Affairs of State

Tuesday 3 December

Moricet skims through the various customer files, classified in alphabetical order. He quickly finds confirmation of what the Syrians had told him: large numbers of French and Israeli weapons, fixed up and modified for the Christian militia in Lebanon, the Horn of Africa, with Francophone sub-Saharan Africa the biggest customer, and of course, as it happens, the most interesting. At the centre of the network is the Franco-Lebanese Djimil family. Seven brothers, Shia Muslims, who emigrated in the early 1950s to Côte-d’Ivoire because the Christians controlled all the power in Lebanon. They soon made their fortune. One of them, living in Sierra Leone, organises diamond smuggling, controls virtually half of the country’s output, and is now one of the richest men in Africa. A devout Muslim, he finances the works of the entire Shia community in sub-Saharan Africa and maintains close relations with the ayatollahs and the Iranian regime. Another brother, Mohamed Djimil, who stayed in Côte-d’Ivoire, specialises in importing arms. And perhaps also heroin, which often goes hand in hand, but of that, of course, there is no trace in Camoc’s correspondence. Huge arms shipments, one average-sized cargo plane a week. Nothing on the ultimate destination, and Camoc only knows Djimil, the middle man. But Moricet has a clear picture of the chain: French mercenaries, African guerrillas, presidential bodyguards and, further afield, South Africa, still under embargo. And of course, Francophone Africa means that there’s probably an RPR connection. Besides, it’s public knowledge that the Djimil brothers in Côte-d’Ivoire regularly finance the RPR’s electoral campaigns. This could be a serious lead. But at the same time, is it really new? It is only confirmation of what had seemed probable from the start. Anyway, Bornand wants names, I can always give him these, they’re credible. Then it’s up to him to do what he wants. I’ve fulfilled my contract. It’s two a.m., the airfield is very quiet, may as well carry on ferreting around.

The next file, a reply from Aurelio Parada, Brazil. Yes, he does have thirty-three toys of superior size and quality, Frenchmade, in working order, from the Argentinean army. Exocets, thinks Moricet. Camoc is ratcheting up its activities. In the same file, Mohamed Djimil confirms to Camoc that he’ll take the thirty-three toys in question, and is immediately transferring the agreed deposit in dollars to Camoc’s Swiss bank account. Finally, Parada informs him of the despatch of the toys to the Comores, on 15 November 1985. Moricet feels a rush of excitement. Comores, Denard, French mercenaries in sub-Saharan Africa, Djimil — you can bet the Exocets will end up in Tehran. The opening up of a new arms supply route to Iran, now that’s a valuable piece of information. And Camoc is playing a part in the operation. A political manoeuvre? Bornand can make what he likes of it, not my problem.

What do I do? Do I take the documents and get out, or do I pick up the boss, as planned? It’s four o’clock in the morning. He decides to stay. He crams the files that interest him into a plastic bag, drags a chair over so it will be hidden behind the door when it opens, takes his revolver out of its holster, lays it on his knee, rests his head against the wall, and dozes off.

At eight o’clock, the office slowly comes to life, they’re not early risers in these parts. Moricet, concealed behind the door, puts his revolver on the floor. The door opens and a man enters. Moricet kicks the door shut, pinions the man from behind in a stranglehold, tightly enough to prevent him from shouting, and with his free hand gives him an injection in the buttock. In two or three seconds, the body goes limp, Moricet releases his hold and the man crumples to the floor. Moricet checks that it is indeed De Lignières, boss of Camoc, his eyes rolled upwards, his face flaccid. Shoots heroin, according to the Syrians. As long as he doesn’t snuff it straight away. Moricet puts his revolver back in its holster and from his tool belt he extracts a very large, strong plastic bag and slides the body into it. It’s no easy job, the body’s limp and heavy and he must move fast. He throws in the files and clamps the bag shut, then goes over to the window, opens it and looks around. Three hundred metres away is his team’s little jet, engines throbbing. The only obstacle is exiting the office through the window without being spotted. He has around twenty minutes. He observes the comings and goings for a moment, then lays the bag across the windowsill, jumps out, which costs him a huge effort, and heaves the bag onto his shoulder. The team on board the plane should be ready to intervene if necessary. Nothing happens. Whistling, he heads for the plane. The bag’s heavy. No hindrances. He climbs into the plane, throws down the bag and looks at his watch: ten minutes to go and time to spare.

