“Where do you think he’s been?” asked Pierre-Gabriel.
“I’ll get him to tell me tonight. Now it’s your turn. Remember, you have to act natural and relaxed. You don’t know anything, so you have to be familiar and friendly. Don’t let him see you as altered or defensive.”
“Don’t worry; I’m good at these situations.”
“I’m off, call me later. It’s not wise to be seen together.”
Pierre-Gabriel strolled toward his glass office, cup of coffee in hand, as Morgane slipped through the elevator doors.
From the elevator hall and the vending machine room, both dimly lit, all the glass boxes lining the corridor were visible from a hidden vantage point. They were on the fourth floor, and the only light that reached them was from sickly white fluorescents.
As he approached, Pierre-Gabriel could see Maillard snooping through his cubicle, looking around, leafing through the programming lists, even opening his desk drawers.
“You won’t find anything I don’t want you to find,” whispered Pierre-Gabriel to himself before opening the door. “Looking for anything in particular? May I help?” he asked politely as he entered.
Maillard was startled. He turned toward Pierre-Gabriel and said, looking into his eyes, not at all bothered that he’d been caught red-handed, “I’m trying to find the lists you’re working on—Pichon’s.”
“They aren’t here. I didn’t want to run the risk of someone seeing them or taking them away. Many millions are at stake.”
“Where are they?”
“What’s the big rush? There’s still a lot for me to analyze, but I’m sure I’ll find the answer shortly. Be patient and trust me.”
“There’s nothing more to analyze. Someone has deleted all the compromised programs and replaced them with others that only do their job—the transactions.”
Pierre-Gabriel was livid and stumped. Thanks to Morgane, he thought he had the upper hand, but Maillard had just put him in checkmate.
“How? What happened? On Friday—”
“On Friday, everything was there. But between Friday and this morning, somebody normalized the situation. There is no evidence, claims, or money. There is no way to get him. Nothing has happened here.”
“So what do you want the lists for? They’re not important anymore.”
“I don’t want any loose ends that could implicate me later under any circumstances. Have I made myself clear?”
“Who did it? The only culprit is in a coma.”
When he saw Maillard’s face, Pierre-Gabriel again looked petrified. It wasn’t possible that Pichon was no longer in a coma.
“Pichon . . . is out of the coma?” he asked in a perplexed voice.
“I see the penny has dropped,” replied Jean-Philippe. “From now on, it will be best if you focus on the functions we’ve hired you for. I want you to appoint a good work team for the transactions, and remember to bring me those lists.”
As Jean-Philippe was leaving, he stopped at the door and added in a strange tone, “Don’t forget to give my daughter a kiss tonight. Tell her I miss her.”
And off he went, leaving Pierre-Gabriel in a sea of frustration and questions.
35
“What are you playing at? I just found out from somebody who works in the access rights department that this morning at nine, Maillard requested special access to the transactions under my name. Then extended it to the security backups of the last two weeks.”
Pierre-Gabriel was sitting in his glass cubicle, talking on his cell phone.
When Maillard had disappeared from the elevator hall, Pierre-Gabriel went to see the person who oversaw access rights to ask for a temporary pass that would allow him to access the operations area and run some checks. It was a normal procedure. First the programs or their modifications were created, following strict analysis standards and meeting a set of specifications; then they underwent development and run-in tests; and finally they proceeded to the execution or operation.
“Again? Maillard already requested one for you this morning. Then he extended it to the list of security backups without respecting the protocol—and he was in a foul mood, by the way,” said the programmer in charge, sulking.
“He didn’t inform me of that.”
“I just saw him leaving your fish tank.”
“That’s why I’m here—he asked me to check something in the transactions operation.”
“Your pass expired at one this afternoon. He’s getting old, and it’s time for him to retire,” announced the programmer with contempt, knowing that Pierre-Gabriel was Maillard’s son-in-law and, it seemed obvious, a potential protégé.
“He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s the boss. And until there are any new orders, he’s the one in charge,” barked Pierre-Gabriel, looking the programmer straight in the eye.
The programmer measured his gaze with pride for a few seconds while he weighed out how to take those words. Finally he opted for bowing out and reestablishing their camaraderie. “I feel for you, it must be hard having him as a boss as well as being related to him. I’ll extend your access until six thirty this evening. Will that be enough time?”
“Plenty, that’s perfect. Another favor: Can you tell me if anybody used that pass for access this morning?”
The programmer typed and clicked a few times, then said, “Yes, ten to eleven thirty this morning from the terminal in Maillard’s office.”
“Perhaps he tried to have a look on his own, but technical work isn’t his forte. It’s going to be up to me to deal with the issue.”
“I’ll email you with your password.”
“Thank you. Don’t send him a copy—he’s very proud, and it’s not necessary to remind him that he messed up by forgetting to let me know.”
“Don’t worry, and good luck.”
