Lorraine Connection

PART TWO

15 October

Standing in front of the bay window, his jacket unbuttoned and his hands in his trouser pockets, Pierre Benoît-Rey gazes out at the Eiffel Tower all illuminated, looking almost within reach, and the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot beyond. Waiting. Tonight the government will announce the buyer for Thomson, France’s biggest military-electronics concern, a publicly-owned company it has decided to privatise. There are two rival bids, only two, for this huge deal on which the restructuring and perhaps even the survival of the French arms industry depends: Alcatel and Matra. And Pierre Benoît-Rey is head of the small team, or rather the commando, tasked by Alcatel’s management to put together the Thomson bid and see it through, reporting directly to the CEO.

The waiting drags on. Benoît-Rey rests his forehead against the window, against the night, as he used to do when he was a child. The damp cold soothes his brow. He seriously needs soothing. The body of a ten-kilometre sprinter, red lips and an angelic face framed with dark hair; a pronounced fondness for cocaine and alcohol; a sharp brain, always ticking, too clever, some say, and perhaps they could be right. They also say that everything he touches turns to gold. Tonight we’ll see. In a few minutes, it’ll be either the Tarpeian Rock or the Capitoline Hill. A slight churning in the pit of his stomach. He goes over every detail of the deal in his mind. Alcatel is divesting itself of its equipment-manufacturing arm to concentrate on electronics. Fewer jobs, more excellence. With the revenue from the sale, it buys Thomson and its military electronics. The company restructures its electronics capability, creates synergies, and restructures the entire sector, which would be impossible without the mega profits from the military section. From this French giant, we and our British allies, who have bought up our equipment-manufacturing arm — which means we don’t lose it altogether — create a European electronics giant that will challenge the Americans on their own turf. A brilliant piece of architecture, an empire within reach, like the Eiffel Tower, an engineer’s dream. And I’ll be flying. Director of strategy for the future group, most likely.

Time drags its heels. The three ministries involved, Defence, Industry and Finance, are one hundred per cent behind us. Our rival, Matra, a company that’s a quarter of the size of the one it wants to take over, is forced to juggle to finance the operation and is teaming up with an unlikely Korean partner to do so. The boss of Matra is a puffed-up frog who thinks he’s bigger than the ox. We have a cast-iron bid: how can it go wrong? Soon, power over a global group. In the arms sector, to boot. The prize industry, politics, superprofits, secret services. Another stomach contraction, almost painful. Playing for high stakes. For the future. And tonight …

The phone rings and Benoît-Rey swings around. In the meeting room serving as their HQ four men — his entire team — are killing time. They exchange the odd word from time to time and a glass tinkles against the whisky bottle. All eyes are glued to the telephone on a corner of the big table in the centre of the room.

‘It’s your call, Pierre.’

He picks it up, listens, nods and hangs up without a word. Sits down, suddenly drained.

‘Our chairman. He’s just had a call from the Prime Minister’s office. It’s Matra.’

A long silence. The men look at each other. This failure is all theirs. They accepted the mission, they gambled, they lost. Their first failure on such a scale. Rossellini, in charge of the financial side of the bid is an elegant and athletic forty-something, a graduate of France’s top management school, the École Nationale d’Administration. He’s doing a stint as an auditor in the Finance Ministry where he still has a discreet, efficient network of personal contacts. He acted as Alcatel’s financial director in the bid, a position that will be vacant in a few months: a financial director of one of the biggest global industrial groups at barely forty, a destiny he believed he was meant for. Only now he’s suddenly relegated to being just another departmental head, and has to stomach it. Then Alain Bentadj, a young engineer trained at the prestigious École Polytechnique, expert in new technologies: a spell at Thomson, highly valued by the military for his technical capabilities, his inventiveness and the clarity of his vision, dreaming of an international career, abruptly finding himself demoted. What can he do at Alcatel if Matra’s the leading arms manufacturer? He came to Alcatel precisely because the Thomson takeover was on the cards. What’s he supposed to do? Change jobs? Not easy after a failure on this scale. And anyway where can he go if Matra dominates the industry? They’re hardly going to welcome him with open arms. Frédéric Marion is head of communications. He thought he’d made a good fist of it, with the ministerial offices in his pocket. He’d dreamed of setting up his own PR and communications agency on the back of all this, its future assured with the giant Alcatel account. Those dreams have all just gone up in smoke. Roger Valentin sits alone on the sofa, the last man. He’s heavily built and older, watching the others and suppressing a smile. Former deputy director of the secret services, he’s now Alcatel’s head of security, making more money in the space of a few years than he ever made in the public sector, but lacking either further ambition or anxieties.

Rossellini breaks the silence.

‘Are we entitled to know why?’

‘No. No other information. The Prime Minister chose Matra. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Right. The next question is where’s a good place for a holiday at this time of year? There’s no snow in the mountains and the coast’s horrible.’

‘There’s the islands.’ Benoît-Rey picks up the phone with a half-smile. ‘I’d planned a little victory celebration at Joseph’s too. I’d better cancel.’

‘OK, one last drink and we go home to our families. It’ll be strange for them, after hardly seeing us for four months while we’ve been practically married to each other.’

‘I’ll miss you, darling.’

‘Alain, are you sure the beautiful Madame Bentadj will have waited for you?’

‘Don’t rub salt into the wound. I have no desire to return home unexpectedly.’

‘An evening at Mado’s, blow jobs all round, getting fucked brainless.’

‘Now that’s a much better idea …’

Valentin is still sitting silently on the sofa. The phone rings again. They look at each other. Benoît-Rey says, ‘Nothing worse can happen now,’ and picks up the receiver.

‘Yes, we’re still here, chief. Yes, Valentin too.’ He utters groans and monosyllables, staring around wide-eyed. ‘Yes, we’ll be there.’ And he hangs up.

‘So, has the Prime Minister changed his mind?’

Shrug. ‘Our CEO’s received several phone calls. First of all from Prestat.’

‘Who?’

Half-smile. ‘Very funny. The CEO of Thomson Multimedia. He swears that the entire company, from senior management down to the workers, is going to fight the choice of Matra tooth and nail. They are absolutely against it because Matra’s flogging them off to Daewoo, a Korean company that can’t be trusted at all, in his view.’ A pause. ‘He’s talking about strikes, demonstrations.’

‘Nobody gives a fuck about multimedia. Thomson is first and foremost arms, it’s only arms. We didn’t know what to do about the multimedia arm either, we couldn’t have kept hold of it, we’d have ended up selling it to the Japanese or to another Korean firm.’

‘Maybe, but we never said so publicly. Then our chairman had a long phone conversation with one of his contacts in the Finance Ministry. The minister doesn’t agree with the PM’s choice, but he’ll go along with it, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Apparently, the senior civil servants at the ministry are firmly opposed to the choice of Matra. Opinion is divided among the senior officials in the other ministries.’ He pauses for breath. ‘In short, the minister is encouraging us not to consider tonight’s decision as final.’

‘He’s taking the piss.’

‘Possibly, but that’s not the view of our chairman. He wants us in his office at six p.m. tomorrow to present a new action plan — with the emphasis on “new” — one that’s appropriate for this second round.’

Rossellini explodes: ‘Now, it’s our chairman who’s taking the piss.’

‘What second round? You’ve got to be joking. Who’s going to overturn the Prime Minister’s decision? The President? They’re as thick as thieves.’

‘The chairman was talking about a vote in the National Assembly …’ An eruption of general mirth … ‘Rejection by the Privatisation Committee or the Commission in Brussels.’

‘Now that makes more sense, although it’s highly unlikely. The Privatisation Committee has always backed the government.’

‘No. It rejected a bid in 1994.’

‘But until now, the government has always gone by the book, and always waited for its approval before making its decision public.’

‘By the book …’

Benoît-Rey sits up and suddenly seems to regain his fighting spirit.

‘Gentlemen, we have no choice. The acquisition of Thomson is as vital for Alcatel as it is for us. So let’s go for it and see the game out. We’ve nothing else left to lose. If the Privatisation Committee follows its usual practice, we have one or two months at most before it announces its verdict.’ He takes off his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves. ‘The night’s still young. We have time.’ He looks at his watch. ‘There’s nobody left in the kitchens so I’ll phone the downstairs brasserie and have them bring up sandwiches and beers.’

Benoît-Rey begins to clear away the empty glasses and bottles then takes notepads and pens out of the drawers and places them randomly on the table. The machine is back in operation, with mobile features and expressive hands. When the sandwiches arrive, they resume their places around the table, more resigned than enthusiastic, after all rather pleased to be in their cocoon immersed in familiar trappings: the atmosphere, the stress. Valentin extricates himself from the sofa and chooses a Camembert sandwich. And Benoît-Rey continues:

‘The chief wants something new. First of all, I’d like to make sure that everything’s clear. We consider the acquisition of Thomson to be vital, because in our high-tech sector only the military markets give the necessary stability to safeguard a long-term future. So we need Thomson in order to restructure Alcatel. And if we don’t restructure Alcatel, we’ll stagnate and then be gobbled up by the first-comer. Our British friends, for example.’ A pause as an obsessive refrain goes round and round in their heads: merger, takeover, buyer, change of personnel, career in tatters, having to carve out a new niche. Benoît-Rey continues: ‘Our bid was the best, we had solid, extensive backing. Yet we lost. Where did we go wrong?’

Rossellini, his tie loosened and expression impassive, drinks beer and whisky, English-style and without eating, repeatedly brushing away the strand of fair hair which keeps falling over his left eye.

‘We lost for political reasons, I think it’s as simple as that. Several of Alcatel’s big bosses made their careers under the Socialist government. You too, Valentin, and you left the security service when the current lot came to power because they didn’t want you heading it up. Matra’s boss is much closer to the Prime Minister and the President.’ He pauses, then continues, on a bitter note: ‘I think I was wrong to get involved in all this. The Socialists are out of the running for the time being, and I don’t give a damn.’

Got to get things back on track, fast.

‘If it was a political decision, how do you explain the support from the ministerial departments?’

