Affairs of State

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘I know the head of the Syrian secret services. Do you want to meet him?’

  Two days later, he was as good as his word. A long conversation about the latest archaeological research in Syria (my passion, the secret service man had told them), which Bornand had contributed to as best he could. Honourably, it would appear, since the Syrian came to visit him in Paris each time he was in France on unofficial business, and some of his friends had been appointed to the board of the IBL, which had picked up again. As a matter of fact, that had been a major turning point in the bank’s fortunes. Moricet, a man of action.

  In 1982, Bornand had invited him to join the Élysée unit. Which he had done, but not for long: ‘Too many nutters,’ he said, ‘too many bureaucrats, too many bosses, not enough action or sun.’ And he’d set up his own private security firm, ISIS, based in Beirut and which operated throughout the Middle East. If you want to find out something about Camoc, Moricet is definitely your man.

  Telephone. He’ll be there tomorrow.

  Bornand carefully puts away his notes in one of the two cupboards. Amid the ornate arabesques and carved acanthus leaves are records of everything that has been said in this office, accumulated over four years, a real treasure trove. He locks the cupboard then pours himself one last whisky, which he knocks back standing by the window gazing out over the rooftops.

  Fernandez finds himself back in the street. It’s still snowing. Gone, the warmth of the office, the whisky and Bornand. He’s exhausted. He has no desire to go back home and be alone with his dead. He enters the nearest café, orders a Calvados, goes into the toilet and does a line of coke. Good feeling. To be honest, if you think about it, the situation is rather funny. Finish the night off at Mado’s, Katryn’s boss. Brilliant idea. What class.

  On the ground floor of Mado’s building is a vast bar with English-style decor and a hushed, sophisticated atmosphere. Fernandez, Bornand’s right-hand man, has free access to the whole place. The barman greets him and pours him a brandy, which he downs in one, then he goes downstairs to the basement. Swingers’ club. Among a certain bourgeois clientele it’s the new fad; sounds better than going to a prostitute, but it’s no different, except there are a few non-professionals. Mado’s real clientele to whom she owes her fame and fortune, the ones who have a great deal of money and a great deal of power, prefer the call-girl network and orgies in the first-floor lounges.

  In the half-dark, there’s a musty smell of sweat and sex, claustrophobia and dust, and the music has an insistent, deafening beat. Fernandez relaxes. Two women rigged out in various items of spiky armour are dancing in a corner. Elsewhere, scantily clad men and women grind rhythmically against each other. On the fringes, couples are entangled on sofas in the alcoves. Girls everywhere, within arm’s reach, available, accessible. Fernandez is suddenly fascinated by a girl who’s dancing naked in the spotlight, with exaggerated movements. A smooth, round arse, engaging but not aggressive, two huge white breasts jiggling and, above them, her head covered with a helmet of black hair, cut over the ears. She has no face. No face. It touches a raw nerve. Flashback: Katryn’s head in the darkness of the garage, thrust against the wall, screaming, the back of her neck exploding. Against a background of hypnotic music.

  He walks over to the girl and grabs her arm, drags her to an alcove and tries to part her hair. No face, just a mouth that opens, a silent chasm. A punch to shut that mouth, two, three, a scuffle, Fernandez crumples, stunned by two beefy bouncers amid the general confusion.

  Mado, summoned urgently, has him taken to one of the first-floor bedrooms. The victim has a split lip and a nasty cut over her eye. A doctor is called to tend to her immediately. Really bad luck, the girl was one of the few non-professionals there that night. She groans, threatening to report Fernandez.

  ‘This guy’s a nutter,’ says Mado, very motherly, and surreptitiously mentions damages.

  ‘A nutter for sure. He was screaming “Catherine, Catherine”. My name’s not Catherine, he couldn’t hear a thing. He started hitting me.’ Her body quivers with sobs. ‘Scared the life out of me.’

  ‘Katryn,’ says Mado, suddenly pensive, tidying the young woman’s black hair matted with blood and sweat with her fingertips.

  Katryn, a model of professionalism, who’d let her down this evening, for the first time since she’d been working for her.