Lift-off. De Lignières, propped up in a seat, comes round groggily, in a state of shock. Moricet, leaning against a seat facing him, offers him a bottle of water. De Lignières drinks and splashes his face.

‘Let me explain the situation. I work for the SEA, and they’re not happy about the disappearance of their plane en route to Tehran.’

The dazed De Lignières appears not to understand.

‘The SEA suspects Camoc is involved.’

De Lignières vigorously shakes his head. Impossible.

‘Wait. First let me explain the rules of the game. Right now we’re circling over Beirut. You answer my questions convincingly and we take you back to Halat, and we don’t see each other again. Otherwise … I take you to Paris, where a reception committee is waiting for you. Shall I begin?’

De Lignières nods.

‘The Brazilian Exocets, are they for Iran?’

A shrug.

‘I’ve no idea.’ He continues in a completely broken voice: ‘I have only one customer, the one who pays. And it’s not the Iranians …’

Moricet leans forward, pressing his finger at a precise point on the sternum. Unable to breathe, a sharp pain shooting up to the back of his neck, De Lignières makes no attempt to defend himself. He’s all in.

‘Let me put it another way: who are the Djimils working for in this affair? Iran?’

‘I think so, but I’m not certain.’

Moricet relaxes the pressure.

‘That’s better. Explain.’

‘We sent a team to Tehran, to take delivery of the SEA consignment. The Iranians asked them to stay to adapt some Exocets due to arrive any day. It can only be those. There aren’t that many Exocets circulating freely.’

It all adds up.

‘And did you give the Djimils the info on the SEA deliveries to help them eliminate a competitor?’

‘That’s ridiculous. How do you expect me to? … I don’t know anything about that delivery. Not the name of the carrier, or the dates, or the airport it left from, nothing … all I know is what’s happening in Tehran.’

That also rings true. Moricet straightens up. I stick my neck out for Bornand, and he sends me up a blind alley. Beirut’s my patch, I can’t afford to make a mistake. I’ll destroy all evidence of my visit to Camoc and give him the Djimils’ name. Then he’s on his own. He motions to the two men sitting at the back of the aircraft and goes into the cockpit. The two men bear down on De Lignières, lift him up, one holding each arm, drag him gasping for breath towards the middle of the plane, open the hatch and push him out. Two thousand metres below, the Mediterranean is a violent blue.

The house at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht is locked up, the curtains open, no sign of life. The Crime Squad detectives make door-to-door inquiries around the neighbourhood.

‘Of course, everyone knows Chardon, you bump into him all the time, but only to say hello to. You should ask Madame Carvalho, his cleaner, she’s a concierge in an apartment block at the bottom of the hill.’

A lively woman, who, no doubt for very personal reasons, does not seem enamoured of the police.

‘And besides, up there, we’re a community. It’s pretty much a family and we don’t like people bothering us.’ Yes, she cleans for Monsieur Chardon every morning. No, she doesn’t know where he is.

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Friday morning. He was having a bath when I arrived. Then, he went out for lunch and I finished clearing up. And on Monday, the house was in exactly the same state I’d left it on Friday. Except there was a dirty coffee cup in the sink, which I washed.’

An inspector shows her a photo of Fatima Rashed.

‘Have you ever seen this woman?’

‘No, never.’

‘Could she have come to the house without you seeing her?’

‘I’m not up there all the time.’

‘This young woman is dead. She was murdered on Friday. And Chardon is the last person to have seen her alive.’

Her expression inscrutable, Madame Carvalho says nothing.

‘Could you come to the house with us, while we have a look around?’

‘Have you got a warrant?’