‘Is that support as widespread as you say? Our only source of information so far is our chairman, and it’s in his interest to present things that way to keep us going.’

‘Valentin, what do you think?’

Interesting, first time they’ve asked me for my opinion. These youngsters are really up shit creek. He puts down his barely-touched sandwich and takes a sip of beer. Another precautionary pause. This will take a while.

‘I don’t think our failure is primarily or exclusively political. The fact is, there was never any competition between Matra and Alcatel for Thomson’s takeover. The decision was made before the bidding process began, and for reasons that probably have nothing to do with industrial logic or politics, even with a capital P.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Firstly the decision to sell Thomson by mutual agreement rather than by putting it up for tender. That has never been done for such a large company. So it was clear, right from the start, that it would be the Prime Minister’s decision alone, and for reasons of his own.’

‘Thomson is up to its ears in debt.’

‘That’s an excuse and that’s not the end of it. Just after the bidding process opened, Gomez — Thomson’s boss — was fired, to everyone’s surprise, in a real battle for power.’

‘He’s also in bed with the Socialists.’

‘He’s a crafty character who’s got influential friends in all camps and has survived two government cohabitations. But above all he’s a bitter personal enemy of Matra’s boss. The way had to be cleared. Matra’s takeover of Thomson would be out of the question if Gomez remained at Thomson’s helm. It would have been him calling us this evening instead of Prestat, and that would have been a major problem for the Prime Minister, whereas the new boss of the Thomson group, appointed by the government and in post for three or four months, has no choice but to keep his mouth shut. Gomez was fired eight months ago. At that point, the decision had already been taken in favour of Matra. Allow me to continue. Matra put in its takeover bid late, as everyone knows. We can surmise, without being too paranoid, that they had access to ours, thanks to a few friends in high places. Under normal, transparent conditions, being late would have been enough for their bid to be disqualified. Finally, Daewoo’s senior management booked Fouquet’s several days ago. They’re throwing a fabulous party to celebrate their victory — which they were certain of well before the official announcement — as we speak.’

Rossellini speaks frostily, with a disdainful smile:

‘Basically, your theory doesn’t make much difference, Valentin.’ He whistles the sibilants. ‘Whether Matra was chosen before the bidding process opened or at the end, the fact is they were chosen because they’re close to the Prime Minister.’

Going round and round in his head, the same old nagging doubt: What am I doing here? Talking to a cop. A police view of History. That fat Valentin, coarse and probably incompetent. I’m a fish out of water here. I’d do better to try and cover my arse rather than get deeper into this mess, in bad company.

‘Yes, it makes a lot of difference. The Prime Minister keeps his decision secret for months on end, not sharing it with his ministers, and lets the governmental departments carry on as if the whole process were being conducted under normal conditions. The natural suspicion is that if this decision is secret, it’s because the plans to restructure the industry are covering up some highly compromising flaws. If I manage to uncover those flaws, then I don’t need to worry about deadlines or authorities, I have the power to get the Prime Minister to change his mind. It’ll be up to him to worry about how to save face. Finding motives, gathering evidence … In other words, this will turn into nothing more than an ordinary police investigation.’

Benoît-Rey, tense, listens attentively, is almost calm.

‘Why didn’t we think of that sooner?’

‘I spoke to the chairman about it quite early on. He didn’t agree. He believed in the integrity of the process and the viability of his industrial proposal, and was confident of winning the bid. He was probably alluding to our conversation when he told you to come up with something new.’

‘I find that assumption and the implied method of working rather exciting. And of course, you already have a few concrete leads …’

‘There are two avenues to pursue, although one is more interesting than the other. The first and most obvious is the Taiwanese arms market which Thomson and Matra have been involved in for five or six years. We don’t know much about what’s behind these deals, other than that billions of commission handled by Thomson have vanished. There’s talk of a sum of five billion. When that sort of money’s involved, nobody plays by the rules. Matra and Thomson have both benefited and could have a common interest in eliminating all those not in the know in order to protect their secret. Alcatel is a newcomer. Its intrusion could increase the risk of a leak and will be perceived as dangerous by many insiders.’

A breather. Valentin sips his beer. A bubble surfaces in Bentadj’s memory, a few snatches of conversation overheard in the corridors of the Defence Ministry.

‘A captain in the Taiwanese army who was investigating the terms of a sale of frigates to Taiwan by France, was assassinated …’

‘Correct. Unsolved murder.’ Valentin allows the corpse of the Taiwanese captain to haunt the meeting room for a few moments, the blood, the death so far away, so close to the world of big business. He sighs. That case is a tough one. Too big, too heavily protected, too dangerous. Disappointment, relief among his audience. Even if I’m convinced it played a part in the Prime Minister’s decision. I propose that we only use what we know for certain. Gomez, Thomson’s boss, has stored up a few time bombs against Lagardère, Matra’s boss. If we find the right way to ask him he’ll sell us a few, and even if they’re fabricated we can use them to destroy the life and reputation of Matra’s boss. That’s useful, has to be done, but it won’t be enough.’ Valentin tilts back in his chair and looks at them with a half-smile. Know-all. I’ve got an excuse, they’re so exasperating. ‘Second avenue. I suggest that the Prime Minister’s key concern over the privatisation of Thomson isn’t arms, but the multimedia subsidiary. Of course, you guys dream only of arms and find that hard to swallow. Let’s go back to square one. The government’s first decision was to sell off the military division, which is in excellent shape, together with the multimedia operation, already up to its ears in debt. Observers all believe this strategy is financially unsound. Everyone else forgets about it. A few days later, Daewoo enters the Matra frame. Hang on, we need to think about this. Daewoo’s no stranger to anybody. It’s one of the major Korean conglomerates, the most recent and the most fragile, linked to the Korean dictators who chiefly finance it. It has been in serious financial difficulties since the fall of its dictator friends in the mid-eighties, and was bailed out at the last minute by the Korean government once before, back in 1985. Today observers in Seoul are sceptical about its ability to survive the recession that’s hitting the Korean economy. To spell it out, over there Daewoo’s considered to be a bankruptcy waiting to happen. Kim, Daewoo’s Korean CEO, is no stranger either. He had to leave the country for a while in 1985. In 1995, he was caught red-handed, bribing a public official and he’s just been sentenced to two and a half years in jail. He’s not banged up yet, but he’s cutting the risk by no longer residing permanently in Korea. Unbelievable, isn’t it, to go and seek out that particular Korean? But he’s well known in Parisian circles. He landed in France some time around 1985 right when he was beginning to have serious problems at home. At first he made numerous contacts and political friends on both the left and the right; latterly they tended to be more on the right. Let’s move on swiftly, I don’t want to bore you. He sets up a company in Lorraine with around a hundred employees. In 1987 he and his family are granted French citizenship amid total secrecy. Worse still, it’s treated as a sort of ad hoc defence secret. He doesn’t speak French, doesn’t live in France, fulfils none of the conditions for citizenship, but the Prime Minister of the day exerts a bit of gentle pressure and his file records that he has been granted citizenship for “exceptional services to France”. What services?’ He pauses, nobody moves. ‘You can see clearly that here’s what I would call a flaw.

‘Two years ago, Kim opens a cathode tube factory in Lorraine. A small factory. Has he already been told about the privatisation of Thomson Multimedia? Is he preparing his bid? It’s entirely possible. This factory will enable him to sign a deal with Thomson Multimedia in 1995. It’s baiting a sprat to catch a mackerel, but then he’ll be able to claim he was working with Thomson before the takeover. I’m convinced that he was foisted on to Matra, that it wasn’t Matra that went after him, but Matra’s boss, Lagardère, can’t say no to the President, for all sorts of reasons.

‘To cap it all, last May the Prime Minister makes Kim a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Commander, no less. No mention of his French nationality. Why? Is he ashamed of it? Not at all, any more than of his being sentenced to prison for corruption in his own country. That much goes without saying.’ Valentin leans forward, suddenly belligerent, punctuating his words with his fist. ‘I want to know what those “exceptional services” were, I want to know what Kim did, or who he paid to receive such recognition on a regular basis. If I can find out, I’ll have ammunition for blackmail and the Matra-Daewoo bid collapses.’

Silence. Benoît-Rey clears his throat and Valentin smiles at him.

‘Don’t lose heart, my dear Pierre. Welcome to the delightful world of arms dealing. As the Marquise du Deffand said: It is only taking the first step that is difficult.’ 16 October

The following morning, after a few hours while they pretended to get some rest, mulling over extracts from dossiers, salvaging what they can, and voicing quite a lot of resentment, Benoît-Rey and Rossellini meet in Valentin’s office for a working breakfast. They sit in an austere room next to the boardroom at the top of the building, lit by a curious window, round like a camera lens, which perfectly frames the Eiffel Tower rising in majestic isolation against the Paris sky. Valentin always works facing the window; watching the variations in light on the intricate girders helps him think.

A copious traditional continental breakfast awaits them on a table in the corner of the room. Valentin dunks his croissants in a bowl of coffee, while Benoît-Rey and Rossellini keep to lemon tea, toast without butter and just a smear of jam. They’re conscious of their weight, keen to maintain their athletic physique. Rossellini plays tennis every day at the Tennis Club de Paris, between one and two p.m., no matter how much pressure he’s under from work. Having finished his croissants, Valentin turns to him and launches his attack:

‘I know we have little in common, you and I. But you’re the person I want to convince, Rossellini, you most of all, because you’re a key player. Part of our affair, probably the most important part, will be played out in the Finance Ministry and the surrounding milieus, as is often the case in this country, and that is your territory.’ Rossellini drinks his tea without a glance at Valentin. ‘I know you’re reluctant and I well understand why. You think the game’s over, and that you urgently need to rethink your future career. Let’s look at things from a different angle. Whether you worry about your future now or in two months’ time doesn’t make much difference. In any case, it’ll take you ten years to climb back to the top. Ten years is a long time. On the other hand, if we win, I disappear, no one likes the security service and dirty tricks, you get all the credit for the success, and the future’s yours. In a nutshell, you’ve got a lot to gain, and absolutely nothing to lose that hasn’t already been lost.’

