Affairs of State

by Dominique Manotti

  In 1965, he plays a key role in Mitterrand’s presidential campaign, liaising with the major French industrialists who finance the campaign. This is his only known public appearance. He remains in the background afterwards, but is still very close to Mitterrand. In 1981, after François Mitterrand is elected, Bornand sells his import-export company, at a vastly inflated price, via the Parillaud bank, thanks to a lucky set of circumstances and the President’s connections. But he holds on to some of his overseas interests, in particular in the International Bank of Lebanon (IBL) of which he is one of the founding trustees. He becomes the President’s personal advisor at the Élysée where he influences foreign policy as a result of his numerous relations with the Americans, the Israelis, and with the Arab countries. He is also involved in internal security, and in this capacity plays a part in setting up and running the Elysée’s ‘anti-terrorist unit’ in August 1982. He maintains a key role in controlling and managing this private presidential police force.

  Bornand is a great womaniser; his conquests are many and fleeting. In 1966, three years after his wife left him, he meets Françoise Michel, who becomes his mistress, and still is, although without any sign of a diminution in the number of his female conquests. Furthermore, he regularly frequents prostitutes, and is on very friendly terms with Mado, France’s most famous madam. He has intervened on her behalf on countless occasions when she has run into difficulties with the police, and he regularly calls on her services when he entertains foreign visitors. He is a consumer of class C drugs and some class B drugs. As far as we know, he has no problem finding suppliers and has not been threatened with blackmail.

  Mado snorts on entering Macquart’s office.

  ‘It’s too cold for words.’ The perfect bourgeois lady, as ever. Her hair is lacquered into an immaculate French pleat and her make-up discreetly minimal. She’s wearing an ankle-length pearl-grey sheepskin coat and boots, and sporting a black leather Lancel handbag. Macquart waits, watching her closely, a set expression on his face. He indicates a chair. She keeps her coat on and smiles at him:

  ‘What do you want of me, superintendent? You know that my coming here isn’t exactly good publicity for my business.’

  ‘Precisely, madame, given the nature of your business, I don’t see where a police superintendent could meet you other than in his office.’

  ‘I love your sense of humour, superintendent.’

  ‘Good. I’m looking for Fernandez. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon.’

  Mado affects surprise, slightly overplayed.

  ‘Why are you telling this to me, superintendent?’

  ‘Because he’s one of your regular customers and he’s, shall we say, in business with Cecchi. I think you have more means than I do of reaching him, and he’s more useful to me than he is to you. As he’s done for, it’s a deal where I have a lot to gain and you have little to lose. We should be able to reach an understanding.’

  Silence. Mado weighs up his offer. He knows more than I thought. Cecchi’s not going to like this. After the Katryn and Chardon business, the boat is definitely letting in water. She replies evasively:

  ‘I’ll ask my girls …’

  ‘I expect to hear from you today, or by tomorrow morning at the latest.’ He rises to see her to the door. ‘You’re untouchable, Mado. But how long would you last without Cecchi? A month? Two months? Less?’

  As soon as the Annecy social security offices open, Laurencin is sitting facing the director. As luck would have it, a woman. But at first glance, he reckons there’s no point turning on the charm. He plays the police card, Antoinette Michel is probably under threat of blackmail. ‘Can you tell me what’s in her file, it’ll save me time and no one will be any the wiser.’

  The woman takes out the file without serious protest. Born on 24 January 1926. Worker at the SNR ball bearings company in Annecy from 1946 to 1966. She draws an early retirement pension which is paid into the Leydernier bank. Never ill. And that’s all. A perfectly ordinary little lady.

  At the bank, Laurencin finds himself in a tiny office with a bank employee, pretending he wants to open a current account, and perhaps, depending on the terms the bank is prepared to offer, a home-buyer’s savings account … he opens the conversation. Madame Michel, his neighbour, a charming woman. He’s only known her without a husband, a single woman and a very young pensioner, with no financial worries. Some people are luckier than others.

  ‘That’s for sure. With what her daughter sends her every month, she’s got nothing to worry about, believe me.’

