Affairs of State

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘Was it you who followed me to Geneva?’

  ‘Yes.’ Becoming aggressive: ‘I saw you getting picked up by a stranger.’

  Shocked, Françoise Michel rises: ‘Thank you for all this information, which I shall try to make good use of. I’ll see you out.’

  Noria doesn’t move.

  ‘I wouldn’t play that game if I were you. You don’t seem to realise the gravity of your situation. Well I’m going to tell you. You’re in big trouble, very big trouble. Accomplice to a murderer, accomplice to the misuse of company property and to money laundering. That’s not all. You’re going to be crucified by the press as a perverse seductress, and it won’t be long before you’re accused of having blackmailed poor Bornand, with all that money you regularly pay into your mother’s account. You’d do better to listen to what I have to say to you.’

  Françoise Michel sits down again. Cornered. Then, after a silence:

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Bornand’s ditched you, and he’s finished. You must leave here. Look out for yourself and your mother and salvage what there still is to be salvaged.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Cooperate with the police. We want to know about Bornand’s business dealings, his bank accounts, his friends and his foibles. And we think you can help us. We’ll find out everything we need to know in the end, with or without your help, but it will take time, and to move fast, we need you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you remain free, we play down your involvement, we protect your private life as far as possible. That’s already quite a lot. It means you have a chance of coming out of this without being completely broken and ruined.’

  ‘Are you asking me to betray Bornand?’

  Noria leans forward, on the tip of her tongue the words to evoke the beatings, her own mother’s moans as she lay on the kitchen floor, her father dazed, the fraction of a second of nothingness, desertion and deliverance. And with a sudden warmth:

  ‘Madame, for women, freedom often begins with a betrayal. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘You’re unusually sincere for a cop.’

  She’s going to come round. Give her time. Noria stands up, turns towards the fireplace, and contemplates the snake goddess.

  Françoise Michel retreats further into the back of the sofa, her eyes closed. She feels like vomiting. Dumped, just like that. He jumps into his Porsche, and takes off. Not a word, and goes back to his wife. Dumped after twenty years’ submission and dependence. What you want doesn’t count. Dumped, like her mother, in the middle of the war, and pregnant. And she feels that knot of rage form in her belly and rise to her throat with a vengeance. Fury, hatred, the blows, Martenot on the floor, doing nothing to defend himself. I am that woman too, even if I try to forget it. She stares at Noria’s back; the young female cop is still absorbed in studying the snake goddess. And at this precise moment, I hate Bornand. Freedom begins with betrayal. She sits up.

  ‘Men are always full of surprises, don’t you think?’ Noria turns around. ‘And they’re reckless. I’m prepared to tell you everything I know.’

  ‘Not here. I’ll accompany you to the station to make an official statement.’

  In the street, Levert is waiting at the wheel of an Intelligence Service vehicle. Françoise Michel climbs into the back, and Noria the front. There is a heavy silence. Levert concentrates on driving the car, Françoise Michel, gutted, mulls over her loathings and her woes, and Noria looks out at the city speeding past, no pedestrians about, the traffic is moving freely. They head for the city centre along the left bank, crossing the Seine at Les Invalides. A grey light. The darker mass of the glass roof of the Grand Palais, the Seine, vaguely luminescent, no wind, barely any movement of the water as a barge passes.

  It’s in the bag.

  When you take the time to look, this city is wonderfully tranquil. Macquart’s words echo: I don’t know what comes closer than this to pure happiness …

  The door opens and Bornand turns around. Just in time to say to himself: a very elegant trouser suit, navy blue with white stripes, Yves Saint Laurent no doubt, looks good on all women, even the plump ones. She’s pointing a twelve-bore double-barrelled shotgun at him, buckshot cartridges dangling from a tungsten wire. She shoots twice, in quick succession, aiming for his chest. She hits him in the heart, Bornand is almost split in two: death is instantaneous. She stares at the pool of blood spreading on the black and white flagstones. The local stone is porous. It’ll have to be sanded to get rid of the bloodstains, maybe it’ll even be necessary to replace several flagstones. The opposite wall is also spattered. She sighs. Lays the hot gun on the table, next to the coffee cups. The smell of burnt gunpowder is stronger than that of horses, stronger than that of blood. Then she walks over to the telephone in the hall and dials the number of the local police.