Rossellini pours himself another cup of tea and adds another slice of lemon with slow, deliberate movements. He takes a sip, leans back in his chair and looks at Valentin for the first time.

‘I came to more or less the same conclusions last night. Go on.’

‘I’ve got a few contacts among Lagardère’s sworn enemies. I won’t go into detail, and I’m going to get my hands on their files — dropped charges, current proceedings, various libel cases. Pierre and I are going to reactivate all that. I expect you to arrange for Lagardère to receive a visit from the tax inspectors …’

‘I can do that if you give me some ammunition. But a tax inspection is a drop in the ocean given what’s at stake.’

‘I know that. We’ll carry out a campaign of harassment. But that’s not the main thing. I want you to launch a stock market investigation into Matra share prices. Look for signs of insider dealing. On the radio this morning they announced a twenty-five per cent rise in the share price on opening.’

A cop. No more than a cop. Hopelessly thick. I should have known. Shit. Rossellini is very terse.

‘I fear you’re barking up the wrong tree, Valentin. Lagardère certainly wouldn’t compromise the whole deal — a mega industrial deal — by doing something so stupid. It’s not Matra’s style.’

‘Lagardère no, but Kim, Daewoo’s CEO, would. He’s the one who booked Fouquet’s several days in advance. Would he miss out on an opportunity like this to make a quick buck, almost risk free? With his crooked ways? The evidence suggests not.’ He stresses the word “evidence”. ‘He speculated, and he probably used the new stream of funds to grease the palms of his backers while he was at it. The stock market regulator will find out, and we’ll have the key to Kim’s sleaze operation.’

Rossellini has closed his eyes and is massaging his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. After all, seen in this light, it might not be impossible. He sits up.

‘Let’s say that you’ve convinced me, and let’s set things in motion without wasting any time. But don’t overestimate my contacts.’

‘We’ll cross-check my contacts and yours. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised. And besides, you have no option, Rossellini, and neither do we. Make sure you do a good job.’

The solitary housing estate rises up in the middle of the Lorraine plateau, just above Pondange and its valley. It dominates the vast stretch of land which is bald on one side and has verdant woodland on the other. Half-empty car parks are dotted around the estate, a construction dating back to the last heyday of the iron and steel industry. It is well-maintained, recently renovated and the majority of the residents are unemployed. This morning, there’s a biting wind and the few men and women who are leaving for work, dropping the kids off to school on the way, hurry towards their cars.

Two men in their thirties, athletic looking, with short hair, square jaws and inscrutable expressions, wearing work boots, jeans and leather jackets, are hanging around the building. Étienne Neveu’s wife, a well-built woman with flaxen hair, is late. At last she emerges from block C, chivvying along two little girls, half dragging, half carrying them towards a battered Clio. She piles them on to the back seat, turns on the ignition, yanks the car into gear and drives off. The two men walk up to the door of block C, glance around, nobody in the lobby, too early, too cold for the young loafers. They go in, take the lift, third floor, the door on the left. One of them rings the bell. Silence. He rings again. Reluctant footsteps, and a sleepy voice enquires:

‘What is it?’

‘Étienne Neveu?

‘Yes …’

The man takes out a card wallet and presents it open in front of the spy hole, the colours of the French flag. Police. Étienne opens the door. He’s in his pyjamas, barefoot, his hair dishevelled. He lets the two men in and they close the door softly behind them.

‘Police. You are Étienne Neveu, you work at Daewoo Pondange, you were present yesterday during the occupation of the factory and at the time of the fire, and that night you claimed in public that you saw the arsonists. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He ushers them in. ‘Come in, sit down.’

‘No, we’re in rather a hurry. We want you to come with us to Pondange police station to make a statement.’

‘Right away?’

‘Right away. You understand that it is crucial for our investigation. We’ll drive you there and bring you back home as soon as we’ve finished. You can expect it to take a couple of hours.’

Two hours … There goes his lie-in to recover from the excitement of the day before. It’s no joke, a fire. Sleep first, then slob around in my pyjamas in front of the TV, no wife and no kids. With a beer. Maybe even get a bit pissed, and then another snooze, so as to be on form for dinner. I should have kept my mouth shut yesterday, fat lot of good it’s going to do me …

‘Get dressed, Mr Neveu, we’re waiting.’

To go to the police station, you’ve got to look smart, you don’t want to find yourself in a position of inferiority. You never know, they might take advantage, the bastards. So, a clean pair of black jeans, Italian leather moccasins, a nice beige sweater and the brown parka. Satisfied glance in the mirror, and a little idea begins to form. Pondange, Aisha, why not? He’s beginning to feel more cheerful …

The three men go downstairs together without exchanging a word. They meet no one in the lift. In the car park, the trio makes its way towards a grey Peugeot 206 where a man is sitting behind the wheel reading the Républicain Lorrain. He folds away the paper as they come towards the car. Perfectly synchronised, one of the men takes Étienne by the elbow and steers him towards the right rear door which he holds open for him, while the other opens the rear left door, gets in and sits down. Étienne leans forward to climb into the car, the man behind gives him a violent shove, and Étienne topples head first on to the back seat. The guy sitting inside the car guides his fall and pushes a wad soaked in chloroform under his nose, pressing down hard on his injured neck. His partner finishes bundling Étienne into the car, wedges him firmly in, barely a couple of convulsive jerks and the body is inert. Then he also gets in, slamming the door shut. The driver switches on the ignition, the three men exchange glances, the car slowly pulls away and moves towards the second car park which overlooks the Pondange valley. They drive between the edge of the woodland and a white van parked there, completely blocking the residents’ view. The two passengers throw their police ID cards on to the front seat, get out of the Peugeot, grab Étienne’s legs, pull him out of the car, load him on to one of their backs and vanish quickly into the trees.

After a few minutes’ wait, everything is quiet, a man slides behind the wheel of the van, the Peugeot starts up, leaves the car park and turns on to the road to Nancy. The van follows at a distance.

The two men jog down overgrown, downhill paths through the woods as if training, taking turns to carry Étienne’s limp body. Halfway down the incline, one of them points to a gap on the right, and the other follows him. They come to a halt on a concrete slab overhanging a scree-covered slope dotted with rocks. Étienne is deposited face-down on the slab. The taller of the two men presses his foot on the back of his neck and unwinds his long white silk scarf which he slips under Étienne’s chin and around his forehead with precise movements. He leans forward, tests his foothold, and yanks hard with both hands. The cervical vertebrae snap cleanly making a dry crackling sound like a dead branch. One man takes the arms, the other the feet, hup-two, and they toss the body over the edge. It bounces on the scree then lands head first in a bush, dislocated. The killer winds the long white scarf around his neck again, zips his jacket up to the chin, and starts to walk away.

‘Aren’t we going to hide it with branches?’

‘No. The more visible the body is, the easier it will be for the officials to treat it as an accident. And besides, this is the sealed-up entrance to a former iron mine shaft, the locals don’t like coming here, old memories, probably, except in spring to hunt for morels. By then …’ 17 October

The Pondange police station is halfway up a hill, in an elegant nineteenth-century mansion built of local yellow limestone. It stands in a garden which was once protected by high railings, when life there was fraught with danger, when the iron and steel-workers used to attack it with bulldozers and the cops locked up inside owed their salvation solely to the arrival of the riot police. That was a long time ago. Now the railings have been removed and the beautiful, sleepy villa in the centre of this tiny provincial town is surrounded by lawns.

The superintendent has assembled his officers, four men, in his first-floor office which occupies what probably used to be the master bedroom. It is a vast corner room with high coffered ceilings of dark wood, oak floorboards, two windows flooding the room with light, and a bare black marble mantelpiece running along one wall. The furniture — a desk, three armchairs, an oval table and a few very ordinary chairs — barely fills the space.

The officers are sitting around the table, a few sheets of paper and a ballpoint pen in front of them, listening carefully and obediently to their superintendent who stays standing. He always remains on his feet, there’s never a chair for him. He paces up and down the room, his tall frame — close on six foot three of pure muscle — nearly filling the room. He maintains his physique with regular workouts and judo, and his waistline shows little evidence of the frequent meals eaten with the local bigwigs. His elegant, classic grey suit (tailor-made in Paris) and his dark red shirt and grey-and-red tie make him look slimmer, and he gives off a subtle whiff of eau de toilette and matching aftershave. With his experience — twenty-five years in the police rising through the ranks with a dogged determination — many think he’ll end up chief superintendent in Nancy. Adding to his charm and authority, he speaks with a southern accent which ten years in Lorraine have barely mellowed.

‘Yesterday I met the public prosecutor and Bastien, the investigating magistrate in charge of this case. For the time being, we are handling the investigation.’ He stops, draws himself up, looks his men up and down and tugs at the creases in his jacket sleeves. ‘I hope you realise what an opportunity this is for all of us here.’ He starts pacing again. ‘But it won’t stay that way for long. If we don’t make significant headway fast, it’ll be handed to the Nancy judiciary police.’ Another pause, the threat hangs in the air over the officers who gaze at the blank sheets of paper on the table and fidget with their ballpoint pens. The superintendent turns his back to his men and plants himself in front of the window overlooking the bottom of the valley and the Daewoo factory, or what’s left of it. ‘The firefighters are convinced it’s arson. So it’s vital we get results — and fast, for the sake of the valley’s economy. We can’t have people thinking that in Lorraine factories are burned down with impunity. It wouldn’t be good for business or for jobs.’

‘Right.’ He moves to the end of the table, his hands lightly resting on its surface. ‘So as not to waste any time, the magistrates in charge and I have drawn up an initial framework for the investigation. We can forget about gathering evidence from the scene of the fire — that can be left to the fire brigade’s experts. They’ll do a better job than we will. Besides, we’re convinced that those mounds of cinders are unlikely to yield much, and it would take too long. We have decided to start by profiling. It’s all the rage at the moment. Let’s start with the French method: who benefits from the crime? Not the Daewoo bosses who are currently involved in a huge deal of national importance, the privatisation of Thomson, and the last thing they want is to be in the news at the moment.’ A pause. ‘What’s more, the factory’s insurance expired a month ago, so no compensation …

‘Not convinced?’ A mutter from the officers but the superintendent carries on, oblivious.