“You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”
Pierre-Gabriel came out thinking that he’d gained an ally. He’d always known how to win people over and manage them at will. He returned to his desk and spent more than an hour checking the partition of operation of the transactions. There was no sign of Pichon’s programs. It was as if they’d never existed. Pierre-Gabriel used the extension access to the security copies but found nothing—Pichon’s programs were simply not there.
He called Morgane as soon as he completed his checks, gripped by frustration and rage.
She tried to calm him down. “I still haven’t spoken to him. I’ll drop by his house tonight. I’m sure he’ll tell me something, I know his weak spots. Tomorrow we’ll know what the deal is. But what I’m most worried about is where he was until three thirty this afternoon. When I called his office, his secretary didn’t know where he’d been or when he would be back. He had her cancel all his appointments for the day. His driver was still waiting and didn’t know anything either.”
“Maillard is an old fox. He didn’t tell me directly that it was Pichon who deleted and replaced the programs—he only guided me toward reaching that conclusion myself.”
“What are you saying?”
“The access he requested in my name this morning was used from his terminal between ten and eleven thirty. That red giant is an IT expert, according to what Maillard told you, right? What if he found out where the money was going? It’s reasonable to think that Maillard asked him to delete all the evidence, so everything would be back to normal. Did the redhead tell you anything that would suggest this?”
Morgane paused for a few seconds before answering. As a risks director, she was analyzing the situation, considering the real facts, suppositions, and extrapolations. It was her specialty, and she was very good at it.
“He didn’t want to talk about work. As soon as I broached the subject, he closed up like a clam. But I have his address, and I agreed that if I’m ever in Poitiers, we’ll visit the cathedral together. I eve
n told him I had to take a few vacation days soon. Depending on what Maillard tells me tonight, we’ll see what we do. Maybe tomorrow I’ll go and do a bit of sightseeing.”
“Be careful. From what you’ve told me, he’s like a child. If he rats us out to Maillard, he’ll crucify you.”
“Officially I’m called Éveline, and I’m in charge of photocopies in documentation services.”
“Very clever, pretending to be that little blonde from the second floor. Given her reputation, nobody would be surprised. I’ll drop by the hospital to see if Pichon is bluffing his way out. Even if they discovered the change of bags, they can’t get him out of an induced coma just like that.”
“Don’t go—it’s a risk we can’t allow ourselves right now. Tomorrow we’ll see what we can do. Let me work on Jean-Philippe tonight. You continue your investigation into Pichon’s programs. If the redhead discovered something, it will be among those processes, and you’ll find it also.”
They hung up, and Pierre-Gabriel sat for a while observing his own reflection in the glass of his fish tank. When he looked at his watch, it was a quarter to six. Time to go. He got up energetically, and after putting on his blazer and overcoat, he went toward the large cardboard box he was using as a trash can, emptied out all the crumpled paper, and took the rest of the pages with him. He would investigate Pichon’s programs in a safer and more discreet place. Home, for example.
36
Tash woke up in a good mood: they were discharging Henri at noon.
She had lots to do. She had agreed to meet up with Valérie, Yvette, Etienne, and Marcel for lunch at Le Relais de la Butte in Montmartre. She had just completed part of a project and taken the week off work—they wouldn’t be missing her.
She looked at the small white alarm clock that was making such a racket. It was eight o’clock. She pressed the “Off” button.
Strange that she hadn’t heard Pierre-Gabriel’s alarm; it always went off before hers. Maybe he forgot to set it. When she got home the previous day, he was already there with his work spread out on the dining table, analyzing Henri’s transactions. He barely replied when she said hello. She took a bite of pizza and grimaced at the beer, going for a glass of water instead.
Later on, Tash went to the bedroom to read, and Pierre-Gabriel didn’t bat an eyelid—he seemed to be concentrating hard. He was thinking about the encrypted comments, and perhaps he was trying to find the code. No, he probably hadn’t even realized it was there. In any case, it made no difference—within a few days, she’d have to tell him she was leaving him. For her, the sensation was something akin to telling a sibling, “I’m moving out of the house and going my own way.” And she sincerely thought it would feel the same to him. Perhaps they’d need to wait awhile before letting her father know so that Pierre-Gabriel’s career would be settled at the bank. There would be no competition, as Henri had said he didn’t want to work there again. He was going to look for something else; perhaps they would go live abroad. A change of scenery, he’d said.
She looked to her left. Pierre-Gabriel’s pillow was intact, and his side of the bed was perfectly made. Tash got up, intrigued, and confirmed her suspicions as soon as she entered the dining room. Her husband was asleep with his head on the table among his papers, his glasses all crooked.
She felt a little sorry for him and tiptoed over to wake him up gently.
“Pierre-Gabriel. Pierre-Gabriel, it’s eight.”
“I must have fallen asleep,” he said, blinking at the sun pouring in through the window.
“Do you want to have breakfast with me?”
“Thank you, but today I’m going to stay here. I’m not feeling well, and I want to finish this once and for all. I’ll feel more at ease here. What about you?”
