‘So, Maurice, there’s something fishy going on in Pondange, and you haven’t said a word to me about it?’ Quignard looks stunned. Tomaso continues: ‘Who were the man and woman who came to see you in your office this morning?’
A punch in the stomach probably has a similar effect: your body snaps in half, winded, your mind’s in a haze. Mustn’t bat an eyelid. The driver in the office. Fuck. It’s too late to improvise and too dangerous.
Quignard rapidly explains the situation as he sees it, carefully leaving out the journalist and his visit to Neveu’s widow. There’s no point in making things worse. He concludes:
‘In my view, there’s no immediate danger, which is why I decided not to say anything to you.’
‘That’s not what I think. First of all, a journalist came sniffing round the Oiseau Bleu last night, asking questions about you and your connection to me …’
A second blow to the stomach. Hard. How does he always manage to be one step ahead? The journalist, the same one who went to see the Neveu widow, for certain. How did he trace things back to me? And how did he discover the link between Tomaso and me? Quignard feels himself going into a tailspin.
‘… my man had just got hold of him when the explosion went off, and they couldn’t find him afterwards. I infer that there are people poking around who know a lot more than you imagine. So we can’t allow an eyewitness to what happened in the factory to be left hanging around. That’s the golden rule in my profession. No eyewitnesses.’ He rises. Standing, his legs slightly apart, his hands still resting on the back of the chair. ‘This girl’s name.’
It isn’t a question, it’s an order. Quignard blurts out in anguish, with a mixture of fear and pleasure:
‘Aisha Saidani.’
‘Where do we find her?’
‘Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A.’
‘I’m holding on to you, Maurice, you’ll have dinner with us. An intimate dinner among friends, here at the club, there’ll only be about ten of us. It’s seabass en croûte, and Deborah’s waiting for you. She was thrilled to hear you’ll be joining us. Trust me. In any case you have no option.’
26 October
When he hears the Mercedes pull up in front of the steps, at first Quignard retches. Last night, he was too smashed to realise he was being driven home. He’d been so drunk that he could almost claim he didn’t remember having told Tomaso: Aisha Saidani, Cité des Jonquilles. But this morning, sobered up and on an empty stomach, the idea of seeing his spy driver depresses him. Send him away? Delicate. That would be to sever relations with Tomaso. Could he? The blaze, Neveu, Park in Warsaw. Of course not. Does he want to? The tall, hard form leaning over him yesterday evening, the pent-up violence, the shudder of pleasure he experienced at that moment, which he remembers very clearly, and the uneasy feeling of abandon that followed. Of course not. He gulped down his coffee and cut breakfast short. Back to his daily routine: the morning papers, anxious to know. He hurries.
The Mercedes is there as usual. The driver is someone new. Tomaso had the bright idea of substituting him. He greets him with a groan, slumps on the back seat and spreads out the front pages of the three national dailies. Identical headlines: Thomson Multimedia employees organise national strike and demonstrate against Daewoo taking over their company. Relief. No point reading the articles. What effect can a strike have on the great machinations of international finance? None, it’s almost laughable. These people will never understand. He folds up the newspapers. Then anxiety resurfaces. Daewoo is the press’s main target, for the second time. Not being shielded by Matra makes that dangerous, with the shit-stirrer in the area who’s already traced things back to Tomaso. According to the superintendent, he’s straight. But it’s so easy to get it wrong. I’m going to have another chat to him about it. He leans back in his seat and admires the last patches of forest shrouded in fog, fragmenting as they near the city. The trees are turning russet, the leaves will soon fall, and they’ll be able to go hunting in the woods. I must take a tour of the Grande Commune with the gamekeeper to see where the pheasants are. Time’s going on. We’ve only got to hold out for a few more weeks, three or four at the most, get the Privatisation Commission’s approval, Brussels’ approval, and it’s all in the bag. We’ve held out so far. And yet … His stomach is in knots, it’s hard to breathe. Spiral. Park’s tricks first of all, right under his nose, without him noticing a thing, and he’d thought he was totally in control, the devastating blaze when he’d been expecting a dustbin fire. With that question nagging him since last night: Supposing Tomaso had deliberately overstepped the mark? With Neveu the infernal machine is set in motion, the discovery of Park’s fraudulent accounting system, Maréchal who drops him, the unstoppable Tomaso who takes charge. Admit it: I’ve lost control. The driver’s broad, impassive back and neck. They’re all the same, I’m free but under close surveillance. Random images of last night’s blondes, Deborah and the other one whose name he doesn’t even know, abundant flesh, pink and white, moist, wet, and that feeling of being cocooned. A phrase goes round and round in his head: an old man’s pleasures. He fears the days to come.