  A phone call to Macquart:

  ‘If there is blackmail going on, it seems to be the mother and daughter who’ve got something on Bornand.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘If we cross-reference, we know that Antoinette Michel was in Lyon in 1943, that’s where she gave birth to her daughter. Bornand was in Lyon, in the collaborationist Militia, the same year. A troubled time. Might be interesting to go and see what we can uncover?’

  ‘Indeed it might.’

  Mid-afternoon in Lyon. In the local archives, a charming, slightly podgy young lady, passionately interested in her work, and in attractive young lads. Laurencin weighs up the situation. This time, turning on the charm is essential, but I already know that there’ll be no surprises with her. The pair of them bury themselves in the files, cross-referencing 1943 and Militia. And they find: Jules Michel, Antoinette’s father, chief of the Croix-Rousse Militia. And Bornand was in his group, before disappearing without trace in mid-1943.

  Laurencin looks up, smiles at the librarian and buries himself once more.

  September ’44, Michel is killed by the partisans. In the newspapers of the day is a photo of Antoinette Michel walking forlornly down a street, her head shaven, a polka-dot dress, carrying a baby, Françoise no doubt, and a line of young men behind her, taunting her. The caption reads: ‘A shorn woman, rue de Belfort.’ The same street where the Michels lived, at number 29.

  It is ten p.m. A cosy little dinner for two at the Brasserie Georges, the famous Lyon sausage with pistachio and a half-bottle of Brouilly. No surprises there either, but it’s very pleasant. Like the wine, the librarian’s lips taste of wild strawberries.

  The unmarked car is parked in avenue de la Bourdonnais, with the entrance to Bornand’s apartment block in view. Levert is sitting behind the wheel. He laughed when Noria told him that she couldn’t drive. ‘What about taking photos, do you know how to do that?’ No, she can’t do that either. He sits doing crosswords and chewing gum. A window is wound halfway down. Noria sits stiffly beside him. Waiting, an enclosed space, proximity, a whole set of new sensations to cope with.

  A white Peugeot taxi pulls up in front of the gate. Levert drops his paper and starts up the engine. Noria feels a slight contraction in her chest, the chase is on. A woman emerges, tall, slim, her camel coat belted at the waist, brown leather boots, dark brown felt hat perched on a blonde chignon, a big leather shoulder bag. Noria recognises her: the blonde she’d glimpsed at the exit to the cemetery, yesterday. Then the other person, the tall, slim guy, must have been Bornand. Noria recalls the way he grabbed her arm, pinning her to his side. The woman submitted.

  The taxi pulls away. It is 15.59, she notes. Easy to follow, heavy traffic, nothing noteworthy. Arrival at the Gare de Lyon at 16.32. Françoise Michel purchases a ticket for the TGV to Geneva (and so do Ghozali and Levert), buys a pile of magazines, boards the Train Bleu and has a drink, alone. At 17.15, the train departs. Seated in first class, Françoise Michel flicks through her magazines, dozes, watches the night fly past, bored. Around 19.30, she orders a meal tray and only eats half.

  Arrival in Geneva at 21.10. Taxi to the Hilton, quai du Mont-Blanc, with a view over the lake. A big, impersonal, modern luxury hotel. Françoise Michel checks in at reception and collects her key. Then she makes her way to the Lobby Bar, just behind the reception desk.

  Françoise Michel makes her entrance, her bag slung over her shoulder. Noria
follows her. In the meantime, Levert wanders around the shopping mall, buys a small cigar and starts to smoke it while waiting to return unobtrusively back to the lobby. Red is the colour of the carpeting, the armchairs grouped in fours around the coffee tables, the big banquettes lining the walls, the leather-covered stools, and even the big curved bar. There are soft yellow lights on the walls, spotlights embedded in the low lacquered copper ceiling, nothing intimate about the place, it looks more like a lobby fitted out between the lifts and the hotel entrance, in fairly aggressive style. Music plays in the background. In a corner, there’s a piano, but it has a cover on. There are quite a lot of people in small groups, especially men, and nearly all of them seem to be talking business.

  Françoise Michel hovers on the fringes of the bar area. A man gets to his feet, a fit-looking individual in his forties, with short hair and a square jaw. She makes her way over to him, with a hint of uncertainty about her movements. They exchange a few words, then he pulls out a chair for her and she sits down. They have arranged to meet but they don’t know each other, notes Noria, close on her heels, ill at ease in these flash, pseudo-luxurious surroundings, her hand on her card wallet inside her coat pocket. She walks past the couple and sits down a few tables away, carefully choosing a corner. They order a tequila sunrise and a whisky. Noria has a herbal tea, watches and broods.

