Fernandez sighs.
‘I can find you that, but not in the President’s postbag.’
The Crime Squad inspectors meet Bonfils and Ghozali outside 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau. Handshakes and a few condescending words of congratulation to the two rookies from the 19th arrondissement.
It is a large, modern apartment block, with several flights of stairs. At the centre of this social microcosm is the concierge. She immediately recognises Fatima Rashed in the photo the cops show her, and confirms that she does indeed live there, sharing a flat with Marie-Christine Malinvaud on the ninth floor, staircase D, left-hand door. Two ordinary girls. ‘Lived,’ say the cops, ‘she’s been murdered.’ Shock. No, she hasn’t seen the two girls for a day or two, she couldn’t be too sure.
‘Could you show us up to their apartment?’
‘Of course. I have a key. Just let me lock up my lodge.’
The apartment is empty. The Crime Squad begin a rapid search. Bonfils and Noria stand next to each other on the sidelines.
Inside it is vast, light, quiet. A spacious living room with a terrace running its whole length, a dining area on one side, a lounge area and TV on the other, a few books. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen. The furniture is comfortable, not particularly tasteful, parquet floors, beige walls. ‘A furnished let,’ says the concierge.
Women’s clothes in the wardrobes, toiletries in the bathrooms, two dirty coffee cups in the sink, a basket of fruit – apples, oranges, bananas, not rotten, the fridge half full, alcohol and soft drinks, supermarket dairy products. A hasty departure perhaps, but no signs of a struggle or violence. In the living room, a large, antique writing desk, full of personal papers. One of the inspectors rapidly leafs through them. Tax returns, bank statements, payslips, rent receipts etc.
‘They’re both employed by a company called Cominter whose registered office is in Nassau.’
‘There’s also a garage,’ says the concierge. ‘They’ve each got a car. The same make, as a matter of fact. A red Mini for Fatima, a black one for Marie-Christine.’
‘Let’s go and take a look. We’ll come back up afterwards.’
In the underground garage, there’s a timer switch affording only a dim light. The concierge points to the double lock-up. The door is simply pushed to. An inspector opens it. Empty. And there, splattered on the right-hand wall at head height, is a dark stain, a long trail down to the ground ending in a dark brown puddle of dried blood. Silence. Noria closes her eyes, overcome. This was where Fatima was shot, her neck split open, the blood on the wall, the body sliding, crumpling, drained. All that remains of the murder are the grisly bloodstains. Bonfils touches her arm. She jumps. Everyone around her has sprung into action.
Two Crime Squad inspectors call the forensic team and seal off the garage. The others go back up to the apartment to search through the papers, find her flatmate, visit the bank …
Marie-Christine Malinvaud has family in the country, with whom she’s still in touch. They phone each other. She’s planning to spend Christmas with them in a few days’ time. In Pithiviers, the concierge tells them.
Malinvaud, in Pithiviers. Directory inquiries.
An inspector telephones. And finds Marie-Christine.
She’s there a few hours later, at Crime Squad HQ, a tall girl with fair hair tied back at the nape with a bow and dull hazel eyes. Wearing baggy trousers, a shapeless anorak and clumpy shoes, she sits wan-faced as she is interviewed by Patriat, the chief of the Crime Squad team investigating the killing of Fatima Rashed. In his grey suit and grey and blue patterned tie, he remains resolutely distant as he conducts the enquiry.
Born in 1963 in Pithiviers. Father a notary’s clerk, mother a housewife. No brothers or sisters.
‘Yes, we were both part of Mado’s call-girl ring, rue de Marignan. Do you know it?’ No reply. Half smile. ‘You’d be the only ones in the police not to.’
‘Let’s keep to the point, Mademoiselle Malinvaud. As you know, Fatima Rashed was murdered, and for the moment you’re our chief witness. A role you ought to take seriously. Let us resume. How long have you been working for Mado?’
‘A year.’
‘How did you get into contact with her?’
She shakes her head, her eyes vacant.