  Bornand, in a black dinner jacket, is reclining on a chaise longue in his mistress’s bedroom, which is done out in green and white with blonde wood Louis-Philippe-style furniture. On his left are two high windows with the curtains open, overlooking the Champ-de-Mars. Through the lattice of snow-covered trees, he can see the Eiffel Tower illuminated, a tangle of girders glinting copper in the light, emphasised by the white snow, the familiar presence of the technological dream shrouded in nostalgia. A wave of tiredness. Shooting pains in the palm of his right hand, and each time the fleeting image of a pool of blood spreading uncontrollably. A tough day. The President dreaming of the Académie Française, Bestégui stuffing himself, Fernandez a petty housebreaker. And earlier, the reception at the Embassy. He feels ground down. He’s come here to recover, in the calm surroundings of her boudoir. Put a greater distance between himself and all the stress. From his pocket he takes out a gold and black lacquered case, carefully selects a cigarette, a mix of angel dust and marijuana, lights it and takes a long drag. An almost instant sense of well-being. He contemplates his mistress, sitting naked on a low stool at the dressing table, carrying out the ritual she performs for him. He can see three-quarters of her back and her full frontal reflection in the big mirror. A Degas painting. He takes a second drag, holds the smoke in for a long time, and slowly exhales. The image of the young woman shimmers and dissolves. Another face fleetingly appears, that of a very young girl. He creases his eyes to capture it. Too late, it disperses with a metallic sound. He stubs out his cigarette.

  Her blonde hair is piled up in a sophisticated chignon, showing off the nape of her neck and the outline of her shoulders. He is utterly absorbed in watching each of her slow, accomplished movements. First of all, she applies foundation, almost lazily, like a sort of slow preliminary, then the tension increases, a few dabs to touch up under the eyes, around the cheekbones. She surveys the overall effect, and her gaze is drawn towards the mirror, intense, her torso slightly inclined, her arms raised, her breasts swell, lolling forward too, her back elongates, her hips spread. She outlines her eyes with precise strokes, paints her mouth (he loves the way she pinches her lips together), highlights her cheekbones, hollows out her cheeks, makes a correction here and there. A refined, artificial world that exists only for him. He gently caresses his half-erection.

  The application of the mask is complete.

  ‘We’re going to be late,’ she says without turning round, glancing at the reflection of the man in black in the corner of the mirror.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Take your time.’

  ‘I don’t feel like going out this evening.’

  He looks away. She sighs, rises, slips on ivory silk stockings, a magic moment when her living flesh is transformed into a smooth, perfect shimmering shape. He closes his eyes. Good, very good. Then the long dress, crimson like her lips, fluid over her body, flared at the hem, long sleeves covering her shoulders and a V-neck that plunges to her waist, her breasts unfettered beneath the fabric. Matching high-heeled shoes, the superb arch of her feet, sophisticated balance. She leans over her dressing table, takes a pair of gold earrings from the drawer and puts them on, then a necklace. ‘No need,’ he says and she turns around. He gets up and from his pocket produces a velvet box. He opens it and takes out a round object made of gold. Françoise accepts it, running her finger over the chasing: a geometric design depicting a curled-up panther in unpolished beaten gold. There’s something strange and savage about it.

  ‘Exquisite. Where does it come from?’

  ‘From the wilds of the steppes, from the depths of time. The minute I saw it, I wanted it for you. I
had it mounted.’ He goes over to her and fastens the necklace around her neck. ‘I could picture you wearing it just like this, with this dress.’

  He kisses her hair, moves his lips down to her ear which he brushes with his moustache, takes the earring between his teeth, tastes the coolness of the metal, and pulls gently. She moves away, smiles at him and winks: ‘Very fragile, this work of art, don’t touch,’ then urges:

  ‘Let’s stay here this evening, I don’t feel like going out.’

  He holds out her coat, envelops her in it, keeps his arms around her and caresses her face with the fur collar.

  ‘What you feel like is of little importance, my beauty.’