  First of all a few formalities, then Françoise Michel leans towards the man over her glass, bringing her face very close to his (Noria imagines the carefully shaven skin, smooth, soft to the touch, breathes in the smell of stale tobacco. Photo), she wants a cigarette. The man takes a cigarette case out of his pocket and offers her one, lights it, the woman inhales deeply, studying him. She anticipates the initial contact of the two naked bodies, it will be surprise, discovery, climaxing almost instantly. Afterwards, they’ll start again, more slowly, but there won’t be the same thrill. She smiles at him. The man drains his glass, helps her up, takes her elbow and they leave side by side. Photo.

  A well-paced act, skilfully executed, without any unnecessary flourishes. She’s a pro, thinks Noria, slumped in her chair, letting her thoughts drift as she sips her herbal tea. Flashback to Bonfils’s lips, gently defined, cool beneath her tongue. Levert threads his way slowly between the tables, joins her, sits down, crushes out his cigar in an ashtray and orders a brandy. Cigar, cognac, what must his lips taste of right now?

  ‘I haven’t been able to identify the man. Françoise Michel is registered under the name of Monica Davis, and they’ve both gone up to her room.’

  ‘Bornand prostitutes his mistress? Macquart’s scenario, with sexual blackmail thrown in, suddenly seems plausible. We must be getting close.’

  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll carry on taking photos. And now, I’ve booked the room next to Monica Davis for the two of us.’

  Noria stiffens. Levert laughs.

  ‘Don’t start getting ideas, Ghozali. Never on duty, never with a colleague.’

  Noria gets up, leans towards him and smiles:

  ‘And never with a dirty Arab, right?’

  Macquart looks at his watch: nine p.m. already. Too late to go home to his large house in Chaumont-en-Vexin, surrounded by meadows. He pictures himself arriving well after ten, his wife and five children already in bed and fast asleep, nothing in the fridge, an interloper. To leave again in the morning, before they wake up … He’ll have a sandwich in a brasserie around Châtelet, and spend the night in a little hotel near the Gare du Nord where they know him under the name of Durantex, a travelling sales rep.

  It’s not hard locating Cecchi. Almost every evening, after midnight, he drops into the Perroquet Bleu club, rue Pigalle, neutral territory where the kings of the pavement meet to negotiate boundaries and tolerance zones, plus a few cops who take part in the negotiations, a handful of politicians, and a great many famous and infamous night owls seeking thrills and cocaine. Fernandez knows the place well, having been a regular at various times, initially trailing around after Bornand and then on his own account. That’s where he met Cecchi. Beginning and end of a chapter.

  Although Pigalle is animated at night, the narrow surrounding streets are very quiet, almost deserted. At around nine p.m., Fernandez, his nose buried in a huge bunch of gladioli, enters an apartment block in rue Henner behind a young woman who taps in the door code. He goes through to the dark courtyard, climbs over the back wall, forces open the door of a storeroom, a simple lock and two turns of the key, and finds himself in the back of a newsagent’s which overlooks the Perroquet Bleu.

  Fernandez puts on gloves, moving around slowly with the help of a tiny torch, gropes his way to the window and puts the gladioli and a tool belt down on the counter, within reach. He checks the time: 21.23. It’ll be OK, but no time to hang around. He focuses his mind and tries to recall the exact layout of the premises on the other side of the metal shutter. He stations himself, suction disc, diamond cutter … with precise movements he cuts a big enough circle in the shop window to allow him to reach the metal shutter easily. He draws an oblong and takes out a pocket electric drill. Don’t attract attention. He listens out and attacks just as a car drives past the shop. Don’t let the drill bit go through the shutter and be visible from the street, that would be asking for trouble. He needs to be hyper aware of the intensity of the pressure and stop a second before the metal shutter gives way. His hands are skilled, his mind totally absorbed, he’s sweating all over. As he makes the first holes, he gains a fuzzy picture of what’s happening outside. He carries on with his painstaking task, a little less tense now. Few pedestrians actually, the people heading for the Perroquet Bleu are all on the other side of the street. After an hour and a half’s drilling, he’s cut out four-fifths of an oval. He tests the resistance of the metal with his fingertips: it gives. The satisfaction of a job well done. He puts away his equipment. Then he pushes the counter in front of the window and extracts from the bunch of gladioli a short-barrelled laser gun, borrowed from the Élysée gendarmes’ armoury which always has state-of-the-art weapons. He checks the mechanism, loads it, sits on the counter and lays the gun down next to him. It is 23.38. Then begins a long wait, his eye trained on the entrance to the Perroquet Bleu.

