‘A system of bogus invoices set up by Park to pay the Koreans’ bonuses, directly negotiated with the bank. Quignard kept in the dark until the strike, a call from Park himself, panic-stricken, when the occupation of the offices began. Is that enough for you?’
‘That’s enough. You’re a magnificent woman.’
Rolande clings to Montoya’s arm until the two coffins are lowered into the ground. No condolences. They leave the cemetery together. On reaching the road, Rolande stops, looks intently at Montoya’s face, one finger carefully traces the shape of his eyebrows, cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, as if to try and memorise them. She leans forward, places a chaste, affectionate kiss on his lips, and walks off quickly. Twenty metres away, a car is waiting, a man at the wheel, whose features Montoya can’t make out. Rolande gets into the passenger seat, the car starts up and drives off. It takes the stunned Montoya a few moments to recover his wits. Let her leave, that’s understandable, but with another man, in front of my eyes … I’ll think about it tomorrow. Then he moves away from the stream of people leaving the cemetery to phone Valentin.
Two hours later, Rolande emerges from the Parillaud-Luxembourg bank on the arm of Germont, Daewoo’s accountant. He’s just transferred the contents of the ten accounts he was managing into one opened in the name of Rolande Lepetit, and she’s just emptied it, using her signature and the secret code. A tidy sum, nearly a million francs, in crisp new notes. Now carefully stashed in a black plastic briefcase, which she holds at arm’s length, flabbergasted that such a huge sum can fit into such a small space. They’ve agreed to go fifty-fifty, as soon as they’re safely back in France.
Rolande pauses on the steps outside the bank. She blinks, dazzled by the sunshine, spots the taxi rank further down the street and turns to the accountant. He’s a small, very ordinary man in a cheap suit, his hair plastered down, glasses, flabby features. She gives him a radiant smile, strokes his cheek, takes his arm and pulls him into the street. They take a few steps, leaning against each other, then Rolande stops in front of the first taxi in the line, closes in on the short accountant and kisses him on the mouth. He puts his arms around her, surprised at first, then delighted at his good luck. Just as he embraces her, a woman rushes across the street, screaming insults: his wife, the harridan Maréchal had mentioned, alerted that same morning by an anonymous phone call, a slightly husky woman’s voice telling her the time and the place where her husband would be meeting his blonde mistress. A native of Luxembourg and a top executive at the Parillaud bank, the anonymous voice had explained. The harridan slaps Rolande, and clutches her man. Rolande doesn’t hang around, she simply leans over to open the taxi door and climbs in hugging the black plastic briefcase to her chest.
‘Go, quick. Straight ahead, anywhere.’ The taxi starts up. ‘I hate domestic fights. She wants her man, she can keep him. Did you see the guy? I’ll get over it.’
Rolande does not look back. Behind her she leaves the accountant who’s beside himself with fury, and his astounded wife. After a few minutes, the driver asks his customer: ‘Where to, madam?’
First of all, pick up my son, then get out of here.
‘How much will you charge to drive me to Metz?’
30 October
Montoya’s off to scout around Warsaw. Comfortably installed in first class, he’s put his seat into the reclining position and is lying back and dozing. Valentin had entered into brisk negotiations with Park. You’re going to find a little guy scared shitless, completely out of his depth in this game. Positive in one way, dangerous in another. Fear is not a wise counsel. We return the lists of Korean managers to him. We have a copy. We give him a payment in dollars. Comfortable, no more. Rossellini will have the money on him. We promise the Korean that we will ensure his extradition and his transfer elsewhere. We could do it that way, but I really don’t see how. In any case, that side of things doesn’t concern you. You’re going to be operating on foreign soil with no preparation, no support, and without any real fallback position. And I’m saddling you with Rossellini, who will be of no help to you and might even embark on some ill-advised course of action, but you have to guarantee his safety, and that of the cash. That’s life, my friend. Montoya, half asleep. That’s life.