  Saturday 30 November

  There is something sinister about the parking lot at La Villette at eight o’clock in the morning, in the middle of winter, bathed in the orange glow of the big city. The gleaming wet black tarmac, divided into long strips by granite pavements and marked off with white lines and puny saplings forms a desolate geometric universe a stone’s throw from the construction sites of La Villette. Two cop cars are parked in a corner, blue lights flashing and headlights glaring. The cops, four in uniform, two in plain clothes, are huddled by a row of shrubs. A Caribbean-looking man wearing a woollen hat and scarf and a leather bomber jacket is holding his wolfhound on a leash and pointing to a human form lying under the scrawny bushes.

  The two plainclothes cops approach. Noria Ghozali, small and muffled inside a cheap black anorak, stands slightly back, behind Inspector Bonfils, a young trainee she’s working with for the first time. Instinctively, she’s on her guard: a man, her superior, she’s wary.

  Bonfils leans over. The body is almost entirely covered by a cream-coloured raincoat. He touches the protruding wrist and hand. Cold, very cold. Gingerly he lifts the raincoat. A woman’s body lying on her stomach, black trousers and sweater, her face turned to one side, almost intact, her eyes closed, the back of her neck split open. All that’s left is a dark brown depression of soft matter, with splinters of greyish bone and matted hair. And under her chin, in her throat, the clean, clear impact of a bullet. Nothing spectacular, thinks Bonfils, surprisingly unaffected. A used thing lying there as if it had been thrown out a long time ago. He straightens up and turns to the uniformed cops:

  ‘Death from a gunshot wound. Call the station and the prosecutor.’

  Then he takes out his notebook and continues:

  ‘Now, Mr Saint-André, tell me how you came across the body?’

  ‘I live on the other side of the ring road.’

  ‘Where, to be precise?’

  ‘36 rue Hoche, in Pantin.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Every morning, I take my dog for a walk around the parking lot, or along the canal, before leaving for work. I also work on Saturdays, you know.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Maintenance, at the Galeries Lafayette.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, this morning, it was the parking lot. My dog found the body at around a quarter to eight, or thereabouts.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was running ahead of me and he stopped by the bushes and started growling and tugging at something, the shoe, I think. I thought he’d found a dead animal and went over to fetch him back, and that was it. Then I ran to avenue Jean-Jaurès, called the police from a phone box, and I waited for you at the parking lot entrance.’

  ‘Did your dog move the body?’

  ‘No, he didn’t have time. I’m very fond of my dog, so I’m careful about what he eats. No rotting carcases.’

  ‘Do you only come here in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. At night, I just take him round the block, I’m tired, you understand …’

  ‘Did you meet anyone when you were out walking this morning?’

  ‘No, not today or any other morning. That’s why I come here, because I can let my dog off the lead without bothering anyone. Anywhere else and people always yell at you.’

  ‘What about yesterday morning?’

  ‘I went along the canal. Every other day, for a bit of variety.’

  After repeating his contact details, Saint-André leaves with his dog.

  Ghozali and Bonfils pace up and down side by side to keep warm. He’s broad-shouldered and much taller than her. Wearing a flying jacket that fits snugly over the hips, he looks elegant, laid-back. He takes out a pack of filter-tipped Gauloises from his pocket and offers her a cigarette.

  ‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I’m watching you work.’

  He exhales the smoke, savouring the first puff. The note of aggression in her voice doesn’t escape him. He shoots her a sidelong glance. Strange little woman, hair drawn back into a severe bun, a round, slightly flat face, not exactly attractive. But there’s a sort of fierceness locked in behind that concrete wall. He continues:

  ‘You know, this is my first posting, my first day on duty, and my first corpse. You won’t learn much from watching me.’ He pauses for thought. ‘I think I was expecting something more shocking.’

  ‘Are you disappointed?’

  He smiles.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  The Crime Squad arrives. Suits and ties, overcoats, elegant leather shoes. Polite, distant, busy and competent. At once the machine goes into motion. Bonfils makes his report, Ghozali, standing back slightly, listens. The parking lot is surrounded, cordoned off, the area around explored. The forensic team arrives, dressed in white overalls, and sets to work. Noria watches them, fascinated. Bonfils turns to her:

  ‘Are you coming? We’re going back to the station.’

  She blurts out angrily, her face inscrutable:

  ‘You go back, I’m staying. To watch the real professionals at work.’