‘It’s such a classic story, that now I can’t understand how it could have happened to me. After I left school, I came to Paris to do drama. Actually, I just wanted to get out of Pithiviers. I enrolled at the Einaudi school and worked part-time in a supermarket to pay for my lessons. I think at that point I still believed in it. People regularly came to watch us work. I started hanging around with Lentin, the film producer, and his crowd. Actors, film technicians, famous people. He promised me small parts in his films as soon as an opportunity came up, and entrusted me to a friend of his, a so-called stills photographer, apparently wanting to put together a portfolio. At that point, I stopped working in the supermarket. He took nude photos of me, I slept with him, and with his friends, telling myself this would help launch my career. He didn’t force me, let me make that clear. And then I started with strangers to whom he’d shown the photos and who paid me a lot. I stopped going to drama school, I had no talent to be honest, and I found myself on Mado’s books.’
‘When did you meet Fatima Rashed?’
‘When I arrived at Mado’s. She was my mentor, so to speak. And she took her job very seriously. It was she who found us a flat to rent. She supervised my wardrobe, got me to read the novels everyone was talking about, dragged me to various exhibitions, kept an eye on who I was meeting. I think Mado gave her a commission on my clients.’
‘And you found it hard to put up with her keeping an eye on you?’
‘Not especially. As a matter of fact, I spent several years not thinking for one moment about what I was doing. And besides, Katryn …’
‘Katryn?’
‘… It’s Fatima’s nom de guerre. And nom de guerre it was. I’d say she was a … fascinating woman. She hated men with a single-minded vengeance. The only thing she enjoyed in life was making them pay, and pay as high a price as possible. The idea that a man could touch her without paying would have made her sick, or made her scream. She attempted to pass that hatred on to me, day after day. I don’t have that kind of strength, but it was reassuring to see. A sort of call girls’ Robin Hood, if you see what I mean?’
‘No comment. Why did you run off to Pithiviers the day she was murdered?’
‘Katryn was mixed up in a very dangerous game. She was collaborating with a journalist called Chardon. The pair of them entrapped clients and blackmailed them. They weren’t Mado’s clients, because she’s well organised and protected and Katryn would have been busted straight away. But there was a violent incident at Mado’s recently, a very young girl who was beaten up by Lentin and his buddies. They’d crossed the yellow line, and I know Katryn intended to make money out of it. The other day, she had a lunch date with Chardon to discuss it.’
‘Do you know this Chardon?’
‘I’ve met him several times, that’s all, and his story doesn’t stack up.’
‘Where can we find him?’
‘He lives near us, at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht.’
‘So, Friday, she was seeing Chardon. And then?’
‘We were supposed to be working together in the evening and had arranged to meet back at the apartment at seven. She didn’t show up. I went down to the garage to get my car, and I found the wall covered in blood, still fresh, and no Mini. I panicked. I know that Mado’s protectors are capable of killing …’ She lowers her voice … ‘I know that they’ve already killed … I felt I was in danger because I knew what Katryn was up to. I jumped into my car and drove straight to my parents’, without going back up to the apartment.’
‘You realise of course that you could have killed Fatima Rashed yourself and that you have a motive for doing so: she was creaming off money from you, in short, and she was spying on you for Mado.’
‘Yes, I understand that you see it that way, but I didn’t kill her. And I don’t think I’m capable of killing anyone.’ After a silence: ‘I’m afraid, I’m a coward, I’m tired, and I want to change my life. Go back to Pithiviers, marry a pharmacist, have children and play bridge.’
‘And why not? You won’t be the first prostitute to end up a bourgeois wife.’
Then the group leader turned to his inspectors:
‘The priority is to find this Chardon at all costs.’
It’s aperitif time in Mado’s office. Wearing a simple, well-tailored grey suit, she mixes cocktails with neat, precise movements. She proffers Bornand a stiff whisky sour. He thanks her, and starts taking little sips. Here, he’s on well-charted territory, no surprises, no hysterical outbursts, a moment of repose. For Cecchi, her pimp, a tall, well-built man with greased grey hair, the starchy demeanour of a provincial lawyer, but with a heavy, brutal jaw, it’s a tequila with a slice of lemon. And for herself, a very light vodka orange.
Cecchi opens the conversation:
‘Katryn has been murdered.’
‘Mado told me over the telephone.’ A long silence. He turns to her. ‘Katryn was mixed up with a certain Chardon. I don’t know whether you were aware of it?’ Mado and Cecchi exchange a glance. ‘A gutter press gossip columnist who was prosecuted for living off immoral earnings. That’s not good for the reputation of your establishment.’