  ‘Good morning, chief, Madame Bornand speaking.’

  ‘Good morning to you. madame. Has one of your horses bolted again?’

  ‘No, chief. You’ll have to come up to the stables. I’ve just killed my husband.’

  Fernandez waits in a poky, windowless office, more of a cubby-hole than an office to be honest. Two chairs, a table, a standard lamp. A padded door. The sounds of the building barely filter through. A cross-examination room. Conditioning. He goes over and over what he will and won’t say. Yes, Katryn. If Cecchi knew, Macquart is also likely to know. An unfortunate accident. Nothing about Chardon, since nobody suspects me. Yes, everything I know about Bornand, including Flandin’s death. Nothing about Cecchi’s killing, I have an alibi.

  He’s already been waiting two hours when Macquart comes in, places a transistor on the table and sits down. He exudes a sort of tight-lipped inner jubilation. Never seen him like that before. He’s scary. Fernandez clears his throat.

  ‘I’ve come to ask you if I can be transferred back to my original department.’

  Macquart looks at him, on the verge of a smile.

  ‘So the life of a bent cop’s hell, is it?’

  Fernandez doesn’t respond. Macquart continues:

  ‘There’s an entrance fee.’

  ‘I’m prepared to pay it.’

  ‘I’m going to come clean with you. I know a lot of things. I’m going to let you talk. If you tell me what I want to hear, I’ll do everything within my power to take you back. If you don’t, I’ll have you charged. I’ve got what I need to do so. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Fernandez begins to speak. The plane crash, Chardon and the Iranian arms deal dossier …

  ‘How did Bornand get hold of it?’

  ‘Through Bestégui, from the Bavard Impénitent … Katryn as a possible source … Her death, my fault, a cock-up, Bornand doesn’t know … After that, Bornand contacts Beauchamp to get him to watch Flandin … He hushes up the dossier … which reappears on Monday, I don’t know how, and eliminates Flandin in front of me, at Laurent’s. I still don’t know how. Probably with Beauchamp’s help. I didn’t see a thing.’

  ‘It’s not very hard to murder cleanly when you know there’ll be no autopsy and no inquest …’

  ‘Yes, but Bornand a killer, things were getting too heavy for me and I panicked. I went into hiding that evening in a hotel in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where I’d stayed in happier times, and where I called you from. And I stayed there until today. I think that’s all.’

  Macquart leans towards him:

  ‘Is that really all?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Cecchi was murdered forty-eight hours ago.’

  ‘I know, I saw it on TV.’

  ‘In the inside pocket of his jacket, the Crime Squad found a handwritten document describing the entire financial workings of the Iran missiles deal. It would appear that the SEA is just a front to buy the missiles from the armaments division of the Defence Ministry and transfer the sales commissions. But the initial outlay, five million francs, and the guarantee o
f three and a half million were paid by the SAPA to the IBL, Bornand’s Lebanese bank which is covering the entire operation. And it’s the SAPA that will receive most of the anticipated profits, i.e. around thirty million francs. If we deduct twenty per cent for the commissions, that still makes a tidy little profit of over twenty million. Now the SAPA belongs to one man, and that is Bornand. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’ After a pause: ‘Bornand always talks about France’s interests in Iran, and never about his own.’

  ‘And you truly believe he’s capable of distinguishing between the two? This is hardly new.’

  Macquart stops and looks at Fernandez who doesn’t need to pretend he’s at a loss. He allows him a breather and continues:

  ‘Obviously, a presidential advisor who speculates privately on clandestine arms trafficking with Iran, and who pockets such huge sums is bound to make waves.’ Macquart adopts an aggressive tone: ‘You thought you were being clever, but you were nothing but a minnow in a sea of sharks. You were their stooge.’ A pause. ‘I’ll continue. Cecchi was intending to blackmail Bornand. He met the journalist from the Tribune de Lille and dug up the Chardon dossier last Monday, by way of a warning shot. And he had an appointment with Bornand at the Perroquet Bleu to offer him a deal. What deal?’

