Affairs of State

Tuesday 10 December

Laurencin’s primary target: Antoinette Michel. He has her address and her social security number, and that’s about all. He’s going to have to improvise. He drives at about ninety-five miles an hour on the motorway; the Morvan flies past in the dark, he needs to get on her case as quickly as possible.

Antoinette Michel lives in a magnificent dark wood chalet built on a white stone base on the slopes of Lake Annecy encircled by mountains. It has a terrace and a balcony looking out over a meadow, a steep slope planted with a few bare fruit trees; far below lies the stone-grey lake. Laurencin, standing still, slowly breathes in the silence and the cold. He turns around. There’s a light on in an upstairs room but no sign of movement. At the back of the house is a big garage opening onto the road. He tries the handle. The door is unlocked. He steps inside and glances around. It’s tidy and in the centre is a huge Range Rover, its tyres still caked with mud.

A wealthy woman, or at least very comfortably off, a seemingly peaceful existence. For the moment, it’s difficult to tell much more, and dangerous to hang around. Time to head for the social security office in Annecy.

The same room as before, already familiar and the same Macquart, frosty as ever, lying in wait behind his desk. He launches straight into the attack:

‘First of all, a few principles. We always work in very small teams. When you’re on a case, you only discuss it with your partner and myself and with nobody outside this office, in the force or elsewhere. That’s the first ground rule. Rule number two is that everything comes back to me. I want full daily reports. You may have to act in a way that is just within the law, but I’m the one who makes the decisions. And I won’t tolerate any exceptions. Understood, Ghozali?’ She nods, takes it in her stride without batting an eyelid. ‘Intelligence is a rather special branch of the police. Our purpose is to get to the truth.’ He thumps his desk lightly to drive home each word. ‘The truth wherever it may be, whatever it may be. Is that understood?’ Noria nods. ‘Then we think how we’re going to use it, and again, I’m the one who decides. This isn’t the Crime Squad. Crime Squad, never heard of it. Is that clear?’

‘It’s clear.’

‘Good.’ He rises. ‘I’m going to introduce you to the inspector you’ll be working with on this case.’

A small meeting room, fixed up at the end of a corridor, light entering through a Velux skylight. A table and five padded chairs fill the entire space, which is closed off by a soundproofed door. In one corner is a fridge, containing a variety of drinks.

‘If you want coffee,’ says Macquart, ‘you have to go to the machine in the corridor.’

On the table are writing pads, felt-tips, and a jam jar full of squares of chocolate. No ashtrays. A man gets to his feet as they enter. Macquart performs the introductions:

‘Inspector Levert. One of the best cops in Intelligence …’

Mid-thirties, athletic-looking, long, narrow face, with a prominent nose and a very straight forelock, chestnut hair starting to grey. Instinctively, Noria’s antennae pick up macho cop. Watch out.

‘… Noria Ghozali, police officer. A new recruit. Tremendous natural ability, in my view, but a lot to learn. I’m counting on you, Milou.’

They sit down. Macquart, relaxed, helps himself to a piece of chocolate and begins.

‘First of all, let’s review the Fatima Rashed murder, and you’ll see that it’s a bit different from the Crime Squad’s case. Let’s begin with Chardon, a journalist involved in all kinds of trafficking and a blackmailer who runs his business with a great deal of wiliness and caution. We’ve got him, we’ve had him sentenced for living off immoral earnings, and we can have him locked up any time we choose. For us, he’s a mine of information. As soon as the investigation opened, I informed the Crime Squad that he was on our books. A couple of weeks ago, he tells us that people are gossiping about Bornand’s mistress. Do you know Bornand? No? He’s an advisor to and close friend of the President’s, who plays an important and shadowy part in Élysée politics. He’s one of the heads of the Élysée unit, the President’s private police. In other words, a big fish. The minute his name comes up, the matter needs to be handled with kid gloves. That’s why I couldn’t allow you to carry on sniffing around undisturbed. But the fact is that Chardon didn’t tell us any more about Bornand’s mistress. The rumours are probably still too vague, or, more likely, he hasn’t followed them up yet, and doesn’t want to risk us fouling his pitch. We, on the other hand, have nothing on her in our files. No record. That’s a mistake, I grant you. And now we have to work fast.’ He pauses, and takes another square of chocolate. ‘The morning of Fatima Rashed’s murder, Bornand asks us for a personal file on Chardon. We give it to him, expurgated of course. We also know that Fatima Rashed was one of Bornand’s favourite call girls and that she spent the night before she was killed at an orgy with him and his friends. Lastly, Bornand is one of Mado’s main protectors, and Martenot is his lawyer. That makes too many coincidences.’

He stops and looks at them:

‘Are you with me? No questions?’

She’s with him.

