Affairs of State

Monday 2 December

The weather’s grey again, you have to grit your teeth and keep going. On the way to the police headquarters, a detour via the Brasserie des Sports, a stone’s throw from the Buttes Chaumont park, a smart area composed of offices and apartment blocks. The Brasserie des Sports is one of those places where the whole neighbourhood drops in at some point or another during the day. To buy cigarettes, have a drink, bet on the horses or purchase a lottery ticket, grab a bite to eat or have lunch with colleagues. It is one of those hubs of neighbourhood life that Noria has pinpointed.

She enters. At this hour, the restaurant is still plunged in semi-darkness. A waiter is laying the tables and there are a few customers leaning on the bar. Noria walks over and orders a hot chocolate and a buttered baguette. The owner is a petite blonde with a frizzy perm, an austere fifty-something, standing behind her till, absorbed in organising the day’s work. Noria watches her for a moment then, when the woman looks up, she steps forward, her police ID and the photo of the dead woman in her hand. The owner glances at it:

‘Of course I know her, she’s one of our regulars. She usually looks better than that. What do you want with her?’

Noria, in a daze, hears herself say:

‘She was murdered three days ago.’

Immediately, the news carries the length of the bar. Hubbub. Customers and waiters crowd round. ‘She used to come here often … with a girlfriend, always the same … Or a male friend who she played snooker with … do you want to see the snooker table? … Of course we know her … Murdered … Unbelievable …’

I must work fast and methodically, not get out of my depth, Noria keeps telling herself. Method, method. I can’t handle this on my own. Flashback: the police headquarters, the posters, the burden, the loneliness, the chief with his ‘be an angel’, while she stood there silent and humiliated. Difficult. Flashback, Bonfils: ‘My first corpse … you won’t learn much from watching me,’ a man who was more approachable.

‘I have to call my superiors at the station.’

A quarter of an hour later, Bonfils is there, still laid-back, but now with an air of mild astonishment.

‘It’s a stroke of luck, pure luck,’ says Noria, clutching her card wallet deep in her pocket.

‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘I’ve just spoken to the superintendent. We have the go-ahead to start taking statements here, he’ll inform the Crime Squad. He’s quite chuffed to have something to crow about. To work, young lady.’

First of all, the owner. A practical person, she’s rummaging through the credit card slips.

‘She had lunch here not long ago. Not Saturday or Sunday, on weekends there are fewer people and I’d remember. So Friday? That must be it.’ Aloud: ‘Who served her? Was it you, Roger? Which table, do you remember? Number 16 … There you are. Fatima Rashed …’

A shock. That name … Impossible to shake off the feeling that she and I could be distant cousins. Every fibre in me is resisting that kinship. Not with a victim, not with an abandoned corpse. A glance at Bonfils. If he dares say a thing, it’s war.

‘… Do you want her credit card number?’

Bonfils takes out his notebook and starts to write down the name and number, without saying a word and calls the station again, to have them find her address. Meanwhile, Ghozali sits on the terrace. Friday, the day of the murder. No panic. A steaming hot chocolate, little sips. A completely new feeling, a sort of joy in being alive. Beside her, men are arguing heatedly in a language she doesn’t recognise, as they fill in their betting slips.

Bonfils is back. The owner allocates them a round table, not far from the till but slightly set apart so they can question the waiters one by one along with any customers who have something to tell them. Bonfils settles down to take notes and allows Noria, who’s taken aback at first, to conduct the interviews. They finish with the barman quickly, his customers are waiting, and besides, she never used to sit at the bar, maybe a tomato juice from time to time, while waiting for a table, not even sure he’d recognise her. But the restaurant waiters are voluble.

‘A very beautiful girl, classy, tall, never wore make-up, casual clothes, easy-going.’

‘She came regularly, at least twice a week, maybe a bit more often, in the morning at around eleven, to have breakfast — café au lait and scrambled eggs — or lunch between one and two. She’d have the day’s special and a coffee. Never a dessert, never any alcohol, never any trouble.’

A waiter hangs a large slate at the entrance to the restaurant. Today’s special is Auvergne sausage and mashed potato with Tomme cheese. The regulars arrive. The owner waylays them at the bar and tells them the news, nods towards the cops’ table. The restaurant fills up. The atmosphere is friendly, the din grows louder, the waiters move from table to table, weaving around the plants. Noria continues to question Roger:

‘Did she come alone, or with someone?’