“I have to go. I have a complicated project deadline this week.”
She was becoming an expert liar, and she didn’t even have to stop to think about it. The words had come out by themselves.
“By the way, your father misses you and sends you a kiss. If you see him, tell him I’m ill with a fever and I’ve stayed in bed.”
“Oh!” answered Tash.
It was the first time her father had ever asked someone to give her a message like that, and it was even more strange that he’d asked her husband to deliver it. Weird. She went to the kitchen to make breakfast and hide her confusion.
37
“Where are you?” asked Morgane as soon as she picked up the phone.
It was nine thirty, and she’d been in the office since eight—one of the inconveniences of spending the night at Maillard’s.
“At home,” answered Pierre-Gabriel.
“He’s waiting for you to arrive with the programs to destroy them, and he says he doesn’t want to take any risks, that everything is over.”
“He’s going to have to wait a little longer, because I’m not leaving the house. I’ve spent the whole night on these fucking Pichonian routines, and I’ve discovered some interesting things. Damn Pichon!”
“I think he’s being discharged from the hospital today.”
“Damn Pichon!”
“I have more things to tell you.”
“Me too. We have to meet up.”
“It’s not prudent, we mustn’t be seen together. If he suspects anything, all hell will break loose, and we need him to keep trusting me.”
There was a long silence as each of them thought. It was Morgane who spoke first.
“What did you find?”
“There are nine hundred and forty-six routines, but many of them don’t lead to anything. They are very close-knit, so close that it’s thrown me off. My mistake was to start my investigation in the old-fashioned way, with the paper listings. If I’d done them on the computer, I could have searched for linking points and remnants automatically.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Because everything has been deleted, and I only have the hard copy left, which has a ton of pages. I’ll be finished by this afternoon, and then I’ll know as much as Maillard and his red giant do.”
“I hope so.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Not much more than what we already know, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: he knows where the money is!”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. He didn’t tell me directly, but I’m sure he knows.”
“Don’t make me nervous, tell me.”
“He said we won’t need to worry about our future anymore, and that everything will be resolved within a few days.”
“That was it?”
“You think it’s too little?”
38
“How amazing to be alive again,” said Henri when he felt fresh air on his face.
They’d discharged him at noon. Paris was more radiant than ever, with a completely clear blue sky and a temperature that must have been in the high seventies. It was the end of a spring that had been rainier than usual, and everything was lush and green. At least that’s what it seemed like to Henri after eight days of being stuck inside, five of them in a coma.
The first sunny days of summer had to be seized because they were as ephemeral and fleeting as a summer romance. That’s what Paris was like, and there were no natural barriers to protect its people. Clouds from the Atlantic were taking no time to travel the 125 miles that separated them from the ocean, and they were ready to shower down on the gray rooftops of Paris.
“I’d like to walk a little; is that OK?” Henri said.
“I’d love to, if you don’t feel tired,” answered Tash.
“I’ve had five days of the deepest sleep imaginable, and I feel fit as a fiddle.”
Tash looked at him closely in the daylight. He was wearing the same clothes as on the day of the accident. They hadn’t been damaged and had been washed and ironed by Yvette and Valé
rie, but they were too big for him: the pants bunched up at the belt, and the gray-blue T-shirt tucked in like a sack.
“I have a feeling that I’m being tested for something, and I’m not going to pass,” he said, smiling.
“You’ve definitely passed as far as I’m concerned. The only thing that would be convenient to change is your wardrobe—maybe go a few sizes smaller.”
“Or I can put on a few pounds again,” he said, looking at his reflection in the bus stop glass.
Tash gave him a playful, affectionate shove, and they crossed to the Seine promenade.
They had chatted all afternoon the previous day and the whole morning. Tash had caught him up on the important events of the last seventeen years, and the not-so-important ones as well. She told him about her ten years with Pierre-Gabriel—as void of activity as a flat encephalogram—and her surprise when she realized the similarity between the two men after seeing Henri with smoothed-down hair parted on the right.
She kept the nicest part for the end: what she found most moving, what brought them together again—the romantic Tash routines in his programs.
As she told the story, she noticed Henri getting tense.
“Don’t worry, Pierre-Gabriel didn’t find out anything. And even if he did, I don’t care. Before the end of the week, I’m going to tell him I want a separation.”
“What was he doing with my programs at your house?”
“After your accident, my father realized that the whole transactions process was resting on the shoulders of a single person, and he felt scared. He remembered that Pierre-Gabriel was also a specialist in the field, and that you trained him ten years ago, so he called him. Well, he called me, and I called Pierre-Gabriel. My father assigned him the task of forming a team specifically for this process, and Pierre-Gabriel has taken the whole thing very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that he’s spent a whole week, including the weekend, working on it. He’s determined to get to know each and every task, each and every program, through and through. I think he’s obsessed, and I can’t see what interest there could be in getting so deep into it from the beginning.”
The Penny Thief Page 10