‘OK, we’ll come back tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock outside number 38. Be there to assist with the search. And let us know immediately if Chardon reappears before then. Goodbye, Madame Carvalho.’

The Crime Squad chief drops into the 19th arrondissement police headquarters.

‘This afternoon, conference in the chambers of the investigating magistrate who’s handling this case, at the law courts. She’d like you to be there, Bonfils.’

Then he adds jokingly, as he turns towards Noria:

‘We’ve found the address of Chardon, the man who had lunch with Rashed at the brasserie. He lives around the corner from here, at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht. He seems to have vanished. If you come across him, be a darling and let us know …’

It is twelve forty-five p.m. Tardivel leaves his apartment in the prestigious rue de Marignan, a stone’s throw from Mado’s place, and walks tranquilly down the street towards avenue Montaigne and place de l’Alma. He has a lunch appointment at Marius and Jeannette’s. In his fifties, he has a sinuous, supple body, sparse fair hair, a lifeless face with pointed features, and wears owl spectacles. For the first time in ages, he feels relaxed, the nightmare’s over. Chardon, photos, adolescents, blackmail, and, last Saturday, finally, the masters in the post. So yesterday, he dared resume contact with his go-between, an appointment for lunch in a few minutes’ time. He’s chosen a very good restaurant, near his home, on his expense account, and this evening perhaps … life’s looking good again.

On the same side of the street, Fernandez advances in his direction with a buoyant step and a smile on his face, keeping his eyes firmly on the big saloon car with tinted windows driving slowly towards him. When it draws level with Tardivel, Fernandez hastens his step, opens the rear door, shoves him into the car with his shoulder, dives in after him and slams the door. The saloon pulls away without speeding up. No reaction on the pavement, unlike inside the vehicle. Once over the initial shock, Tardivel turns around, tries to open the door, which is locked, and clutches the driver’s neck, protesting violently. Then he falls still. The nightmare’s back. Rammed right up under his nose, on the back of the driver’s seat, is the photo he knows so well of him buggering a very young adolescent, and a kid sitting on the floor, looking despairingly into the lens. Fernandez laughs.

‘So, little poofter, calmed down, have we?’ Fernandez caresses the back of his neck, the muscles are rigid. ‘We’ve decided to be reasonable, that’s better, old fellow.’ Tardivel is ashen, slightly bloated, holding his breath, not the slightest defensive movement. ‘What about your friends of the “work, family and fatherland” persuasion? A photo like this would cause quite a scandal among your respectable friends, wouldn’t it?’

He replies in a hoarse voice:

‘I’ve already paid.’

Fernandez caresses him more intensely.

‘I know and I don’t give a fuck.’

Moving at a crawl, the saloon turns into place de l’Alma, and onto the freeway hugging the Seine, in the direction of porte de Saint-Cloud.

‘Yesterday, your paper received a dossier on the plane that went belly up over Turkey …’

‘I don’t know anything about it, I haven’t been asked to cover the story.’

Fernandez abruptly tightens his grip on Tardivel’s neck making him groan and bangs his head against the door frame; his glasses fly off and Fernandez crushes them underfoot.

‘You’re going to make damn sure you are asked to cover the story. And take your time to check out the information. All your time. Because the day the story breaks in your rag, I send this photo to your friends, and to mine too while I’m at it.’

Tardivel, his head thumping, dazzling spots of light in front of his eyes, feels himself losing consciousness. Fernandez bangs his head against the door once more.

‘For the fun of it,’ he says with a real smile. ‘Did you hear, faggot? Answer me.’

‘I’ll do it.’

Fernandez lets him go and looks at his watch. Not even one o’clock. Enjoyable, but not difficult. He’ll have to embroider it a bit to amuse Bornand. He leans towards the driver, whose expression remains deadpan.

‘Turn around, we’ll drop him off at his lunch appointment.’

‘No, drop me here, please.’

‘As you wish.’