Quignard realises that the car has stopped outside his office, it’s probably been there for a while. He leans towards his driver.
‘Take me to the Grande Commune. I’m unavailable for the rest of the day. Unless Tomaso calls, of course.’
Montoya drops Rolande at the Cité des Jonquilles around mid-morning (no, let’s not arrange to meet, Pondange is a very small town, you know, you’ll find me easily), a smile, and the door slams. Then he stops at a cafe and drinks a coffee and brandy standing at the bar. Alone and glad to be on his own. A break before getting back to work. Time to plan the bugging of Quignard’s office.
The offices of Quignard’s design consultancy specialising in industrial reconversions are in Pondange, in the Grands Bureaux building, formerly the head office of the Pondange Steelworks Company. In other words, the nerve centre of the entire valley. Montoya has a very clear, physical, almost painful memory of it. A massive cube of blackish stone, standing at the frontier between the world of the city and that of the blast furnaces, with the roar of the steelworks always in the background. The main façade opened on to the town. There were two doors, side by side. One, the monumental doorway, white stone steps, colonnade supporting a balcony, solid carved wooden double door, was opened just once a month for board meetings, both doors flung wide open for the occasion. Only the directors in their dark suits and Homburgs were entitled to cross the threshold, watched by the local press photographers. The other, very ordinary, door was used by the staff going in to work each day. The young Montoya used to imagine the hundreds of employees shut up in there all day long, labouring like the workers you could glimpse through the factory gates, and he would never go near it, for fear that these barracks might gobble him up. The idea of returning under cover thirty-five years later, breaking in and installing an illegal phone tap puts him in a mood of slight elation mingled with the physical tiredness of the night, his muscles stiff, the image of straight wisps of damp hair plastered against Rolande’s cheeks, gales of laughter, the memory of the faint taste of soap bubbles in the corner of his mouth, stimulating a sense of fulfilment.
Carry out a recce. Hard to recognise the Grands Bureaux of his childhood. The building, of beautiful Lorraine limestone, has been cleaned up and glows golden yellow in the sun. The staff and the guest entrances are both neglected. The two trees either side of the colonnade are no longer pruned, and their branches reach down to the ground encroaching on to the terrace where the big French doors of the boardroom are protected by wooden shutters. An easy way in, sheltered from view. We’ll enter through here. He walks round to the building’s rear façade which used to overlook the yard of the great ironworks, and comes to carefully manicured lawns running down to the river where poplars, trees that grow quickly, have been planted. A new entrance, all in glass, has been added, facing the verdant valley. In the sun-drenched lobb
y, a charming receptionist behind a counter smiles at him. The names of all the companies with offices in the building are on a huge board. Employment and training on every floor. The parasites that thrive on the social management of unemployment have all found refuge here, thanks to the hospitality of the municipality, which bought the Grands Bureaux. You did the right thing in getting out, kid.
‘Mr Amrouche of the COFEP design consultancy, please?’
‘First floor, door 110.’