‘… nor the unions, who were in the middle of pay and bonus negotiations which the boss agreed to fund by selling the stock. No more stock, no bonuses. The crime benefits neither the bosses nor the unions, so we can eliminate them from the investigation, which narrows the field. Now, the American method: we’ve drawn up a profile of the typical arsonist. What’s the profile of the arsonist? If the bosses and the unions have been ruled out, we’re looking for an individual who was there during the strike, active, fired-up, a non-unionised maverick, probably a hothead. Most likely someone with a history of petty crime.’ He straightens up. ‘Any comments?’

There aren’t. In any case, the question is purely rhetorical; the superintendent isn’t in the habit of consulting his subordinates.

‘So our work plan is all mapped out.’ He goes over to a flip-chart, picks up a felt-tip and writes as he speaks. ‘First, draw up a list of those on the premises during the afternoon and evening on the day of the fire and note their whereabouts at various times, however approximate. Two of you take care of that.’ Glances around. Berjamin and Loriot. ‘Talk to the security guards, then the workers. I want that list on my desk in forty-eight hours at the latest. It won’t be as difficult as it sounds — according to our sources there weren’t more than eighty people in the factory at the time of the fire. But I want an absolutely reliable list. Make sure you get it.’

The officers take notes.

‘So as not to waste any time, while your colleagues are drawing up those lists, you Lambert, and you Michel, start questioning the key witnesses. The security guards first, they’re impartial observers. The Nancy security company 3G, which employs them, has been very cooperative. It has supplied us with the security guards’ duty rotas and contact details. Start with the guards on the second shift. They were called in as backup at around three p.m. They don’t know anyone in the company so they won’t be biased. They were patrolling the factory continuously from three p.m. until the fire broke out so they’ve got an overall view of events. Also question Ali Amrouche, a decent guy who was directly involved in the whole business, always trying to calm things down, and who should be useful in helping us to determine the next stage of the investigation.

‘Once these preliminaries are completed, we’ll routinely question all those identified by Berjamin and Loriot as being on the premises. And in taking witness statements, be on the alert for hearsay: who was overexcited, who’s violent, who’s a hooligan. And through hearsay the name of our arsonist will eventually emerge. See if I’m not right on this’. A glance at his subordinates. ‘People aren’t stupid. They know a lot, often you just have to listen.’ That’s what you call experience, muses the superintendent. He puts the top back on the felt-tip and places it on the ledge of the flipchart. ‘To work, and good luck.’

Valentin’s gaze dissects the man who walks into his office: tall, slim, getting on for fifty, wearing an elegant navy pinstripe suit, royal blue printed tie, Hermès most likely; ink-dark hair, a bit thin on top, carefully plastered down; a mobile, smiling face with a high forehead. The ex-cop has put on the uniform of his new profession, private investigator for the insurance industry. Valentin gets up to greet him, walks around the desk, his gaze piercing as always. Finesse rather than force, a form of prosperity, that’s a good sign. But beneath the veneer of elegance is the cop, cynical, burned-out, tough. Just what I need. He shakes his hand, gestures him to sit in an armchair.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Montoya. Coffee?’

‘Yes please. Strong, no sugar.’

Middle-aged female assistant, copper tray, china cups, Italian espresso. So far, so good. Montoya feels a mixture of curiosity and slight apprehension as to what will follow. A former security service chief. Respect. But there are skeletons in my cupboard. He’s the one who asked me to come here, let him spit it out.

‘I heard a lot about you when I still worked for the police …’

Simple code between ex-cops, or a bit more? What does he know?

‘… I’m handling a case that requires intelligence, professionalism. Imagination too, a lot of imagination.’ Big smile. ‘And no scruples.’

Montoya drinks his coffee and puts down his cup. Here we go, smiles back.

‘What makes you think I’m your man?’

‘1990, Tangier, the Hakim family.’

A violent flash, white and blue, the old town, the sea, a very big sting, dangerous, no cover, organised with his best informers, the Hakim brothers. Contact is made out at sea, the US Drug Enforcement Administration turns up. Why? How? A fuck-up. The traffickers chuck the goods into the sea, the Hakim brothers eliminate the traffickers, and he ends up killing an American agent and sinking the DEA’s boat. Then he and the Hakims make off with the only boat whose motor’s still working and what can be salvaged of the cargo, leaving the rest of the DEA crew adrift in an old tub. A French police officer is not supposed to shoot an American agent to protect his informants. The killing is blamed on unidentified traffickers on the run, and the affair is hushed up to avoid a serious diplomatic incident with the Americans. But he’s fired. Only a very few people know about his true role. Don’t underestimate Valentin. Does that give him a hold over me? Yes‚ without a doubt. Not all those involved are dead. The Americans are aggressive. And he needs to keep a few aces up his sleeve. Have to start bidding to find out.

‘I’m with you, and I’m listening.’

‘It’s not a very big case. Or to be precise, it’s a secondary aspect of a very big case. Around two to four weeks’ work, less action than in Tangier, no shooting. But I need you because you have experience and a reputation for working fast. A hundred to two hundred thousand francs, depending on results. Well?’

‘The trouble with men like you, Valentin, is that when you decide you want someone, you don’t really give them any choice, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. Reputations are precarious in the insurance world.’

‘Supposing I were interested?’

‘A Daewoo factory burned down a few days ago in Lorraine, at Pondange. I want you to find me a coherent explanation, backed up by evidence, fabricated or not …’ A pause, a half-smile. ‘I don’t mind either way. I want you to explain to me how the bosses set the factory on fire and their reasons for doing so. My sources tell me that you work as a private investigator for insurance companies on a lot of claims of this kind.’ Montoya nods. ‘So you have the expertise and the contacts.’

‘Go on, say it, a reputation for frame-ups and dirty tricks from my days in the drug squad. Is that it?’

‘Exactly.’

‘It will be a pleasure to work with you. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot. So, I’m in.’ Pause. ‘I can’t drag an insurance company into this. I’ll need a cover, of course.’

‘Of course. I’ll arrange one.’ 18 October

Karim walks cautiously along the path through the woods from Pondange up to the entrance to the disused iron mine. He listens out for the slightest sound, not wanting anyone to see him or follow him. Up there, under the scree blocking the entrance, he’s dug out a well-camouflaged tunnel and uses the entrance to the galleries as a storeroom for his various little businesses. It’s an isolated spot, as the local people keep well away from the former mines. He only comes here very early in the morning and has never bumped into anyone. Twenty metres from the scree, he stops. A dark mass in a green bramble bush, a few metres from the foot of the scree. Out of the ordinary spells danger. Standing stock still, barely breathing, he listens. Scraping, sliding, faint crackling, birds taking flight, birdsong, nothing unusual. He approaches slowly, moving as little as possible. From ten metres away, there’s no mistaking it, it’s a human body, wearing black jeans and a brown parka. Caught head first in the bramble bush, his neck probably broken. Glance up to the top of the slope. Thrown from up there, probably. If he’d fallen, he’d be closer to the rocks. Karim removes his shoes and takes a few steps forward in his socks. He crouches down and can clearly make out the profile. Étienne Neveu. Rooted to the spot, his heart thumping, adrenaline rush. Étienne, so close, his arm around his shoulders, the shared spliff, the porn images, the little business deals, a friend you could say. Weep my heart, in your despair, your solitude. And a new image: the night of the fire, Étienne wandering from group to group between the cars, as if oscillating between the darkness and the flames, distraught: ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Nobody was listening to him, but you heard him and you thought, ‘Good, that’ll keep the cops off my back.’ Now, Étienne’s been killed. A fire, a murder, big names. And you, the Arab, the kid, the small-time wheeler-dealer, you risk ten years’ inside, minimum, or your hide. Gotta play this carefully. He straightens up, pins and needles in his legs. Go back down to Pondange leaving as little trace as possible. Think fast. Suddenly: an image. Quignard in an anorak and woolly hat, sitting on the bonnet of his car, brightly lit up by showers of sparks, and Étienne in front of him, probably — no, certainly — saying, ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Perhaps signing his death warrant. Tell the cops about the body, see how they react, I’ll soon find out.

At the police station, Lieutenant Émile Lambert bustles about, conscious of his responsibilities. He interviews the first witness.

Robert Duffaut, born 10 August 1963 in Nantes.

Residing at 29 rue d’Auxonne, Nancy. Profession:

Security guard employed by 3G, based in Nancy since 3 March 1996.

The witness states he was sent to the Daewoo factory by his security company, 3G in Nancy, to provide backup for the company’s permanent team of two security guards, who are employed by the same company, 3G, and who were confronted with disturbances among the personnel which they believed could turn dangerous if security were not maintained.

He states he arrived on the premises at 15.00 hours, accompanied by his colleague. They immediately started patrolling the premises, and continued to do so until 21.30 hours, when they returned to the porter’s lodge to make their report. They were both still there when the fire alarm went off at 21.43 hours.

Q. Who raised the alarm?

A. A man came running in. He was shouting: ‘The place is on fire,’ and pointing towards the warehouses. I don’t know this man’s name.

Q. When you were doing your rounds, did you notice any particular incidents or suspicious behaviour?

A. I would like to mention that around 15.15 hours, my colleague and I walked past the waste ground behind the factory, and there, a young North African-looking individual had set up a barbecue and was selling kebabs. This barbecue was about ten metres from the place where the fire started a little later. We made a few inquiries. This individual is called Karim Bouziane.

Q. In your opinion, could this barbecue have had something to do with the outbreak of the fire?

A. I think so. Furthermore, around 19.00 hours, a minor dustbin fire was reported in the main corridor between the factory and the warehouse. It was quickly extinguished by members of the Health and Safety committee before we arrived on the scene. When we arrived a few minutes later, we noted that embers had been thrown into the dustbin, intentionally or otherwise, and were certainly the cause of the dustbin fire. As far as we could ascertain, those embers came from the barbecue.

I must also inform you that around 17.00 hours, we patrolled the stockrooms and we noted that a group of several individuals were smoking marijuana in the vicinity of highly flammable packaging materials.