The car pulls up. Fernandez gets out and holds the door open for him. As Tardivel straightens up, he hits the tip of his chin, half dig, half punch.

‘Don’t forget me, you filthy little poofter.’

Noria leaves the 19th arrondissement police headquarters in the early afternoon. ‘Time in lieu,’ she announces. Rue Philippe-Hecht, the neighbourhood of the pimping grannies and firecracker kids, a godsend.

Madame Aurillac’s restaurant is empty at this hour. Sitting alone at a table, she’s playing patience and drinking Suze. Very welcoming, Madame Aurillac.

‘Sit down and I’ll bring you a coffee … the firecrackers stopped after your visit. The kids are still around, of course, making a noise … Monsieur Chardon, rue Philippe-Hecht?’ Her face becomes inscrutable. ‘No, I don’t know him. Never been to the restaurant.’

Noria leaves with the bitter taste of the coffee in her mouth. If you have to choose between a madam and a pimp, which is worse? She walks down the narrow streets. On a long, empty pavement, four kids are taking turns on a skateboard. It’s them. Her lucky day. Noria stops and watches them. They’re not really expert, but that doesn’t stop them showing off. One of the boys picks up the board and walks towards her with a big grin, stopping a couple of paces away.

‘Hi, copwoman. What brings you back here?’

The other kids form a circle. Cocky little bastards, like all those she’d hated as a child.

‘Hi, Nasser.’ The circle closes in. ‘I’ve come to chat to your friend, the restaurant owner.’

Nasser makes an obscene gesture. Noria sits down on a bollard.

‘One of her good friends, Chardon, who lives in the brick house over there at number 38, is suspected of murdering a woman, Fatima Rashed …’

Noria pauses and looks at them. They’re listening. A murder has to be worth their attention. On top of that, Fatima Rashed … They’re kids, don’t go into detail.

‘… Fatima Rashed was my cousin.’

The effect is instantaneous.

‘Your cousin? Your family?’

‘Exactly. I’m not sure that Chardon’s the killer, but I’d like to ask him some questions. He’s disappeared. And the restaurant owner knows where he is, but she’s refusing to tell me. I was looking for you because perhaps you’ve seen him in the last few days?’

She glances at the boys. Tacit agreement.

‘On Friday, the day it snowed, at around four thirty, five in the afternoon, we were having a snowball fight. The guy was standing at his front door, he was waiting.’

‘At number 38?’

‘Yes, there. A red Mini came and picked him up …’

‘A Mini?’

‘Yes, the soapbox on wheels. He got in next to the guy …’

‘It wasn’t a woman at the wheel?’

‘No, it was a guy, in a pathetic little car like that. A real sad case.’

Night has fallen. The dark mass of the Buttes Chaumont park broken up by a few haloes of orange light gives off a damp chill. Meanwhile, the nearby rue des Pyrénées is very animated. Noria walks up it slowly, her chest bursting with this new feeling of relaxation, of well-being, alone in the midst of the passing crowds which she scrutinises. There’s a second man, it’s perhaps … go on, say it, it’s probably whoever followed Rashed and Chardon to the Brasserie des Sports. When he picked up Chardon, Rashed was most likely already dead. An accomplice of Chardon’s? Rashed’s killer? The killer of both? There’s a second man, and I’m the only one who knows. She’s in no hurry to go home.

The bus shelter affords a pocket of light. Noria stops in her tracks. Facing her is a poster depicting a man, larger than life, full-frontal and bare-chested, perched on the edge of a piece of furniture, black and white underpants, tight and bulging, his face slightly fuzzy, his profile turned to the left, his eyes lowered, vaguely absent, submissive, offering himself. Bonfils. A total shock. She hesitates and is unable to tear her eyes away. She lets herself go, with pleasure. The sharply contrasting black and white photo is magnificent. His chest and stomach muscles are rippling, well-defined, alive. She wants to trace the contours with her finger, stroke the smooth skin. Attractive, the groin, just hinted at. A hot flush, the shock. She presses her palms on the glass, over his nipples, leaving two moist patches. The three women waiting for the bus watch her in amazement. Noria smiles at them and goes on her way. She pictures Bonfils, cigarette dangling from his lips, ‘You won’t learn much from watching me.’ That depends.