‘The scenario we’re working on is the following: Chardon has something on Françoise Michel’s sex life that enables him to blackmail her. It’s a habit with him, and his chief source of income. He approaches Bornand, perhaps through Fatima Rashed. It ends in bloodshed. I believe Chardon’s dead, otherwise he’d have contacted us to ask for protection — which we’d have given him, incidentally. Yesterday, after you left, I sent an inspector to the Brasserie des Sports. The waiter identified the one you call the second man. It’s Fernandez, a cop seconded to Bornand’s personal security. You see how the pieces are falling into place? And yesterday we had another new lead. Bornand’s mixed up in arms trafficking in some way. So far there’s nothing confirming the link with Chardon. We’ve decided to keep working on this hypothesis, because whatever happens, we’ll get something out of it. All we need to do is find out why Chardon was blackmailing Françoise Michel, and we’ve got Bornand. One of my inspectors is already digging up Françoise Michel’s past. The past always sheds light on the present, at least in police matters. You two will follow Françoise Michel. Pay attention to every detail, since we don’t know what we’re looking for.’ He shoots Noria a critical look. ‘Milou, will you make sure she’s appropriately attired for the milieu you’ll be operating in.’ He opens a file lying on his desk. ‘I’ve had a brief biography of Bornand drawn up for you, to give you an idea of the individual, plus some key dates. You may find it useful.’

FRANÇOIS BORNAND: BIOGRAPHY

Born on 10 April 1921, in Lyon, only child, family devout Catholics. Father, Raymond Bornand, career army officer. Mother, Delphine Bornand née Gautron, went to visit family in the USA in August 1939 and gave no further sign of life after the outbreak of war. François Bornand passed his baccalaureate with distinction in 1939 and enrolled in the Law faculty at Lyon university in autumn 1939. In May 1940, Captain Bornand is killed in action. François is then taken into the care of Édouard Thomas, a distant cousin of his mother’s, owner and manager of the Teinturerie Lyonnaise, a dyes and chemicals factory in the Part-Dieu district of Lyon with around fifty employees. After the armistice of July ’40, Thomas enters into relations with the Vichy government, the production committees and the Industrial Production Ministry. His business grows steadily until 1944 thanks to regular contracts with the German army. In January 1941, François Bornand, still a law student, joins Marshal Pétain’s youth workshop, in the Allier, where he remains until October 1941. From November 1941 until November 1942, he works at Radio Vichy as a specialist youth reporter. It is alleged that he entered into contact with Resistance groups (no confirmed testimonies). He leaves Radio Vichy when the German army invades the southern zone, and returns to Lyon, to his uncle Thomas’s house. He joins the collaborationist militia based in Croix-Rousse as soon as it is formed, to infiltrate it on behalf of the Resistance, according to his own account and testimonies from reliable sources gathered in 1946. He leaves it in March 1943, on the point of being unmasked, and disappears. By August 1944, he’s in Paris, and takes part in the Liberation of the capital. In 1945, he meets up with Édouard Thomas who, after a bit of trouble with the Lyon Liberation Committees changes the name of his company to Thomas Chemicals and Pharmaceuticals (TCP), and establishes its head office in Paris, settling there himself and moving into the pharmaceuticals industry. In 1947, François Bornand marries Nicole Thomas, Édouard’s only daughter, and the same year sets up his own import-export company specialising in trade with the emerging countries, the Middle East and Pakistan. He becomes a prominent second-hand arms dealer (reselling American stocks) and trades chemicals and pharmaceuticals, in association with his father-in-law’s company. He thus acquires an in-depth knowledge of a number of foreign countries, which makes him a valuable contact for the French Intelligence Service. His political commitments support his various business activities. Pro-American and a militant anti-Communist, he eventually becomes part of the clandestine Rainbow network, financed by the CIA and set up to combat all forms of Communist penetration in France. He also maintains ongoing relations with some CIA agents in the Middle East.

In 1954, he enters into a business relationship with François Mitterrand’s law firm. The two men become close on a political level, united in their opposition to the coup d’état of 13 May 1958 that restored General de Gaulle to power. From then on, Bornand distances himself from the French secret services, while maintaining close ties with the Americans, and adopts the US position in favour of Algerian independence. Throughout the Algerian war, he maintains relations with the Provisional Government of the Algerian Republic (GPRA), chiefly business relations, which create difficulties for him in France resulting in two years’ residence in Switzerland and a bigger outlet in the Middle East.

In 1963, Édouard Thomas dies of lung cancer. TCP, which has become France’s fifth biggest pharmaceuticals company, is sold to Roussel, and Bornand and his wife benefit. Bornand entrusts his affairs to the Martenot law firm, his late father-in-law’s lawyers. His wife leaves him the same year and moves to one of her properties in the Saumur region, where she still lives and breeds horses.

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 total 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.