He climbs the stairs, follows the long corridor which goes all round the building and on to which all the offices open. He is totally alone. He takes the time to study the walls and ceilings carefully. No indication of any surveillance cameras or alarms. Quite logical really. Guarantee the security of what? Employment? He walks all the way round to the wing where the grand entrance is. A huge monumental staircase flanked by early twentieth-century stained-glass windows celebrating the men of iron and fire in blues and yellows made vivid by the sunlight. The factories have been razed, but the windows have been preserved. Opposite are the padded double doors of the boardroom. Still no one in sight. He hunches over the lock, holding a bunch of master keys, it’s child’s play, and soon finds himself in the large dark room with a pervasively musty smell. He gropes his way forward to the French door, which he opens a crack. Free entry tonight. He turns round. Rows of tables and chairs, baize, ashtrays, crystal chandeliers. At the far end is the chairman’s armchair. Ghosts. The smell grows stronger, haunting, he finds it suffocating, got to get out. Another long corridor, still no living soul, and at last, door 110 which leads to COFEP’s offices.
An internal area furnished as a waiting room or small lounge, containing three armchairs, a water fountain, a coffee machine, and five doors. Quignard’s name is on the door at the end and Amrouche’s is on the door to his left. No visible security system. He knocks and enters.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you? If possible I’d like to continue the enjoyable conversation we began yesterday.’
Without hesitation, Amrouche closes the file spread open in front of him and stands up.
‘It will be a pleasure. Come, we’ll be more comfortable by the coffee machine.’
There’s a danger of bumping into Quignard. Too bad, impossible to refuse, have to be quick. Behind a door, phones ringing and a woman’s voice. His secretary most likely. Amrouche fills two cups with coffee and comes and sits beside Montoya, stretches his leg and back muscles and smiles.
‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘The occupation of the offices. You were the ringleader. Were there many of you occupying?’
‘At first, yes. More than fifty. One or two hours later, I walked around and there were only twenty or so of us at most.’
‘I know that Bouziane and Neveu were there. Did you see them?’
Amrouche fidgets in his armchair, looks away, suddenly assailed by images of arses jerking up and down, clears his throat, hesitates, then answers.
‘Yes, they were playing video games on a computer. Why?’
Montoya takes his time, sips his coffee, not bad by the way. Bouziane, the trail’s getting warm. At last.
‘I’m interested in the drug dealing at Daewoo.’
Relieved, Amrouche laughs.
‘You’re not the only one. And you are utterly mistaken. Bouziane was a small-time dealer and Neveu liked the odd spliff. That’s it and honestly nothing to write an article about.’
A place known as the Haute Chapelle, on the Paris-Nancy road. On the edge of the village, Montoya pulls up in an improvised car park cluttered with a few articulated lorries. Between the car park and the road, stands an isolated, one-storey house, its shutters closed. On the front a sign in big black lettering reads “Au rendez-vous des voyageurs” beside a round blue and red Relais des Routiers plaque. The place is poorly lit, and looks deserted and sinister. Montoya pushes open the door and finds himself in the bar where he is immediately hit by heat, noise and smoke. The room is packed with young and not-so-young men, beer drinkers, jostling and yelling at each other. The owner and his wife are busy behind the bar, and in a corner, at two Formica tables, a small group is eating pork and cabbage hotpot from soup bowls. On the telephone, Valentin had said: ‘Don’t stop at the bar, go into the restaurant.’ At the back to the left, there’s a door masked by a bead curtain, and above it an enamel plaque: Dining room. In the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit room, twenty or so tables with check tablecloths and bunches of plastic flowers. A strapping waitress greets Montoya, who chooses an isolated table in a corner and sits facing the door. Ten or so lone men are eating in silence, probably in need of some peace and quiet before driving through most of the night. So do I, thinks Montoya, I need peace and quiet. Valentin pays amazing attention to detail.
A rare steak, chips, and a carafe of water. It comes quickly – here everyone knows their job – and Montoya starts eating.
The bead curtain rustles, a burst of conversation from the bar, a man comes in. Montoya lifts his head and looks at him. Tall, thin, a khaki parka down to his knees, close-cropped hair, his face furrowed with wrinkles and a pasty complexion. His dull, faded eyes darting everywhere meet Montoya’s gaze. The man comes towards him.