‘Sometimes alone, and sometimes with someone. Always the same two people. A tall girl who looked like a blonde version of her. Or a man, average-looking, hard to describe, not very tall, not very good-looking, thirty-something, maybe a bit older.’

‘Have this man or this girl been back since last Friday?’

‘No. We haven’t seen them.’

‘Friday, what time did she come?’

He casts his mind back.

‘It’s hard to say exactly. I think it was just before the lunchtime rush. Probably earlier than usual. Around twelve, twelve thirty maybe …’

‘Was she on her own?’

‘No, with the guy. And after lunch, they played snooker, in the basement. They often played. One day, I watched the game, we weren’t very busy and I’d finished serving. She played better than him. Much better focus. In my opinion, she was quite an authoritarian woman. I reckon she wore the trousers as they say. But we never saw her arguing with her two friends.’

The restaurant is now packed, the noise level very high. For the cops, it’s lunch break. They listen to two elderly pensioners on the next table complaining.

‘Nowadays, you try talking to the young about Maxence Van Der Meersch, they haven’t a clue who he was. They’ve barely heard of L’Empreinte de Dieu, still less that it won the Goncourt book prize, and even then …’

Noria risks a baffled glance at Bonfils, who smiles at her.

Local office workers are noisily discussing the French hostages being held in Lebanon.

‘They’ve been locked up over there for nearly eight months now. Can you imagine being a prisoner of those raving loonies for that length of time?’

‘Didn’t you see it all on TV yesterday? The government say they’re optimistic, very optimistic …’

‘You’re kidding … They don’t even know where they are, or who’s holding them.’

‘I’d send in the paras …’

The waiters are rushed off their feet. Precise movements, threading in and out, never empty-handed, and always ready to exchange a few words with one of their customers.

A few regulars pause at the cops’ table before leaving. They have nothing to contribute. They often saw Fatima Rashed, but as a matter of fact didn’t even know that her name was Fatima. Actually, their paths crossed, that was all. They weren’t even able to say what she might have been talking about with her friends.

‘When she was on her own, she’d read Libération,’ says an elderly man in a severe suit disapprovingly.

‘So do I,’ says Bonfils. ‘It’s not a good enough reason to go and get murdered.’

The old man remains doubtful.

Two o’clock, and calm is restored. One by one the tables empty. The waiters move less speedily. The owner serves the cops grilled sirloin and chips, apologising that there’s no more sausage and mash. An elderly woman comes in to drink a cup of tea. Roger, the waiter who served Fatima Rashed and her friend on the day she was murdered, returns to sit at their table.

‘I talked to the boss and she said I should tell you about this. Last Friday, I had the feeling that someone was following Fatima Rashed. I’m not certain, but it came back to me.’

Noria glances at Bonfils, who takes out his notebook without saying a word.

‘Tell us anyway, we’re interested.’

‘The girl and her boyfriend came in and I sat them at table 16.’ He points it out in a corner of the restaurant. ‘Just behind them, this lone guy I’ve never seen before walked in. He was wearing a beautiful leather jacket. You know, one of those hip-length jackets, belted at the waist, very fine leather, beautiful. I had the impression it was fur-lined, but I couldn’t swear it. I said to myself that a jacket like that would cost me practically a month’s salary.’ He pauses. ‘Without tips, of course. I pointed to the free table next to number 16. There were still quite a few empty tables, which is what makes me think it must have been around midday, you see?’ Noria nods to show she follows. ‘He said no, and went and sat on the other side of the greenery, as if he didn’t want the girl and her friend to see him. Anyway, then I got on with my job — as you’ve seen, there’s no time to hang around. At one point, Fatima and her friend go downstairs to play snooker. They stick around downstairs for forty-five minutes or an hour, as usual.’ Bonfils scribbles, makes a quick calculation and whispers to Noria: ‘That possibly corroborates the time of the murder.’ The waiter goes on: ‘I finish clearing the tables, and I go behind the bar for a drink before going home. At the end of the bar, I notice my man with his leather jacket. Fatima and her friend come upstairs at that point and leave. The guy pays for his coffee and sets off in the same direction as them. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence.’

‘Can you tell us what this guy looked like?’

‘Vaguely. Tall, very dark, that French North African type, you know?’

‘How old?’

‘Around thirty, perhaps a bit older.’

‘Would you recognise him?’

‘Him, I’m not sure, but the jacket, yes.’