Q. Do you know who their dealer is?

A. We have no proof, but the name bandied around by those smoking is once again that of Karim Bouziane. Apparently he sold the dope along with his sausages.

Q. In your view, could Karim Bouziane have set fire to the factory?

A. There’s no concrete proof. I don’t know if he did, or why he would want to. But in any case, he had the wherewithal.

Q. Among your colleagues, or the individuals present during the day in question, did you hear any names being mentioned as possible instigators of the fire?

A. I did not talk to any Daewoo personnel after the fire. But the name being whispered among the workers is that of Karim Bouziane.

Q. Is there anything else you would like to mention?

A. No. Nothing else comes to mind.

‘Nice work, Lieutenant Lambert‚’ comments the superintendent. ‘You see the effectiveness of this method. Karim Bouziane may be a serious lead. But let’s not rush, let’s be methodical. You carry on listening to what people have to tell you, but if they don’t spontaneously mention Karim Bouziane, you ask them discreetly about him, his barbecue and his dope dealing.’

The door of the superintendent’s office is flung open; a very young, podgy uniformed officer bursts into the room, a terrified look on his face. The superintendent protests.

‘Dumont, you don’t enter my office without knocking.’ Then, concerned: ‘What’s going on?’

‘An anonymous phone call, superintendent. A body near the entrance to the mine above Pondange.’

The superintendent’s infuriated. That’s all we need. Just as the investigation into the fire is getting underway. But what else can we do?

Visit the scene. Étienne Neveu’s body is there, in full view, lying in the bushes at the bottom of the scree. His wife had reported him missing the previous evening. He didn’t go far, mutters a cop. The anonymous phone call: probably a lone early-morning walker. Then the deputy public prosecutor arrives and they make an initial report. Height of the scree, position of the body, neck very likely broken, looks like a fall. At the top of the scree slope, directly above the body, discovery of a footpath that leads directly to the car park on the estate where Étienne Neveu lived.

During the afternoon, information begins to filter in. Étienne Neveu seems to have been the victim of a fatal fall having taken a shortcut through the woods down to Pondange from his home. Death seems to have occurred between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before the discovery of the body. It seems highly likely that it was an accident. But the officials remain cautious, and are waiting for the result of the autopsy before closing the case.

Karim walks into the offices of the lawyer, Lavaudant, a stone’s throw from the Place Stanislas in Nancy. It is a magnificent high-ceilinged room, the walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a dark wood filled with books bound in red leather. The vast windows are masked by thick red velvet curtains. It’s late, and Lavaudant doesn’t like Karim turning up in his working life unannounced. Apparently it’s an emergency, and the meeting will be brief. He watches him cross the room, supple, relaxed in his movements, he fills the space. Always the same intensity of desire, despite the passing years, the wife and two kids at home, his wealthy clientele. I may be a big shot but I can’t resist those round buttocks, the taste of his golden skin, the acid smell of the nape of his neck. My hands start to tremble when this ruffian comes near me. I’ll pay for this, one day. Karim stares at the hands the lawyer has placed flat in front of him on his desk. Always the same, you’re dying to bugger me, and when you have, you cry with shame. I’ve got you in a vice. He smiles and sits down.

‘I need you, Claude.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The Daewoo fire …’

‘A nasty business.’

‘I’ve just realised that I fit the profile of the arsonist.’

‘Did you start the fire?’

‘Of course not. Why would I have done that? You know, arson’s out of my league. Besides, I’d have come to see you sooner. No. For the cops I’m the easiest scapegoat. I was at Daewoo during the strike. I made a barbecue and sold kebabs all afternoon, not far from the spot where the fire started. With a bit of dope too. I’m Arab and a dealer. If the cops arrest me, nobody will be surprised and nobody will defend me.’

‘What do you want me to do about it?’

‘The cops have got to leave me out of this, and you have to tell them to before they bang me up.’

‘Can you see me saying to the superintendent at Pondange, whom I don’t happen to know: “Please note, superintendent, that Mr Karim Bouziane has nothing to do with the fire at the Daewoo factory”?’

‘No, but I can see you having a word with your father-in-law Quignard and him passing it on to the superintendent. He’ll be able to convince him. They see each other every day. You’ll do it, Claude, because when a man falls into the cops’ hands, you never know what he might end up telling them.’

It is already late, the Gare de Lyon is gradually emptying, the rush is over at Le Train Bleu restaurant above the station. It is a place where Rossellini and Kaltenbach, the assistant director of the Revenue Department, are in the habit of eating, around the corner from the Ministry, and quiet at this time of day. Granted, the food is bland and expensive, boil-in-a-bag, but neither of them is a foodie, the wine is adequate and the setting ornate and luxurious with late nineteenth-century-style frescos, sculptures, and stucco, and a monumental silver meat trolley. The entire decor provides a welcome change of scene and fires their imagination.

Rossellini sinks on to the leather banquette and gazes up at the ceiling. So it’s true. Kaltenbach confirms that the senior ministry officials are all hostile to the choice of Matra. Rossellini trusts him. It’s the first time he’s felt relaxed since that nightmare evening, not least thanks to the wine. At this precise moment, he decides to throw himself body and soul into Valentin’s game. And he attacks.

‘Lagardère’s crazy about horses …’

Kaltenbach, not really surprised, looks up from his plate of chocolate profiteroles. Lagardère, now we’re getting there.

‘I’m listening.’ Smile. ‘But me, horses …’

‘Of course. Me neither. But the financial set-up involved …’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘Lagardère set up a holding company that siphons off 0.2 per cent of Matra’s revenues.’ Nod. ‘Its purpose is to pay the salaries of the group’s ten most senior managers. The surplus profit is shared between Lagardère and his son.’

‘So far, nothing unusual for this type of family company.’

‘Wait. For several years, Lagardère’s stud farms have been incorporated into the structure of the holding company and Lagardère has used the surplus to make up the losses from his horses. A Matra shareholder filed a complaint four years ago for misuse of company property. The affair followed its course, as they say. In other words, it was more or less hushed up. But as luck would have it, this week it will result in Lagardère being indicted.’

‘Clever move. Have you got any more like that up your sleeve? Waiter, two brandies.’

‘Don’t you think that the management of the stud farms should be investigated by the tax authorities? Supposing the losses have been hugely overestimated and that Lagardère used some creative accounting to avoid paying tax …’

‘An interesting possibility. Do you have anything to back it up?’

From his inside jacket pocket Rossellini takes out a few folded sheets of paper which he slips to Kaltenbach, who skims them quickly and nods.

‘I see the stables in question are at Chantilly. I happen to know some tax inspectors in Picardy, who, without exactly being distributionists, find it outrageous that Lagardère’s tax return is similar to that of someone on the minimum wage. I can get them on to it. I can’t guarantee results, the evidence is rather slim.’

‘I’m not interested in the results, but in the tax inspection. And the sooner the better. We’ll take care of the publicity.’ 19 October

The alarm goes off and Ali Amrouche surfaces groggily. It’s been like this every night since the fire, long hours of insomnia followed by collapse into a deep sleep as dawn breaks. He’s been summoned to the police station, as a witness. To what? The end of the world? He gets up, his body stiff. He keeps the shutters closed because from his window he can see the charred remains of Daewoo’s hangars, metal carcasses and ash heaps, and he can’t bear it. He showers and shaves carefully. You need to watch out when you go to the cops. Always a worry. You can do what you like as far as the cops are concerned, you’ll always be the Arab. He goes downstairs. On the ground floor is a large room bathed in light, furnished with three big armchairs, the TV and house plants. It looks out on to his garden, a square of lawn and a little vegetable patch, well maintained, even pampered. He loves this house, the only plot of land he’s ever owned. He wants to die here. A bitter taste in his mouth. He’ll have to work for a few more years before he can retire. I’d carved out a nice little job for myself, no pressure, everyone knew me. And then the fire, with probable unemployment to come. Will it mean selling the house in order to survive before finally ending up in an old people’s home? Fear in his belly and rage in his heart. He moves into the kitchen, a quick coffee and a big cheese sandwich. The police station is a ten-minute walk away. In other circumstances it would be a pleasant stroll on a cool, bright day.

Ali Amrouche, born on 28 February 1944 in Tizi Ouzou, Algeria. Resident in France since 1964, nationality French. Address: 7 rue des Bois, Pondange.

Q. You are a staff representative at the Daewoo factory?

A. Yes, I am a staff representative.

Q. What part did you play in the events of 14 October?

Amrouche gets up, paces up and down, speaking vehemently, his words tumbling out fast. The lieutenant can’t keep up and soon stops taking notes.

‘Things turned bad. It started with the accident in the finishing section and Rolande Lepetit being fired by the Head of HR. A pathetic guy, the Head of HR, I tell you. Nobody was prepared to take that lying down. She was such a courageous woman, a good worker, bringing up her kid on her own, with a dependent mother to look after as well …’

The lieutenant tries to steer Amrouche back on track: ‘Sit down. We’re not here to discuss Rolande Lepetit’s character …’

But Amrouche doesn’t even hear him: ‘I was the one who went to see Nourredine, who told him. Naturally, since I’m the staff rep, I can’t let them get away with that. I wanted to talk to him about what we could do for Rolande. I trusted him, I thought he could help me get her reinstated.’ Amrouche speaks faster, losing control, and the lieutenant gives up trying to slow him down. ‘But he made things worse, he accused Maréchal. But Maréchal had nothing to do with it. Nourredine started urging violence, he suggested setting fire to the lorries and overturning the engineer’s car. He was the one who wanted to lock the senior managers in, and led the group that broke down the door to the managers’ offices. After that, I don’t know, I was in a meeting, but he must have got into a fight, he ended up with a broken nose and was covered in blood. And I don’t know whether or not he was involved in the dustbin fire, there were traces of soot on his clothes. Maybe he’d already tried to start a fire. When I saw him again in the cafeteria, things had become really serious. At that point he was proposing to pour chemicals into the river. I was against it and he called me a traitor. But I’m older than him, I used to work in the blast furnaces, and people respect me around here. He’s a terrorist, that’s what he is, and I told him so. Then he hit me and said: “Terrorist, I’ll show you what a terrorist is. We’re all going to go up in smoke.” I don’t know what would have happened if the other workers hadn’t separated us. And then he left the cafeteria and I didn’t see him again. I went back to the offices. And the fire started not long after. I think he started the fire.’