Bonfils and the Crime Squad meet at the Brasserie des Deux Palais before going up to the office of Magistrate Luccioni who is in charge of the investigation into Fatima Rashed’s murder. ‘Not exactly a pushover,’ says the group leader. Then, corridors, staircases, followed by a door into a cramped, ill-lit office. They are greeted by a tall, very slim, almost skinny, woman with a striking, angular face; big, very pale greenish-blue eyes, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, dark hair cut just below the ear. She’s wearing a silk shirt and a flowing grey mid-calf-length skirt, slit down one side, which makes her look even taller. She conspicuously glances at her watch.

‘I was waiting for you, gentlemen.’ She indicates three chairs. ‘Take a seat.’

She skilfully cultivates a frosty image and smells of mint, thinks Bonfils, suddenly interested.

The Fatima Rashed dossier lies open on her desk. The group leader goes over the young woman’s civil status: born in Algiers in 1958, obtains a three-month tourist visa for France in 1978, and arrives alone. And stays. Meanwhile the magistrate ticks off the details in the dossier. Situation regularised in 1980, granted French citizenship in 1983.

The magistrate looks up:

‘The authorities don’t always move so fast. I assume her case was fast-tracked …’

‘That is possible.’

‘Just in case, try and find out by whom. Go on.’

‘Fatima Rashed was single and lived at 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau, in the 19th arrondissement. Murdered in her garage on 29 November, between 14.00 and 17.00 hours, by a single shot to the throat. The bullet exited through the back of her neck, making death instantaneous. The bullet has been found and is currently being examined by the forensic team.’

‘I see that it was a 357 magnum cartridge. Isn’t that a calibre used by the French police?’

‘It is. But it’s a fairly common calibre.’ A pause. ‘The murder took place during a struggle, apparently. The victim had wounds to her fingers and the palms of her hands, a large bruise on her right arm and had probably bitten her attacker.’ The magistrate makes notes in the margins. ‘The body was then dumped in the Zénith open-air parking lot at La Villette. Yesterday we found and questioned the young woman who was Rashed’s flatmate, Marie-Christine Malinvaud at the Vice Squad headquarters on the quai des Orfèvres. She states they were both employed as part of Mado’s call-girl ring.’

‘Which would explain the payslips from Cominter?’

‘Exactly. We’ve checked her bank account and she made regular deposits corresponding to the amounts on the payslips.’

‘Can we locate this company?’

‘I doubt it. Its registered address is in the Bahamas.’ A pause. ‘Neither Malinvaud nor Rashed have a record with the Vice …’

‘Knowing the Vice, that’s no surprise.’

A frosty silence.

‘Shall I go on?’ She motions him to continue. ‘Still according to her flatmate, Rashed was apparently involved in blackmailing operations with a journalist called Chardon. Chardon was sentenced to two years in 1980 for living off immoral earnings, and he does indeed seem to have been mixed up in various attempts to blackmail well-known personalities and politicians, and our colleagues in Intelligence have told us that they sometimes use him as a paid informer.’

‘That last point isn’t mentioned in the dossier.’

‘As a precaution, your honour.’

‘Who are you suspicious of, inspector? Of me? Of magistrates in general? I shall make a point of noting in the dossier that Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’

The group leader sighs and continues:

‘We visited Chardon’s residence this morning. It seems he left on the day of the murder and hasn’t returned since. Furthermore, we showed photos of him to the witnesses, and he was definitely the person who had lunch with Rashed on the day of the murder. We are questioning neighbours, we’re looking for his family, possibly also for a car … We’ve made no progress. As far as we’re concerned, Chardon is the main witness, if not the prime suspect. And we plan to carry out a search of his home and make inquiries at the various newspapers he’s written for.’