‘Christophe.’
‘Sébastien.’
‘Our mutual friend sent me.’
A subdued, croaking, broken voice, a tormented voice. He’s probably had his trachea crushed, his vocal chords damaged. Fight, accident or punishment? A battered life. Valentin’s probably got him by the balls.
‘Sit down. Pleased to meet you.’
The man orders steak and chips and begins to eat slowly, without saying a word, his eyes always on the lookout.
‘You know what we have to do tonight?’
‘More or less. Bug an office.’
‘I’m in charge of getting in and getting out. You’re in charge of the work inside. And our friend takes care of the rest.’ The man nods while chewing. ‘I’ve carried out a recce, the operation shouldn’t be difficult.’
A wan smile. ‘If you say so …’
The restaurant empties, no point hanging around. Coffee. The man toys with the spoon, long, elegant, bony fingers, never still. Relentless training? The bill. He thrusts his nervous hands into the vast pockets of his parka. Coins deep in the corners of his pockets, notes, an amber rosary? Montoya reckons he’s done a spell in detox, and that it was rough. Maybe in jail. Familiar world. He’s come across hundreds of men of his ilk. Without knowing why, he has a hunch that he’s an excellent professional. As long as someone’s there to lead the way.
In the car park, the two men part company, each gets into his own car, rendezvous in Pondange at eleven-thirty in the main square.
Rubber gloves, cotton balaclavas pulled over their eyes, the two men prepare in the shelter of a tree. Then a rope slipped over a branch, a jump up on to the balcony, a few rapid steps, bent double under the cover of the balustrade, an open French door, groping their way through the boardroom, empty corridor, the two men walk quickly, without running, barely breathing. Door no, master key in the lock, on into the waiting room, yet another door, at last Quignard’s office. Montoya gets his breath back while the expert unwraps his toolkit carefully stowed in a wide canvas belt hidden under the voluminous parka, and sets to work. Speed, the precision of his long bony fingers. The man knows what he has to do. Montoya glances at the desk piled high with files. Banks, Department of Labour, chartered accountants … Valentin doesn’t want Montoya to search his papers: don’t arouse Quignard’s suspicions for nothing, a responsible boss doesn’t leave compromising documents lying around in his office. You never know … but orders are orders. He moves away, walks over to the big bay window looking out over the valley. In the moonlight, a rural landscape in grey and ice-blue, poplars, meadows, river, the foothills of the plateau, the dark mass of the forest. No variations in the light, not the least nuance, no breath of air, not a creature stirring. And no sound penetrates the double glazing. Death
valley. The expert brushes his shoulder, he’s done.
Return by the same route, Montoya ensuring he shuts all the doors behind him.
At the foot of the tree, the two men remove their gloves, the balaclavas, touch hands, palm to palm.
‘I’ve known worse,’ breathes the expert. And they go their separate ways. The entire operation took seventeen minutes.
PART FOUR
27 October
Quignard has an early business breakfast appointment in Brussels today, and leaves Pondange in the small hours, before the national press reaches the region. He feels a mounting anxiety during the journey, and by the time he reaches the suburbs of Brussels, he’s having difficulty breathing.
In the lobby of the Silken Berlaymont Brussels, he rushes over to the newspaper stand and flicks rapidly through the papers: no headlines. He begins to breathe more easily. That’s a good sign, the worst of the attacks is probably over. He heads for the dining room leafing through the papers in search of the financial section. He finds the Figaro’s. It reads:
THOMSON PRIVATISATION
COB LAUNCHES INVESTIGATION INTO INSIDER DEALING
The financial editor hasn’t had time to write an article and merely reproduces the AFP despatch:
Following several anonymous tip-offs, an initial examination of Matra share fluctuations suggests the possibility of insider dealing, with funds being channelled into private accounts in Luxembourg. COB, the stock market regulator, has decided to launch a full investigation.
Lorraine Connection Page 17