  ‘Maybe the re-opening of the Bois de Boulogne gambling club. He was set on it, and Bornand didn’t want to touch it.’

  ‘Cecchi got hold of the Chardon dossier from Combat Présent. It was Tardivel who gave it to him.’ In his mind’s eye, Fernandez sees Tardivel’s head lolling backwards, his glasses flying off, his vision blurred. It must have been even worse with Cecchi. ‘It remains to be seen how he obtained the information he was carrying on his person when he was shot. None of it seemed to appear in the Chardon dossier. Do you have any suggestions?’

  ‘No.’ Way out of my depth, and have been from the start, running in all directions without ever grasping what was going on. ‘I had no idea of any of this.’

  ‘There are two men who know the entire set-up. Flandin, who had no interest in a scandal erupting, and who’s dead, and Bornand’s head of security, Beauchamp. Beauchamp, a business associate of Chardon’s − they were in Africa together in the seventies and every so often since then they’ve smuggled in a bit of Lebanese heroin. It was Beauchamp who met Cecchi at Mado’s last weekend. And who was still with him when they met Bornand at the Perroquet Bleu. For the time being, that’s all we know, but we’re still digging. The papers found on Cecchi have been sent off for analysis. Beauchamp has been arrested. He’s the lynchpin in the whole thing, that’s certain. Who was he working for? A rival arms dealer? The Americans? The RPR which wanted to prevent the release of the hostages before the elections at all costs? All of the above? We may find out eventually. On the other hand, we can’t count on an autopsy for Flandin. But that scarcely matters now.’

  Fernandez’s head’s spinning. Macquart is triumphant.

  ‘The fact that all that went over your head doesn’t bother me. But the fact that you didn’t talk to me about Chardon, that is serious. You were seen picking him up in Katryn’s car the day of her murder. Fernandez, this memory lapse is one ruse too many. I warned you. You don’t get a second chance.’

  Fernandez is gutted. Macquart looks at his watch, 17.00 hours, time for the news. He switches on the transistor. Newsflash on France Info.

  ‘The Élysée press office has just informed us of the death of François Bornand, one of the President’s closest friends and advisors. He was the victim of a hunting accident, at the home of his wife in the Saumur region. He was cleaning his shotgun without having checked whether it was loaded, when it went off, killing him outright. The President immediately sent his condolences to his widow. The funeral will take place tomorrow, in Saumur, in the strictest privacy.’

  Macquart switches off the radio.

  ‘You made the right choice in coming to see me, pity you didn’t see things through to the end.’

  Then with a wan and wholly ambiguous smile on his lips:

  ‘The rule of law prevails. More or less.’

  Afterword

  In France, the 1980s were commonly referred to as the ‘years of easy money’, because during this decade money came to represent, for an entire political class and regardless of whether they were in power or in opposition, an end and a value in itself, at a time when entrepreneurs and financiers became the new heroes of modern times. The Socialists, who came to power with Mitterrand when he became President of the Republic in 1981 – having been sidelined over a period of decades – assumed and practised their new religion with the zeal of neophytes. Some among them exploited the situation to enrich themselves shamelessly. Making money, for these male politicians, took various forms as they sought to exercise influence in a number of different ways. One possible outlet was via the arms trade and there were serious pickings to be made, since after the Six Day War between Israel and the Arab countries in 1967, the Middle East has been in a state of constant upheaval.