Warsaw. Taxi to Daewoo’s head office on the main avenue from the airport to the city centre. A four-storey glass and steel building with a plaza paved in white stone, set back from the avenue and surrounded by landscaped gardens, shrubs, trimmed hedges, lawns and clumps of trees. Here and there, other luxury office blocks. During working hours, the place is fairly deserted. Montoya hangs around in the vicinity, locates a possible way into the building through the unlocked dustbin room at the back.
A little scout around town. Montoya hides near the apartment block where Park lives and eventually spots his man, at around eight p.m., encased in a voluminous grey wool coat with a fur collar and a dark grey trilby, his moon face reduced by huge tortoiseshell spectacles. He’s alone, stops for a drink at the local cafe and, still alone, enters his apartment block, followed by Montoya. Fourth floor, nothing to report. A very brief recce, but I don’t see what more I could have done. Montoya heads back to the vicinity of the airport to sleep in an anonymous hotel.
31 October
Rossellini’s sitting by the window gazing out at the shifting layer of luminous white cloud thousands of metres below, stretching as far as the eye can see. We’ve reached the denouement. An electric tingle. Each day he handles tens of millions by simply clicking his mouse, shifting huge sums around, transferring them across borders, hiding and making them reappear without the slightest emotion, sometimes even with a faint sense of boredom. Today he has a much smaller sum inside the lining of his jacket, but it’s in cash, which he feels rub against his chest when he turns to look out of the window. He’s got to physically transport it across the border, walking calmly, looking preoccupied and absent, right under the noses of the customs officers. Thrilling in a different way. He fishes a pillbox from his pocket, takes out a little blue tablet which he swallows, and continues gazing at the hypnotic clouds. The odd chuckle escapes him from time to time, like a schoolboy raiding a condom machine in a supermarket.
He clears customs without any difficulty. Montoya’s waiting for him at the exit. Handshake. Rossellini swings between a sense of complicity with a fellow fighter, and aloof disdain.
A taxi drops them in the midst of the lawns and copses. The weather is fine and cool – ‘Just perfect for a little stroll,’ says Montoya with a half-smile – and he leads Rossellini through the gardens to the edge of the empty plaza in front of Daewoo’s head office. Montoya telephones.
‘Park hasn’t arrived yet. He shouldn’t be long. We’ll wait for him under this pine tree. Once he’s inside the building, we’ll sneak in behind him.’
Rossellini feels an irrepressible urge to laugh again. He chuckles. Is this a game? He decides to be patient.
‘You’re a walking safe, and Park may not be the only person who knows it. We’re dealing with a bunch of crooks about whom we know nothing, except that they’re already involved in more than one murder. Valentin asked me to bring you back alive, if possible, so I’m trying to minimise the risks. This empty plaza surrounded by trees looks to me like the perfect place to practise shooting at a moving target. OK? You might find it amusing, but you’ll do as I say, and don’t lose control.’
Rossellini, shaken, takes his pillbox out of his pocket and swallows a small blue tablet.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ snaps Montoya.
Just then, he catches sight of Park at the entrance to the plaza, muffled in his coat. He’s alone, walking briskly, swinging a black leather briefcase at arm’s length. Montoya grabs Rossellini by the shoulder.
‘There he is. Don’t move.’
The words are barely out of his mouth when two sharp shots ring out in quick succession. The figure stumbles, as if pushed from behind, spreads his arms, jerks and crumples to the ground, his arms outspread, without a sound. In
dubitably dead. Montoya is still squeezing Rossellini’s shoulder, which he can feel shaking, while keeping an eye all around them. The shots must have been fired from the other side of the avenue. He locates a clump of trees, the killer probably has a gun with a telescopic sight trained on the path across the plaza to the main door of the building. It must have a super-efficient firing mechanism. He just catches a glimpse of two men walking calmly away from the trees, across the gardens.
‘We’re not the target. The killers probably don’t even know we’re here.’ He turns to Rossellini for a rapid check. He’s pale, after all it’s the first time he’s witnessed a murder at close hand, but still calm. He’s reliable and bearing up better than expected. ‘Now you’re going to leave the gardens without hurrying, and stay out of sight until you reach the avenue. Take a taxi or a bus, go back to the airport and wait for me there. See you at the cafe in departures. No pills before I get back. Go.’