Amrouche stops talking. The lieutenant takes charge again.

‘We’re going to sum all that up calmly, point by point. Give me time to write down your replies, for the statement.’

Amrouche, utterly drained, continues his account in half sentences, and in a more neutral tone. The lieutenant conscientiously starts going through the motions:

Q. Do you know Karim Bouziane?

A. Yes.

Q. In your opinion, could he have been involved in this attack?

A. No. He’s a little schemer, not an arsonist.

Q. What name or names are being bandied around among your colleagues as people who could have started the fire?

A. The name that kept coming up from the beginning is Nourredine. I think he’s the terrorist who started the fire, even if I don’t have any evidence.

When Lambert makes his report, the superintendent is surprised and puzzled by Amrouche’s vehemence.

‘I told you not to be in too much of a hurry. We can’t discount this testimony. Check up to see if this Nourredine has a record. Nourredine what, by the way?’

‘Nourredine Hamidi.’

‘Anything on file is of interest, from teenage fights to nicking things from the supermarket. Anything that went down on record, at one time or another. This afternoon, I’m going to Étienne Neveu’s funeral. To gauge the mood and listen to what people are saying. We’ll review the situation together tomorrow morning, before getting back to business.’

The afternoon sun is warm in the little cemetery sheltered from the winds, on the outskirts of the town, where there’s almost a holiday atmosphere. A brief ceremony for Étienne Neveu. A simple blessing in a tiny chapel, not even a funeral: his wife wants to bury him in her village, up on the plateau, about fifty kilometres away, far from the town, the factories, the Arabs. The priest reads prayers in hushed tones to a compact group composed of the widow, her parents and her two children, all wearing black. Outside the chapel and a little apart, Quignard, in a grey coat, hat in hand, contemplates the mourners. Poor woman, poor kids. Recalls Etienne’s jittery voice, I saw the guys who started the fire, you know.

He suddenly feels shattered, devoid of willpower. All night he had turned his ambitious plans over and over in his mind, the alliance between Europe and Asia in boom industry sectors. With me as the architect. My grand design, my work, my contacts … and it would all be compromised if an idiot happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw the guys who started the fire. The full impact of the impending scandal. Me, in the eye of the cyclone, powerful, removed from the action. But I’m probably too old. The following morning, Tomaso was on the phone: ‘Problem sorted.’ Not a word more. He, careful not to ask any questions. Then one thing leading to another: the discovery of the body, an accident, no investigation. Disconcertingly obvious, simple. I’ll help his family. The superintendent comes over to him. The two men greet each other. Quignard, in a low voice:

‘Well, superintendent, can we expect a rapid conclusion to the investigation into the fire? It’s so important for the valley …’

‘Too soon to be able to tell.’ A long silence. The superintendent lets his gaze rest on the group of Étienne’s friends gathered in front of the chapel. Karim has just joined them. ‘You know the factory well, what do you make of Karim Bouziane?’

‘He’s a bit of a delinquent, but nothing serious. He’s someone who knows exactly where the power is and where his interests lie.’

‘What about Nourredine Hamidi?’

Quignard turns his head and looks at the superintendent, who doesn’t move a muscle.

‘A different kettle of fish. Violent, an agitator. The day of the disturbances, 14 October, all day he kept adding fuel to the flames.’ A smile. ‘Until they spread,’ he adds meaningfully.

‘Ali Amrouche?’

‘A trustworthy man, I’m going to recruit him for the emergency committee that my company’s forming to manage the Daewoo personnel while they’re temporarily laid off, and afterwards if need be.’

Karim watches the exchange between Quignard and the superintendent. Several times, while they’re talking, the two men look at him. Smug. Quignard’s expression didn’t escape him. He hasn’t wasted his afternoon. It’s back to business as usual. He’s there, slightly self-conscious, standing on the fringe of the tight-knit group made up of the entire packaging department, gathered around Nourredine, silent, emotional and ill at ease. Memories, the amazing desk, the TV, the dope, most of that was thanks to Étienne, a crazy nice guy, and dead. A really stupid accident. Maybe one spliff too many? Down there, behind the hostile family unit, dead and buried according to a rite that for most of them is essentially foreign. Dead like the factory that died in the fire. Life’s falling apart.

The girls from finishing didn’t know him so well, they’ve come mainly for the pleasure of meeting up with each other, which they don’t often get the chance to do now. They whisper, such a young guy, and with a wife and two kids, that’s sad, it really is. The woods in autumn, where accidents can easily happen. Rolande talks about dead leaves making the ground slippery. ‘How’s Émilienne doing?’ ‘Not very well, she can’t get over the shock of losing the baby. They’re talking about taking her to a psychiatrist, that’s not good.’ A silence. Since the fire, things haven’t been good for anyone. ‘What about Aisha?’ ‘Not here,’ says Rolande. ‘She stays stuck indoors all day. I think she’s having a hard time with her father.’ Silence.

Maréchal and Amrouche remain apart, behind a headstone.

‘Quignard asked me to request that you go and see him in his office, at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Wary, aggressive. ‘What does he want from me?’ Maréchal smiles.

‘To offer you a job.’

Amrouche, shaken, speechless with uncontrolled emotion.

In the chapel, the priest has fallen silent. Quignard is the first to walk past the coffin and genuflect. Then he bows to the widow.

‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for my family, Mr Quignard.’

He clasps her hand for a long time. ‘I am only doing my duty.’ Then he walks back to the car park at the entrance to the cemetery where his car and driver are waiting, and stays talking to Maréchal for a long time. He says goodbye to each of those who are leaving, Karim, Nourredine, Amrouche (See you tomorrow? In my office?). When Rolande walks past, Maréchal stops her and introduces her to Quignard.

‘Ms Lepetit, I am now the authorised representative of Daewoo. I have quashed the regrettable decision to dismiss you. You are of course reinstated. I wanted to inform you myself.’

Rolande, her face expressionless, seems indecisive, at a loss for words. She falters.

‘That’s good news.’

And she hurries off to join the girls who are making their way back to town on foot.

‘She’s a bit uptight, your protégée. A little “thank you” wouldn’t kill her.’ 20 October

At the police station, Lieutenant Lambert is handing over to Lieutenant Michel. Today the first witness to be interviewed, security guard Schnerb.

Gaston Schnerb, born on 5 June 1939 in Metz, residing at 26 rue de la Fraternité, Pondangé, security guard employed by 3G for four years and assigned to the porter’s lodge at Daewoo since the company opened.

Q. Where were you during the day of the disturbances at Daewoo?

A. My colleague and I came on duty at midday. We were supposed to finish at 20.00, but at the request of our superiors we remained until the premises were evacuated at approximately 22.00. On our arrival, we were informed that the workers had downed tools, so we telephoned our superiors who gave us very strict instructions: stop the patrols; avoid provoking trouble; keep a note of everything in the daybook. We followed these instructions to the letter. Two other security guards sent as backup by 3G arrived at Daewoo at 15.05 and covered the patrol duty. So we didn’t budge from the porter’s lodge until the premises were evacuated at around 22.00.

Q. The porter’s lodge was occupied during the disturbances. What exactly happened?

A. At 13.12 some employees turned up at the security control centre. They were led by Nourredine Hamidi, who entered and informed us that he was taking charge of opening and shutting the gates. We allowed him to do so, following our instructions. At 13.50 three lorries arrived to pick up some goods. Nourredine Hamidi wanted to prevent them from entering the factory, but he was unable to operate and so close the automatic gates. We did not intervene. The lorries were slowed down by the workers from the second shift trying to enter the factory at the same time. Then Nourredine Hamidi took it into his head to set fire to the empty pallets stacked near the porter’s lodge and push them under the engine of the leading lorry to blow it up. He was in a state of extreme agitation, shouting: ‘I’m going to burn the whole place down.’ Faced with the prospect of a degenerating situation, the drivers decided to turn back.

Q. Are there usually empty pallets stacked up near the porter’s lodge?

A. No. I didn’t see who stacked them there. It was probably done before we came on duty.

Q. Then what happened?

A. At 16.30 the executives began to leave the factory, by car, as usual. But Nourredine Hamidi hadn’t calmed down. As the third car drove up, he stood right in front of the bonnet to prevent it from moving forward, and he and some of his workmates overturned it. Then he clambered on to the car yelling: ‘We’re going to lock the bosses in.’ He marched at the head of the group and even from a distance we could see people smashing in the main door of the office building and storming inside. Then we found ourselves alone again in the porter’s lodge.

Following this, some executives pulled up at the gate wanting to leave. We opened the gate for them and they departed. They told us that there were only five people left in the offices, including the CEO. Not long after that, at 18.46, there was a fire alert regarding a dustbin fire inside the factory. We stayed put. During the fire alert, Ali Amrouche escorted the CEO and the remaining four managers to the gate, telling them to get away as quickly as possible. He looked terrified but he didn’t tell us why, or of whom he was afraid.

At 19.15 Nourredine Hamidi and Hafed Rifaai came back, just the two of them, to the porter’s lodge. Nourredine was covered in soot and dried blood, he must have got into a fight. When we told him the managers had all left he pushed us‚ my colleague and myself, and grabbed the daybook and set fire to it, issuing threats like: ‘I’m going to burn the whole place down.’ I clearly remember thinking at the time that this character was unhinged and a pyromaniac. Hafed Rifaai tried to calm him down without success. The two of them left and headed for the cafeteria, it must have been around 19.30. More workers reappeared with Hafed Rifaai at around 21.00 to review the question of overnight security with us. Nourredine Hamidi was not among them and things became much calmer. Then, at 21.43 precisely, the fire alarm went off …

Q. Who raised the alarm?

A. A man who came running out of the stockroom but I was unable to identify him. We came out of the porter’s lodge and saw the smoke, so we rushed to call the fire brigade. They arrived twelve minutes later.