‘Fine, I’ll grant you a search warrant. Tell me, I see from the case file that, according to Malinvaud’s statement, a very young girl was attacked at Mado’s, and that this could have something to do with the murder. Do you have any suggestions as to how to tackle this aspect of the case?’

‘No, your honour, not for the time being.’

‘To sum up. Rashed and Chardon, pursue the leads you’ve already mentioned. As regards Cominter, I’ll talk to the Fraud Squad. By the way, I contacted Madeleine Prévost, known as Mado, and asked to interview her as a witness in the Fatima Rashed murder case.’ She allows a silence to hover. ‘Do you have a file on her?’

The group leader finally ventures a reply:

‘We all know Mado, your honour. Several superintendents, including some of the best-known of them, are regulars of hers. She’s in the pay of the Vice and the Intelligence Service, subsidised by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She’s protected by the entire political elite, both left and right. Mado has been a republican institution for the past fifteen years. She’ll be awarded the Legion of Honour ahead of me.’

‘I see. She told me she had nothing to do with this business, nothing to say in general, and in particular, nothing to say to magistrates under any circumstances. Do those on the payroll of the Intelligence Service normally behave like this towards magistrates?’

‘In a manner of speaking … That’s what’s going to complicate this case.’

‘A prostitute and a pimp protected by the police; a suspect who’s in the pay of the Intelligence Service; a murder committed with a weapon that might be a service weapon … don’t you find, inspector, that this case is likely to turn into a can of worms?’

The group leader (bitch, you think I don’t know it) sits stony-faced saying nothing. Bonfils is enjoying the situation. The magistrate concludes:

‘I’ll deal with Madeleine Prévost.’

Then she turns to Bonfils and smiles at him, a magnificent smile. Her face is transformed, the harsh features soften, her full lips are fleshy and beautiful. A sensual woman beneath the ice. Bonfils gets a hard-on.

‘I asked you to come because I wanted to thank you personally for your contribution to the investigation. Outstanding, your identification of the victim.’

Outstanding, yes, but not thanks to me. And I’m not going to tell her. He returns her smile.

‘Thank you.’

The cops cross the boulevard and go for a drink at the Brasserie des Deux Palais, talking of this and that, but carefully avoiding the subject of the case conference that has just taken place. The group leader is keeping his remarks for his squad. Bonfils already feels as if he’s elsewhere, back in the 19th arrondissement, which doesn’t exactly fill him with joy. A few minutes later, on the other side of the road, the magistrate leaves the courts and heads towards the Latin Quarter.

‘If she goes for Mado, she won’t survive,’ says the group leader.

Bonfils pays for his drink, says goodbye and leaves. Walking quickly, he catches up with the magistrate on pont Saint-Michel. She walks very erect, taking large strides. Her severely-tailored black ankle-length overcoat flaps rhythmically against her boots. Around her neck, a thick white woollen scarf hides the lower part of her face. She’s bareheaded, completely withdrawn from everything going on around her: passers-by, cars, traffic jams. Bonfils adjusts his pace to match hers, mesmerised by the swaying of her hips, as regular and precise as a metronome. She continues up boulevard Saint-Michel, on the right-hand side, which is less crowded. Bonfils allows himself to be swept along, half for the fun of it and half spurred on by desire. She keeps close to the forbidding grey walls of the Lycée Saint-Louis — the colour suits her — still at a rapid pace. The boulevard climbs uphill. Bonfils imagines the moistness of her neck underneath the scarf as he fantasises about breaking through the frosty gaze, running his hands through her damp hair and sparking that radiant smile. She turns right, alongside the Jardin du Luxembourg, empty at this hour, in the teeth of the icy wind. Bonfils allows her to put a distance between them. She crosses rue d’Assas and goes into the lobby of a very modern apartment block, built entirely of glass. Standing across the street, he sees her profile as she takes her mail from her letter box, then she turns her back to him, calls the lift, waits and disappears. He goes into the building. She’s gone up to the eighth floor. He inhales a vague fragrance of lime and fresh mint, which evaporates. That was it.