Rossellini disappears without a word. As yet nobody on the plaza, or near the prone form. Montoya runs over to the body and turns it on to its back. Mind the spreading pool of blood. He searches Park’s inside pockets and his jacket and coat pockets. Nothing. The briefcase is locked. Forces the lock: blank paper, two pens, a packet of Kleenex. He straightens up and runs to the entrance of the Daewoo building, calling for help and waving his arms around. In reception, a stunning young blonde is standing on tiptoe behind the desk, trying to see what’s going on outside and discover the reason for this unusual commotion without leaving her post. Montoya talks very fast, in rapid, stilted English.
‘A man shot, there, on the plaza, murder, two bullets in the back. A Korean, one of your employees, call the police, your manager. Mr Park’s office?’
The receptionist, overwhelmed, has her hand on the telephone: ‘Office 23, sixth floor.’ Montoya rushes to the lift. But he’s not there yet. The lift door closes. A helpless shrug then she gets busy raising the alarm throughout the building.
Montoya takes the lift up to the sixth floor where the executive offices are. By the time he steps out, news of the murder of ‘one of us’ on the plaza is beginning to spread and people are pouring out of the offices. He takes refuge in the toilets and emerges when he reckons the coast is clear. He finds door 23, picks the lock and goes inside. Luckily the office is small and uncluttered. Not exactly overworked in Warsaw, Park. Move fast. Go for the most obvious: two files on the desk, not what I’m looking for. Three drawers, not locked, magazines, an English novel, a bottle of Scotch. A metal filing cabinet, ten or so files that look more like stage props than work tools, like the empty briefcase earlier. Still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Perhaps I’d better stop and think instead of being quite so busy. Montoya sits at the desk in Park’s chair and breathes deeply. Calm. It all comes back to the same question: Do the lists exist? Doubt enters in: It’s too good to be true. Apparently Quignard believed it, because he had Park killed. And he knows the outfit well. Supposing they do exist. Valentin told us he’d realised the seriousness of his situation, he was scared and he really wanted to negotiate with us so he could disappear. He turned up for our appointment. So either he must have had the lists on him or else they’re here. Second point: if he was really scared, to the point of agreeing to do business with us, it was because here he was working alone. Blackmailing Quignard was his own idea. He stole the lists. He knows the Koreans here are crooks and he’s afraid of them, as afraid as he is of Quignard. He’s afraid of everyone. So the lists have to be hidden. In an unusual place, on his person or here. I didn’t search him thoroughly enough, but it’s too late for that now. Either I find them at once or I tear the office apart. Montoya stands up again, looks on and under the furniture, checks the backs of the drawers, inspects the desk top, still nothing. The white moulded plastic desk chair has a round, padded cushion with a brown cover. He picks up the cushion. Nothing. Feels it. The cover has a zip. Opens it. Inside the cover, a plastic sleeve as brown as the cushion cover, and inside that, twenty or so sheets of paper, which he flicks through very quickly. The first few are summaries, purchases, sales and delivery orders, Pondange-Warsaw, no time to read them, this must be the scheme mentioned in the phone conversation between Park and Quignard. On the next sheets, names of banks, account numbers and code numbers, a few dates and sums paid in. Finally, on the very last sheet, the names of the numbered account holders. A few names leap out – all senior French state figures. This is dynamite.
Montoya closes the file straight away. If anyone asks me, I’ve never seen that piece of paper, I’ve not read anything. Runs his fingertips over the brown sleeve. In the eye of the storm. Real life. And a hint of curiosity: How is Valentin going to get rid of a bombshell like this? What if it’s too sensational to be of any use? Not my problem. He folds the sleeve lengthways, slips it into the innermost pocket of his coat, which he buttons up, suddenly calm, pleased and sure of himself. I’ve won, this affair is over. Affair … Rolande. Free. Gone. All I have of her is the delightful memory of her smooth wet skin, her wacky vamp look, and the ambiguous gentleness of her fluttering hands. What bliss. He puts the cushion back on the chair and leaves the office without hurrying. Corridor, lift, basement, find the back exit at the rear of the building, still no one around, this is easy.