Q. Do you think that Nourredine Hamidi set the Daewoo factory on fire?

A. It wouldn’t surprise me. Although I have no proof, of course.

Q. Do you know Karim Bouziane?

A. Yes, he’s been at Daewoo from the beginning. Our colleagues told us about a barbecue behind the factory on the day of the disturbances.

Q. Could he have set fire to the factory deliberately?

A. We know Karim Bouziane well, and have known him for a long time. He’s a wheeler-dealer, but he’s not a hothead and he’s not dangerous. We don’t think he can be the arsonist. But someone else could have used the embers from the barbecue if there were any left smouldering.

Q. What names have you heard the workers mention in connection with this act of arson?

A. The only name that’s been going around since the beginning, since the night of the fire, when everyone was on the roundabout watching the factory burn, is that of Nourredine Hamidi. What’s more, as far as we know he is the only person to have made public threats against the factory.

The superintendent puts Lieutenant Michel’s transcription of the statement down on the desk.

‘This time, we’ve got him. You and Lambert have done an excellent job. The suspect is clearly identified. We won’t question him straight away, but we’ll build up a precise timetable of his movements between 20.00 hours, when he left the porter’s lodge with Hafed Rifaai heading for the cafeteria, and 21.43 hours when the fire alert was given. According to Amrouche, a whole lot went on. We’ll concentrate on the cafeteria, and on that time slot of less than two hours. According to the lists drawn up by your colleagues, Rolande Lepetit spent the whole afternoon and evening there. Question her before moving on to trickier witnesses like Hafed Rifaai or the suspect himself. But watch out, she seems to be a prickly character.’

Montoya saunters casually up to the Hôtel Lutétia. He’s meeting Eugénie Flachat at seven o’clock in the bar and he’s early. Tomorrow he leaves for Lorraine, for the valley of Pondange, where he lived for ten years as a child and which left him with only painful memories. The idea of returning after thirty-five years, for a trivial case that stinks of shit, makes him feel uncomfortable. He thought he was impervious to the ghosts of the past. Well he wasn’t. Had he given in to Valentin’s blackmail? Not necessarily. He didn’t really believe his story. So what was it then? To revisit the place where he spent his childhood? Unlikely. To escape from the excruciating boredom of routine insurance investigations? Valentin’s offer is hardly more exciting. Don’t try and fathom it. I took it on because it came along and because Valentin intrigues me. Montoya hangs around in the lobby to kill time. Displayed conspicuously on the wall by the door is a framed, handwritten certificate that states:

Hôtel Lutétia has been named the official hotel of the 50th Anniversary Committee for D-day — the Battle of Normandy and the Liberation of Europe

The 50th Anniversary Committee for D-day in this hotel, requisitioned by the German army during the Occupation and used to house its officers, subsequently a repatriation centre for returning deportees after the war, was no doubt symbolic, but of what? Without knowing why, he feels a growing sense of unease. A bitter taste in his mouth. Increasingly frequent these days. Now, I really need a drink, a brandy. He strides across the main lounge where a few journalists are talking in low voices, a photographer clicks madly at two faces, celebrities no doubt, no clue who they are, and American tourists are having pre-dinner drinks. At the far end is a dark, narrow bar under a low ceiling, done out in wood panelling and carpeting like a snug retreat. Barely six or seven tables, only one still free at this hour of the evening, the first on the right by the door. He sinks into an ample, low armchair and orders a vintage brandy. There’s blues playing in the background, but the music can hardly be heard above the din of conversation and the clinking of the shakers and glasses. He cups the brandy balloon in his hands, without moving at first, until he gets a first whiff of the aroma, then warms it with tiny movements. The liquid is amber, almost dense, he inhales it, eyes closed, what a pleasure. Tonight, I’m meeting a beautiful, young, intelligent woman with whom I’ll never have sex. Tomorrow, I’m leaving this city which I love. And in a few days, I’ll be fifty. Bitterness and frustration swirl around with the complex, sublime smell of the brandy.

When he opens his eyes, Eugénie Flachat is sitting opposite him. Mid-length hair the colour of … brandy, exactly, tumbling over her shoulders, fine features, a clear expression, nothing too remarkable except those grey-green eyes, a mountain lake in a storm, frozen waters. He raises his glass towards her and takes a long, warm sip. She orders with a contrite smile as if to apologise: a Murmure — champagne, blackcurrant liqueur and amaretto. She always has a Murmure at the Lutétia. Nobody’s perfect.

Eugénie Flachat is a loss adjustor in the accident division of a big insurance firm and often when she has a dubious case to deal with she calls on the services of Charles Montoya, turned private investigator after more than twenty years in the police force, mostly in the drug squad. They are an efficient team, she deals with officialdom and he pokes around in dustbins.

She leans towards him, speaking clearly, in a low voice, creating a bubble of intimacy around them in the crowded bar.

‘You’re right, Daewoo’s insured with us. Or rather, was insured. I’ll come back to that.’ Hesitation in her green eyes. ‘I’ll try and summarise the case for you, from the beginning. The factory has been operational for two years. It’s never made any money. In fact, it has always lost astronomical amounts.’ A pause. ‘There are two reasons why.’ Montoya, with a little smile, sinks deeper into his armchair. The green eyes have become two blocks of ice, the sharp intellectual mind swings into gear, a real delight. ‘First of all, the factory, which is supposed to manufacture cathode ray tubes, was designed to produce five hundred thousand tubes a year whereas it’s internationally accepted that the profitability threshold is a million units. That could be possibly put down to managerial incompetence, you see it all the time. The second matter is more awkward. The factory almost exclusively buys from and sells to Daewoo subsidiaries in Eastern Europe, Poland in particular. Seventy per cent of its business is transacted with its Warsaw subsidiary. It is a textbook blueprint for tax evasion or money laundering. On the one hand you just need to raise the prices of the parts you purchase, and on the other to sell the finished products at a loss, and the money disappears into accounting black holes.’

‘And what keeps the factory going?’

‘Subsidies. EU mainly. It’s in a region that comes under the European Development Plan, where the tap is full on. National, regional and local subsidies are also pouring in, unmonitored, the spectre of the iron and steelworks industry haunts everyone.’

‘Could it be a system for diverting EU subsidies towards the former Eastern bloc countries?’

Eugénie leans back in her armchair, sips her cocktail, an absent look in her eyes. Then leans towards him again.

‘I find that difficult to answer because I don’t know how what I’m going to tell you can be of use, Charles. But I trust you, after six years of working together … Whatever happens, my company and I will be kept out of the frame?’

‘Of course.’

‘Siphoning off subsidies is the most likely scenario, but there’s another, more sinister theory. We could possibly be dealing with a major embezzlement operation. The manager of Daewoo Warsaw is a curious character. In Korea, he had a few problems with the law for having bribed a senior government official with a rather large sum of Daewoo’s money, and then blackmailing him with the threat of disclosure so as to recover the money for himself.’

‘Clever.’

‘Instead of firing him, Daewoo appointed him CEO in Poland.’

‘That opens up new avenues.’

‘I think it does. My glass is empty, Charles, and I have more to tell you.’

They wait in silence while the barman serves them another brandy and another Murmure, before Eugénie continues.

‘The most surprising thing is the fire insurance policy. First of all, it was hugely inflated in relation to the value of the building.’

‘Extensions might have been planned but never built.’

‘Probably. A month before the fire, the contract was cancelled. Too expensive.’ Montoya whistles between his teeth.

‘The factory wasn’t insured against fire?’

‘No. Not any more.’

‘At least that eliminates the run-of-the-mill insurance fiddle.’

‘Sure, but it also eliminates investigations by insurance company loss adjusters, and we both know how awkward they can sometimes be for management. Especially if the loss adjusters start nosing around in the company’s accounts. Lastly, immediately after the fire, the Korean managers were recalled to Seoul. And the factory, or what’s left of it, is being run by a French acting manager about whom we have no information.’

Montoya leans back in his armchair and savours his second brandy appreciatively. The second is always better than the first, the senses of smell and taste are heightened. Valentin’s words come back to him: ‘evidence fabricated or not, I don’t mind either way’ … It would be funny if … At least now I know what I’m getting myself into, and it looks as though it might be more fun than I thought.

‘Eugénie, tell me. In your view, is there a chance that the bosses set fire to the factory?’ The green gaze becomes vague.

‘In my view … I just don’t know. The timing seems inappropriate, bang in the middle of the Thomson Multimedia takeover. They won the bid, by the way, have you heard? We didn’t think they had a hope in hell. And then the factory was occupied by the workers, that obviously puts it at risk. I expect the police will be taking a close interest in them first. But actually, if a thorough investigation were to point a finger at the management, I wouldn’t be altogether surprised.’ 21 October

It is drizzling, early on a gloomy morning in the lay-by of the southbound carriageway of the A31 motorway, some thirty kilometres from Pondange. It is a particularly Spartan lay-by with a few sodden grassy areas fringed by dark pines and a concrete toilet block. Karim drives around it twice to make sure there’s nobody there and parks his red Clio about twenty metres from the toilets. Engine switched off, his head against the headrest, he closes his eyes and waits. Ten minutes. A black BMW crawls into the lay-by and drives past the Clio. Eyes half-closed, Karim doesn’t move. It pulls up a little way ahead. Belgian licence plates, two men inside, dark suits, it’s them. He sits up, gets out of the car, in a red anorak, same colour as the car, goes into the toilets. The two men also head for the toilets, stretching and chatting. One of them is carrying a black canvas briefcase. They come out after a few minutes, still carrying the briefcase, get back into the BMW and drive off. Powerful acceleration, a fine piece of engineering. Two minutes later, Karim emerges. He’s wearing a black nylon rucksack which he flings into the Clio, then he drives off slowly, heading south and whistling.

Moments later, two men leap out of the pine trees ringing the toilets and meet at the door. They are wearing identical black leather jackets, black jeans and work boots. One of them has a barely visible white silk scarf knotted around his neck.