  In Lebanon, a massive influx of Palestinian refugees fighting for their national independence, primarily organised from within the heart of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) succeeded in destabilising the already extremely fragile political and religious equilibrium of the country, torn apart by the civil war that lasted from 1975 to 1989. There were constant and confused armed conflicts between the Palestinians and the Lebanese militias, including the Shia (to whom Amal belonged); the Phalangists (right-wing Christians); and the Druze (within the Progressive Socialist Party, or the PSP). Along with these internal conflicts in Lebanon, throughout the 1980s there hovered the permanent shadow of their more powerful neighbours. The shadow cast by Israel, seeking to eliminate all Palestinian resistance, and which invaded Lebanon twice over, bombing and laying siege to Beirut, occupied southern Lebanon for four years, that cast by Syria, with its dreams of annexation, which installed its army across a whole swathe of the country, and that of Iran, a Shia theocracy from 1979 onwards, manipulating religious influence as if it were a form of politics in order to emerge from isolation in an Islamic-Arab world heavily dominated by the Sunni.

  At the other end of the Middle East, Shia Iran, where the Shah had been forced into exile by the Islamic Revolution of 1979, and Sunni Iraq (which supported the Palestinians in Lebanon), dedicated themselves to a conventional war which lasted from 1980–1988, a war of exceptional length and bloodshed, in which millions died. All these power games were in play during this decade, at the mercy of shifting allegiances, of terrorist acts of numerous kinds, involving the seizure of aeroplanes (even a cruise liner was boarded at sea), bombs and car bombs, mass murder, targeted assassinations, and – the latest change – suicide bombings, leaving thousands dead. Not to mention the taking of civilian hostages, to be used as negotiating tools.

  France was deeply implicated in all these conflicts, and in more ways than one. Firstly, as is the way of French traditional politics in dealing with the Arab world, because it offered its support to Iraq by supplying it massively with arms, despite the official embargo. Then again, because of its wholesale adoption of a nuclear policy. The Shah of Iran was closely involved, ever since 1974, in the Eurodif uranium enrichment project. From 1979 onwards, France refused to honour the contractual accords made with Iran under the Ayatollahs. It therefore became the target of numerous attacks, instigated behind the scenes by Iran and involving the repeated seizure of – primarily – French and Lebanese hostages, of which the longest sequestration was that of Carton, Fontaine, Kauffman and Seurat, taken in March and May 1985, and which ended with three of them being released in May 1988, Seurat having died in captivity. The negotiations to obtain their release are central to this novel.

  For the USA, this period was similarly extremely unsettled. The Iranians took the entire staff of the US Embassy in Tehran hostage, shortly after the fall of the Shah. Lengthy negotiations ensued, closely linked to Ronald Regan’s victory at the presidential elections.
Then a number of particularly bloody attacks led to the Americans’ departure from Lebanon. Ultimately, Reagan became involved in the operation which came to be known as ‘Irangate’, and consisted of secretly selling arms to Iran (at that time under an official embargo) in order to release vast sums of black market money, then used to finance – outside any controls exercised by the US Congress – the ‘Contras’, ultra right-wing terrorist forces operating inside Nicaragua, in an attempt to destabilise the progressive regime then in power following the holding of the first ever democratic elections there.

  It was a hugely eventful period offering almost unlimited opportunities and scope for wheeling and dealing. However, readers do not need to be familiar with every twist and turn to follow the plot, or at least that is my intention. Above all this novel is the story of men greedy for power and money. The sort of men one encounters, today as in bygone times, in Europe, the Middle East and the world over.

  Dominique Manotti

  November 2009

  Notes

  1. Philippe, Duke of Orleans, Regent of France, 1715–1723.

  2. The heart of the Jewish district in Paris.

  3. Société d’Électronique Appliquée (a fictitious company).

  4. Banque Internationale du Liban/the International Bank of Lebanon (a fictitious bank).

  5. GPRA/Gouvernement Provisionel de la Republique Algerienne: Bestégui is recounting to himself his first meeting with Bornand when he was still a young student, protesting against the war in Algeria and campaigning for self-determination, for broadly left-wing reasons. He remembers Bornand as a businessman who supported independence because the Americans did (being hostile to all forms of old colonialism that excluded them), and because the war was bad for business. Bornand, a war-time collaborator, is deeply hostile to de Gaulle.