  The Perroquet Bleu. His first snort of coke, on the corner of a table. The feeling that he was discovering life. Coke, warmth, a flashback: Katryn’s face, screaming, a dark hole beneath a helmet of black hair, the back of her neck split open, a bloodstain slowly spreading over the wall, her body sliding downwards in slow motion, doubled up, a heap of rags. No more sound, not now. Ghosts. A gold pill box, two amphetamines. Empty his mind, at all costs. He rehearses the sequence of actions over and over in his mind. Cecchi’s car slows down and stops, Cecchi gets out, straightens up …

  At 12.16 a.m., Bornand, at the wheel of his Porsche, screeches to a halt in front of the Perroquet Bleu. Fernandez feels a jolt, an adrenalin rush. Bornand gets out and hands his keys to the doorman. Fernandez takes aim, gripped by an overwhelming urge to kill. Bornand goes inside the bar. Fernandez sighs. The adrenalin subsides. His hands are shaking. Amphetamines.

  At 12.32, Cecchi’s BMW arrives. He emerges from the left rear door. And from the right rear door, Beauchamp …

  Fernandez is stunned, his mind working overtime: Cecchi and Beauchamp know each other, the Tribune de Lille, it’s them.

  … They exchange a few words, laughing, over the roof of the car …

  Flandin too?

  … the BMW slowly moves off and the two men walk over to the doorman and stop to greet him …

  What about the sabotaged plane? Bankrolled by arms dealers? His hand squeezes the trigger, the bullet hits Cecchi in the head. A second one shatters the neon Perroquet Bleu sign. Beauchamp and the porter fling themselves to the ground, Beauchamp, writhing in his efforts to extricate the revolver which is stuck in the folds of his coat, shoots in the direction of the metal shutter. Men come rushing out from the bar, bent double, the porter gesticulates helplessly, two or three minutes of to
tal confusion.

  Fernandez is already far away. Without waiting to check whether Cecchi was well and truly dead, he grabbed the gun and the bouquet, dashed for the door and was in rue Henner inside forty-five seconds. Within three minutes, he’s melted into the crowd thronging boulevard de Clichy. He walks to place Clichy, still clutching his flowers and the concealed gun. Too late for the last metro. Above all no taxis. He disappears down the back streets between Clichy and La Fourche, at random. A black Peugeot 205, a discreet model which he knows well. One and a half minutes to pick the door lock, efficient as ever, and he drives away from the neighbourhood to the wail of police sirens coming from a few blocks away.

  Wednesday 11 December

  At seven a.m., Macquart, freshly showered and shaved, goes out to buy the papers at the Gare du Nord, ensconces himself at the Terminus Nord and orders a large café crème and croissants. He skims the dailies. Nothing of interest. Then picks up the Bavard Impénitent – the ‘impenitent gossip’ – the satirical weekly that comes out on Wednesdays. And there, on the front page, a short, prominently positioned article, carrying the byline of the paper’s regular leader writer, André Bestégui:

  The Intelligence Services aren’t stool pigeons.

  Friday, 30 November, a high-class prostitute is murdered in Paris. Some customers have nasty ways. And her body is found in the vicinity of the La Villette construction site. Why not? It’s as good a place to die as anywhere.

  The Crime Squad’s investigating: that’s their job, and on the whole they do it well. They quickly identify the last man to have seen the woman alive, a certain Chardon. Bad news. Chardon isn’t just anyone. He’s a gossip columnist, but that’s not his only talent. He can also spice up his stories with photos of his society subjects in compromising situations, which he uses for his own ends to supplement his income. In short, most journalists earn their living by publishing, while he earns his by not publishing.