing in La Défense?”