‘I know him,’ snaps Cecchi. ‘He’s always kept well away from Mado’s girls, I’ve made sure of that. How do you know he was mixed up with Katryn?’
‘Chardon has a dossier on clandestine arms sales to Iran. No need for me to elaborate further. And he’s trying to sell it to the press.’
‘Storm warning?’
‘Let’s say a gale.’ Bornand addresses Mado again. ‘Last Friday I sent Fernandez to tail Chardon. And he found him having lunch with Katryn in a brasserie near Buttes Chaumont. I have to say I thought she might be his source. I had her working with the Iranians a lot.’
‘And was she?’
‘No. I’ve since obtained the dossier. Too well documented. It couldn’t have come from Katryn.’
Mado gives Cecchi a questioning look, then says:
‘The Crime Squad have heard of this Chardon character. They’re looking for him. Apparently he’s the last person to have seen Katryn alive.’
‘Will you be getting regular updates on the progress of their investigation?’
‘I’ve made arrangements to be kept informed.’
‘If you find out anything at all about him, I’m interested. There’s no way he could have come across that dossier by chance. I’m looking for any leads that could put me on the trail of the person who gave it to him.’
‘Fair’s fair, François,’ replies Cecchi. ‘We don’t want Mado’s name to appear in the proceedings.’
‘I’ll take care of that. The prosecutor is a reasonable man and a friend.’
‘Excellent.’ Mado gets up, and so does Bornand. ‘Do you want to try out Katryn’s replacement? A novice. You can give her some of your sound advice and tell me what you think. And then have dinner with us.’
‘I’m greatly honoured, Mado.’ He takes her hand, holds onto it for a moment, leans forward and brushes it with his moustache. She smiles at him. ‘But I can’t stay. I’m on duty tonight at the Élysée.’
Late afternoon, glorious cool weather over Halat airfield on the road from Beirut to Tripoli. Airfield is too grand a description, more of an air strip, at most two long, broad sections of motorway converted to landing strips, a perfunctory control tower, planes of varying sizes dotted around, hangars sprouting everywhere on the surrounding plain. The hub of all trafficking, controlled by the Christian militia. A pick-up truck laden with sacks rattles its way to Camoc’s hangar whose sliding door is wide open, and pulls up inside. The driver and his assistant start unloading the bundles, food products destined for the Lebanese community in Sierra Leone, scheduled to leave tomorrow along with a cargo of arms sent by Camoc. In the midst of the sacks is Moricet. At a signal from the driver, he darts into the hangar and slips behind a stack of wooden pallets. The pick-up drives off. Moricet, lying on his back on the ground, relaxes. All you need to do is wait, doze off a little. It’s going to be a long night.
Comings and goings inside the hangar, the sacks are brought over to the plane scheduled to take off tomorrow morning. It’s true that it’s easier to keep a plane under surveillance than a hangar, and if the Syrians were telling the truth, there’s a fair quantity of heroin in among the chickpeas. Gradually, the activity subsides, both inside and outside the hangar, then grinds to a complete halt. Moricet moves over to the door. Beneath his jacket he’s wearing a belt full of tools, and in a holster under his arm, his revolver. He breaks open the very rudimentary lock. Half opens the door, looks and listens. It’s a clear night, not many lights. Jeeps drive round at regular intervals, but mainly on the runways.
They seem to drive past every half-hour or so. More than enough time.
He has to sprint about a hundred metres across open ground to get to Camoc’s offices. He checks his equipment, his gun, emerges from the hangar closing the door behind him, and breaks into a run, doubled over just in case, or out of habit. An almost flat roof, with one pitched side. He jumps, steadies himself, regains his balance, climbs, lies flat. The riskiest part is over. Now to the tools. Using his shears, he makes a hole in the corrugated iron roof, cuts out a square, clears away the insulation materials, slides out the false ceiling, jumps down into the building and replaces the metal square. The alarm is only wired to the doors and windows. He takes a map and an electric torch out of his pocket, gets his bearings and goes straight to the boss’s office. All along one wall are metal lockers filled with files. The locks are no problem. It’s midnight, and Moricet gets down to work.