Rossellini’s waiting for him at the airport bar, where he’s downing coffee after coffee, leafing through the English language newspapers. Montoya sits down at his table, stretches out his legs, and smiles.
‘I’ve got the documents. Do you still have the money?’
Smile. ‘Of course. What would I spend it on here?’ He takes the plane tickets out of his pocket. ‘Let’s go. The next plane for Paris takes off in less than an hour. I was worried you’d miss it.’
1 November
All Saints’ Day and a public holiday. Alcatel’s head office is silent, empty. Just an occasional security guard doing the rounds. In Valentin’s little office on the top floor the soundproofed door is carefully locked, there’s quite a crush. Valentin has placed photocopies of the documents Montoya brought back the day before on the table. Fayolle, personal lawyer and right-hand man of the big boss of Alcatel, Rossellini and Benoît-Rey, all three casually dressed in fine wool sweaters and corduroy jackets, as if to emphasise the completely informal nature of the meeting, are reading the documents avidly, page by page. Suppressed sighs and sidelong glances. Valentin makes coffee, and Montoya remains on his feet to one side, leaning against the desk with a vacant air.
Rossellini and Benoît-Rey look up at the same time. Their sentiments are the same: it’s a knockout victory. A job well done. But no one speaks, waiting to hear what Fayolle has to say. He takes his time, reading and rereading the last page before opening his mouth, his face a stiff mask.
‘We have enough to bring down the government, which was not our original intention. Everyone would lose out massively.’ He pushes the documents back to the centre of the table. ‘This is so big, I don’t see how we could use it.’
Valentin serves coffee. Fayolle drinks his standing in front of the window, absorbed in contemplation of the Eiffel Tower, the top of which is lost in the haze of an autumn mist. Benoît-Rey clenches his teeth in exasperation. What did the big boss expect, sending us off to rummage around in dustbins? So we could bring him a bunch of dead flowers? All that for nothing? As for this Fayolle, what credibility does he have? Rossellini, elbows on the table, clutching his head, repeats to himself: Fayolle’s going to back down. If he backs down, what happens to me? How do we force him to act? Anonymous phone call to the Prime Minister? No. Leaks to the press … Names are already coming to mind … Fayolle puts down his empty cup and turns round.
‘What do you think, Valentin?’
Valentin gathers up the files, makes a neat pile of them, then folds and rests his hands on the top.
‘I share your point of view, dear sir. We can’t make any public use whatsoever of this information. The situation would run out of control. But nor can we pretend this f
ile doesn’t exist and simply drop the matter. If Daewoo takes over Thomson Multimedia we now know for certain that with its management methods the company will go belly up, and probably very soon. How do you know that this list of backhanders won’t surface again then? If we were able to dig it up, others can do the same. On the other hand, if Daewoo loses the bid, nobody will have the least interest in it any more and a scandal will have been averted.’
Montoya turns back to the coffee machine with a smile. Alcatel, the white knight, to the rescue of the Republic. Great cops and the Jesuits definitely have a number of things in common. He pours himself another cup.
Sitting down again, Benoît-Rey carefully weighs his words.
‘Let’s take things one at a time. The choice of Daewoo was the result of bribery, we have the documents to prove it. Although there’s no point in us making this public, those who are implicated have a lot more to lose than we do.’ Fayolle makes a gesture. ‘Or at least, they’ll think they do. We make it discreetly known that we have these papers, the decision is quashed. On that point, I share the view that Valentin has held from the start, it doesn’t matter how. And all these documents we have here disappear.’
‘The whole problem, Pierre, rests on the word “discreetly”. It is out of question for us to go and see the senior politicians to tell them, and I don’t see who’d agree to act as our spokesperson. These days, as in the past, they shoot the messenger.’
Valentin speaks up again.
‘We shouldn’t look for an individual, but rather an influential association or body that has moral authority, with contacts in each camp. Haven’t you got someone suitable among your alumni networks? What else is the old school tie for?’
‘Yes, we do. The École Polytechnique Engineers association which I belong to.’
Lorraine Connection Page 21