  Her words hang in the air. A silence.

  ‘Right. I’ll tell the superintendent that you were needed here.’

  Noria watches him walk off, puzzled. Could this man be different from the others?

  Photos. Noria picks up a Polaroid of the dead woman’s face. Pathologist. A few simple movements of the body. Initial conclusions. Killed by a bullet through the neck, shot at close range, but not here. The body was dumped here very shortly after the murder, which took place about fifteen hours ago or a little more, hard to say at first glance, given the snow and the drop in temperature. Probably driven here. The lab tests will yield more precise information. No ID on the body. A very big pearl pendant, that might be useful later. No marks, no footprints on the tarmac or in the flower bed, seemingly no witnesses, until the building workers have been questioned. If she’s not reported missing, identification won’t be easy. Noria takes note. An ambulance takes the body away, and the parking lot gradually empties.

  At nine a.m., Nicolas Martenot rings the bell of Bornand’s apartment. The door is opened by a manservant wearing a black open-necked shirt, sleeves rolled up, black trousers (I’ve always wondered what Bornand gets up to with a good-looking guy like that), who shows him into the drawing room and takes his coat:

  ‘Monsieur Bornand will be down shortly.’

  Martenot goes over to the French window that opens onto a lawn enclosed by ivy-covered railings. On the other side is the Champ-de-Mars, all very peaceful. A glance at the Eiffel Tower, with its dark tangle of girders. He returns to the drawing room. Eighteenth-century blonde wood panelling, Versailles oak parquet floor. On the wall facing the French windows is a magnificent Canaletto, the Grand Canal in front of the Doge’s Palace. The painting has great elegance, the gondoliers’ silhouettes leaning over their oars and the froth on the surface of the green lagoon captured in a few brushstrokes. Beside it, three small scenes of Venetian life by Pietro Longhi, hung asymmetrically, look very flat. And, against the wall, a rare piece of furniture, a seat designed by Gaudí, in carved wood, extremely light and elaborate. Martenot gazes at it with a twinge of envy. On the right, a Louis XV marble fireplace. He goes over to the log fire, which is very pleasant in
this damp weather. On the mantelpiece is the marble head of a Greek ephebe. He caresses its cheek with the back of his hand, relishing the smooth, cold feel. Opposite it, a terracotta statuette of a Cretan goddess with bulging eyes and a heavy, ankle-length robe, her arms outstretched and her hands clutching bundles of snakes. Above the fireplace hangs a portrait of Dora Maar by Picasso. In front of it is a vast sofa, two massive square armchairs upholstered in white and an ornate, inlaid low Chinese table standing on a Persian rug in varying hues of red.

  He feels as if he has always known this impeccably furnished, unchanging, almost lifeless room. A decor designed as a showcase for Bornand’s wealth and culture. Only the snake goddess lent a rare note of incongruity.

  He’d come here for the first time more than twenty years ago with his father, a brilliant defence lawyer who’d made a name for himself after the war defending collaborators. This stocky man with crew-cut hair and a grating voice who resembled a wild boar was Bornand’s close friend. And for Bornand, friendship was sacred. A friend is for life, whatever he does. And Nicolas Martenot inherited this friendship, along with the rest of his legacy. He has attended dozens of gatherings in this drawing room, no grand receptions, but meetings with handpicked associates, personal bonds forming, networks being reinforced, with Bornand at the centre, at the hub of the power machine, elegant and controlling. An instrument of power, and the thrill that goes with it.

  Five or six years back, not that long ago and right here in this very room, Bornand had introduced him to his Iranian friends, a few months after the overthrow of the Shah, in the middle of the US Embassy hostage crisis. Two men in their forties, Harvard graduates, in dark suits, equally at ease with the Canaletto and the Picasso. They headed up the international pool of lawyers brought in to support the Iranian government in the countless international disputes resulting from the Islamic revolution. Being part of this pool changed his life, introducing him into the business world operating at planetary level, and making his law firm one of the most prominent in Paris, with branches in ten countries. It also made him a fully-fledged member of Bornand’s ‘family’, and it was to Bornand he partly owed his wealth.