Tuesday 3 December
Moricet skims through the various customer files, classified in alphabetical order. He quickly finds confirmation of what the Syrians had told him: large numbers of French and Israeli weapons, fixed up and modified for the Christian militia in Lebanon, the Horn of Africa, with Francophone sub-Saharan Africa the biggest customer, and of course, as it happens, the most interesting. At the centre of the network is the Franco-Lebanese Djimil family. Seven brothers, Shia Muslims, who emigrated in the early 1950s to Côte-d’Ivoire because the Christians controlled all the power in Lebanon. They soon made their fortune. One of them, living in Sierra Leone, organises diamond smuggling, controls virtually half of the country’s output, and is now one of the richest men in Africa. A devout Muslim, he finances the works of the entire Shia community in sub-Saharan Africa and maintains close relations with the ayatollahs and the Iranian regime. Another brother, Mohamed Djimil, who stayed in Côte-d’Ivoire, specialises in importing arms. And perhaps also heroin, which often goes hand in hand, but of that, of course, there is no trace in Camoc’s correspondence. Huge arms shipments, one average-sized cargo plane a week. Nothing on the ultimate destination, and Camoc only knows Djimil, the middle man. But Moricet has a clear picture of the chain: French mercenaries, African guerrillas, presidential bodyguards and, further afield, South Africa, still under embargo. And of course, Francophone Africa means that there’s probably an RPR connection. Besides, it’s public knowledge that the Djimil brothers in Côte-d’Ivoire regularly finance the RPR’s electoral campaigns. This could be a serious lead. But at the same time, is it really new? It is only confirmation of what had seemed probable from the start. Anyway, Bornand wants names, I can always give him these, they’re credible. Then it’s up to him to do what he wants. I’ve fulfilled my contract. It’s two a.m., the airfield is very quiet, may as well carry on ferreting around.
The next file, a reply from Aurelio Parada, Brazil. Yes, he does have thirty-three toys of superior size and quality, Frenchmade, in working order, from the Argentinean army. Exocets, thinks Moricet. Camoc is ratcheting up its activities. In the same file, Mohamed Djimil c
onfirms to Camoc that he’ll take the thirty-three toys in question, and is immediately transferring the agreed deposit in dollars to Camoc’s Swiss bank account. Finally, Parada informs him of the despatch of the toys to the Comores, on 15 November 1985. Moricet feels a rush of excitement. Comores, Denard, French mercenaries in sub-Saharan Africa, Djimil – you can bet the Exocets will end up in Tehran. The opening up of a new arms supply route to Iran, now that’s a valuable piece of information. And Camoc is playing a part in the operation. A political manoeuvre? Bornand can make what he likes of it, not my problem.
What do I do? Do I take the documents and get out, or do I pick up the boss, as planned? It’s four o’clock in the morning. He decides to stay. He crams the files that interest him into a plastic bag, drags a chair over so it will be hidden behind the door when it opens, takes his revolver out of its holster, lays it on his knee, rests his head against the wall, and dozes off.
At eight o’clock, the office slowly comes to life, they’re not early risers in these parts. Moricet, concealed behind the door, puts his revolver on the floor. The door opens and a man enters. Moricet kicks the door shut, pinions the man from behind in a stranglehold, tightly enough to prevent him from shouting, and with his free hand gives him an injection in the buttock. In two or three seconds, the body goes limp, Moricet releases his hold and the man crumples to the floor. Moricet checks that it is indeed De Lignières, boss of Camoc, his eyes rolled upwards, his face flaccid. Shoots heroin, according to the Syrians. As long as he doesn’t snuff it straight away. Moricet puts his revolver back in its holster and from his tool belt he extracts a very large, strong plastic bag and slides the body into it. It’s no easy job, the body’s limp and heavy and he must move fast. He throws in the files and clamps the bag shut, then goes over to the window, opens it and looks around. Three hundred metres away is his team’s little jet, engines throbbing. The only obstacle is exiting the office through the window without being spotted. He has around twenty minutes. He observes the comings and goings for a moment, then lays the bag across the windowsill, jumps out, which costs him a huge effort, and heaves the bag onto his shoulder. The team on board the plane should be ready to intervene if necessary. Nothing happens. Whistling, he heads for the plane. The bag’s heavy. No hindrances. He climbs into the plane, throws down the bag and looks at his watch: ten minutes to go and time to spare.
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