The owner signals to them. ‘A telephone call for you.’ Bonfils goes to take the call. It’s the station. The Crime Squad is on the way to 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau, please meet them in the lobby. She grabs his arm.

‘I’ve been through my bills. It looks as though Fatima’s friends paid cash. I can’t find any cheques or credit card receipts that match.’

Bornand, ensconced in the executive chair behind his desk, legs outstretched, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes closed, is letting his thoughts wander. Françoise has gone to stay with a friend — for a break, she said. Without seeing him again. Just a note via Antoine. This woman, who unquestionably belongs to him and always has done, has suddenly escaped his control. She’s becoming a vague, disturbing silhouette that disintegrates if he stretches out his hand. A total stranger. And now she’s deserting him, leaving him on his own. He feels as if he’s suffocating. A whisky.

Enter Fernandez, rested after sleeping round the clock under sedation, at Mado’s place. Bornand sits up.

‘Listen to this, Fernandez my friend. The unit has informed me of several interesting conversations, and I have some news for you. Chardon’s dossier arrived on the desk of the editors of Combat Présent, the far-right weekly, this morning. It was a secretary at the Bavard Impénitent who thought Bestégui was dragging his feet and decided to take things in hand. If I’m not mistaken, isn’t Tardivel, whom we have such a pretty photo of, on the editorial staff at Combat Présent?’

‘Correct.’

‘What do you say to giving him a timely little warning?’

‘It’d be a great pleasure, chief.’

‘Green light.’ A half smile. ‘And don’t forget to tell me about it.’

‘I bumped into Beauchamp on the way in …’

‘He was leaving here.’

‘You were meeting that right-wing extremist? …’

Fernandez’s comment cuts him to the quick. In the past, at the time of the Liberation, the world had been simple: there was the Resistance on one side, collaborators on the other, and he’d been on the wrong side. You had to pretend, beg for resistance certificates, buy them if need be, but, above all else, you had to obtain one. The ultimate humiliation. Once and for all, politics has definitely become a network of personal friendships; the politically correct attitude that the left is left-wing and the right is right-wing — that’s pure naivety, and, with age, he is finding it harder and harder to act as if he believes in any of it.

Bornand’s face is ashen, his nostrils pinched, as he brings the palm of his hand down hard on the desk.

‘You think you’re on the left, do you? Look at you. The only things that are on the left are your wristwatch and your gold signet ring. And me? What does the left mean to me, can you tell me? Me, I’m in power, that’s all.’

Infuriated, Fernandez bites his tongue.

‘As you say, chief. I simply took the liberty of pointing out to you that receiving a veteran of the Organisation de l’Armée Secrète,6 as close as you can get to a militarised National Front party, here in your office is unwise. If word gets about, it is bound to be misconstrued.’

Bornand rises, turns his back on Fernandez, opens the window, leans out and draws the cold, damp air deep into his lungs. He gazes out over the outline of the rooftops, grey on grey. Beauchamp is a friend, I’ve known him for years, we worked together with the Americans. I’m the one who got him a job in the SEA’s security department, as soon as I began working with Flandin, and now he’s very useful to me. Fair enough, but Fernandez is right, I shouldn’t meet him here. Now calm down. He turns around and says in a neutral voice:

‘Mado phoned me an hour ago. Katryn’s been murdered …’

Fernandez sits there, dumbstruck by the news. ‘It happened on Friday afternoon, no doubt shortly after you saw her leave with Chardon.’

‘Did he kill her?’

‘Possibly, I have no idea. In any case, the police are looking for him. Pity, a beautiful and able woman.’ Fernandez nods. ‘I need you to find out all you can about this Chardon. There’s no way he could have obtained that press information by chance, he’s got contacts and I’d like to know who they are. He’s at the centre of the whole thing, this guy.’

Renewed silence. Bornand sighs.

‘And then, this evening, I’m on duty at the Élysée, and that means you are too. Let’s plan our evening. You select a few love letters from among the President’s correspondence, then phone up and invite them to dinner. Not with the good Lord, but with his saints. As long as it’s the Élysée, it’ll work.’

‘How do you want me to choose them, they don’t send photos.’

‘No, but we don’t give a shit. When we want beautiful girls, we go to Mado’s, or to Lentin, the film producer’s parties. Model figures guaranteed, and all that goes with it. What I fancy this evening is a surprise, something else, and even, believe it or not, anything. A fat one, for instance, with a double stomach and big, firm breasts, so I can give her a pearl necklace.’

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.