‘Fucking resin. I hope it hasn’t messed up my jacket. Anyway, it’s in the can.’

‘The light wasn’t good and we didn’t get the handover.’

‘Only to be expected. These shots will be adequate for our purposes. Come on, we’re out of here.’

They head into the trees, turning their backs on the motorway. On reaching the fencing they pick up a ladder lying in the grass, clamber over the wire netting, jump down on to a path that runs across the fields, then get into a car parked a hundred metres away and drive off towards Nancy.

Lieutenant Lambert sits facing Rolande Lepetit, feeling slightly awkward, eyes firmly on his computer screen. A beautiful woman sitting calmly staring at him. He wasn’t expecting that.

Rolande Lepetit, born on 23 June 1956 in Pondange, single, residing at 9 Cité des Jonquilles, Pondange, machine operator at Daewoo for two years.

Q. Were you on the premises when disturbances broke out in the Daewoo factory on 14 October?

‘What do you call “disturbances”?’

Lambert stops taking notes.

‘I was there when Émilienne Machaut’s accident occurred, yes. In my view, a worker electrocuted at her workstation is a disturbance.’

Lambert smiles at her.

‘I meant, were you in the factory when your colleagues downed tools?’

‘That’s more precise.’

A. No, I wasn’t there any more, I’d been fired.

Q. Did you return to the factory at any time on 14 October?

A. Yes.

Q. When, exactly?

Rolande leans towards Lambert, smiling at her memories.

‘I was at the supermarket when I heard the news: the lorries that came to move the stocks out hadn’t been able to get into the factory. The whole town was talking about it. I wanted to go and congratulate my friends, and I went back to the factory.’

A. It must have been some time around 15.00.

Q. Then what did you do?

A. Everyone expected it to be a long day and a long night. I went to the cafeteria to cook for those involved in the occupation, and I stayed there until the fire broke out.

Q. So you were there when Nourredine Hamidi came back with Hafed Rifaai, at around 20.00?

A. Yes.

Q. Were there many people in the cafeteria at that point?

A. Around thirty.

Q. What were you doing?

A. I was finishing making and serving the omelettes. I was busy in the kitchen.

Q. And what were the others doing?

A. They were playing cards, chatting, eating.

Q. Were you present at the meeting when Nourredine Hamidi proposed pouring chemicals into the river?

A. Yes, I was present.

‘But you shouldn’t overstress the importance of Nourredine’s proposal. The managers had just left the factory. We felt less powerful. There were several proposals, including Nourredine’s, which was overwhelmingly rejected, so we moved on to other issues.’

Q. Did you witness the attack carried out by Nourredine Hamidi on Ali Amrouche?

‘It wasn’t an attack. Ali was opposed to Nourredine’s proposal, which was rejected, and Nourredine felt hurt and betrayed. Besides, he was exhausted and overwrought from the day’s events.’

A. On his way out for some fresh air, Nourredine bumped into Ali. That’s all. Anyway, Ali Amrouche didn’t make a big fuss about it.

Q. Some witnesses have spoken of a very violent fight.

A. Well I’m talking about a minor tussle, nothing more.

Q. What did Nourredine Hamidi do after this fight?

A. He went outside with Hafed Rifaai, to walk, calm down‚ I don’t know, I didn’t ask him.

Q. Which door did they exit from?

A. The one that leads to the car park.

Q. Did he come back into the cafeteria?

A. Yes.

Q. At what time?

A. I have no idea. He wasn’t outside for long, maybe half an hour.

Q. Still with Hafed?

A. Yes.

Q. Then what did they do?

A. Hafed and some of the others went off to the security control centre and Nourredine settled down to sleep on a table in a corner of the cafeteria.

Q. Was he alone there?

A. No. There were five or six of them trying to get some sleep in the darkest corner.

Q. Did you see Nourredine Hamidi leave the cafeteria again?

A. No. He remained asleep until the fire alert.

Q. Are you positive?

A. Yes.

Q. Even though you were on the other side of the cafeteria — busy in the kitchen, according to your account — and there were several people lying down in the dark corner? You might be mistaken.

A. If he’d gone out, I’d have noticed.

‘Nobody else left the cafeteria after Hafed and his team.’

Q. But you had no particular reason to keep a constant check on Nourredine Hamidi’s movements while you were busy in the kitchen?

A. No of course not, I had no particular reason.

She falters now, her face tense.

‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to get me to say, or why you’ve got it in for Nourredine. It’s not the workers who set fire to the damned factory. And Nourredine would be the last person to do a thing like that.’

‘I’m not trying to get you to say anything, I’m taking down your statement, that’s all. I’m simply trying to obtain the facts. One last question.’

Q. Among your colleagues, is there one particular name, or names, that keep cropping up in connection with who might have started the fire?

A. No, I’ve heard nothing like that.

Later that afternoon, the lawyer drives Karim off in his big four-wheel drive with tinted windows. ‘We’ve got a business appointment, the two of us‚’ he tells him. When Karim sits down in the passenger seat, the lawyer caresses his face with his rough hand, following the hollows of his cheeks, brushing his lips until he touches his moist mouth. Surprised and worried, Karim doesn’t recognise the man he took for a constipated Catholic, but he doesn’t flinch. Then the lawyer pulls away sharply. He drives fast, along an almost straight secondary road across the plateau. Rounding sharp bends, the heavy car feels as if it’s about to come off the road, and Karim instinctively checks his seat belt. What on earth’s the guy on? Coke, speed? The lawyer smiles at him, his teeth prominent, ready to bite. (Coke, most likely. He’d better not touch me, the arsehole). Then without slowing down, he turns off on to a farm track and pulls up at the edge of a copse. He takes a packet of photos from his pocket and slides it across the dashboard to Karim who flicks through them. The Hakim brothers’ most recent delivery, shot from every angle. Hot flush. Don’t bat an eyelid. Keep calm. Playing for time, he looks at the whole set again. Faces, licence plates, very clear. Expensive equipment and the work of a pro. What’s he playing at, this arsehole? This isn’t some sexual game. He’s trying to trap me, but how? And who’s behind it? Have to see. Puts the photos down.

‘So?’

‘Your latest delivery. Aren’t you surprised?’

‘Delivery, that’s what you say. The photos don’t show any delivery. Guys going in and out of a toilet. In a court of law, a good lawyer will demolish that, right?’

‘True.’ He’s a real turn-on, falling into the trap, at my mercy, and he knows it. He’s desperately trying to dig himself out, but he won’t manage it. The lawyer places a fax from Agence France Presse Lorraine in front of Karim. It’ll hit the papers tomorrow.

MASSIVE CUSTOMS HAUL

In the course of a routine check at the Nancy toll booth on the A31 motorway, customs officers arrested two Belgian nationals of Moroccan origin, the Hakim brothers, who were driving south to the Riviera.

The customs officials found thirty kilos of pure heroin and 100,000 ecstasy tablets concealed under the back seat of their luxury BMW. This is the biggest drugs haul in Lorraine for several years.

At this stage the customs services and the Nancy departmental police are uncertain whether this is a one-off operation or a new drug-trafficking channel.

The lawyer continues.

‘The Hakim brothers are in Metz prison. I am not their defence counsel. In all decency, I couldn’t be. A left-wing human rights lawyer for ten years, then the lawyer for the local bigwigs since my marriage, I’ll have to wait a while before taking on drug traffickers. But I’ve put a very good friend of mine on the case. How do you think the Hakim brothers would react if they found out that you were under police surveillance when they made their delivery to you and that you grassed on them to the cops? There is photographic evidence.’ The lawyer caresses Karim’s face again, almost affectionately. ‘You’re not saying anything?’

‘I’m waiting for what you’re going to say next.’

Smile. ‘Concerning the Daewoo fire, the superintendent had you in his sights. Thanks to my father-in-law, he doesn’t any more. Thank you? No … never mind. The investigators have identified the arsonist. Nourredine Hamidi. You know him …’

Karim nods. He pictures Nourredine, attentive, serious-minded, controlling comings and goings at the factory gates, then leaning over the boot of the Korean manager’s car. Uncompromising, holier-than-thou, pain in the ass, anything you like, but an arsonist … Poor bastard, he’s stuffed. The lawyer leans towards him, no further hint of a smile as he spells it out, articulating each word with deliberation.

‘Tomorrow morning you are summoned to give a witness statement. You were in the cafeteria, before the fire. You saw the guy, he was trying to sleep on a bench in a dark corner. He couldn’t get to sleep, he was too wound up. You saw him get up and leave by the door that leads to the factory just after nine p.m. The cops will help you get the facts right, you know what they’re like. When it suits them, they feed you the answer in the question. Tell me you’ll testify.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Better than that.’

‘I’ll testify that I saw Nourredine leave the cafeteria after nine o’clock. I get it, OK?’

The lawyer grabs Karim’s arm and indicates the back seat with a jerk of his head.

‘Get your clothes off. I’ve got one hell of a hard-on.’ 23 October

An autumn hunting scene on the Lorraine plateau. The beauty of the soft mist over the heavy, dark cornfields, eviscerated by the icy morning and the emerging sun which brings the countryside to life little by little. The beaters’ shouts, the dogs’ barks, the waiting, the tension, sudden shots. Three coveys of partridges flushed out, seven bagged. Often hares, five in the bag. The men are good shots.

The hunters in their brown jackets and heavy rubber waders make their way back from the hides and converge at the meeting point at the corner of the wood. Quignard and the superintendent walk side by side, their guns snapped in half under their arms, relaxed, content. Quignard walks along the edge of the field, he loves the feel of the slightly clinging soft clay underfoot. This land is mine, I belong here. He takes a glance around at the furrowed fields as far as the eye can see. My land. He can still hear the energetic flapping of wings as the covey of partridges rises, feels his own heart beating deafeningly, then the partridges are windborne and dive down towards his hide at nearly two hundred kilometres an hour. He follows their line of flight, shoots his first round — the dull thud of the bird falling — then he turns around, fires his second shot instinctively, a second bird hit. Almost in heaven. His mind vaguely numbed. Daewoo, sorted. Everything back to normal. Park’s stupidity made up for, poor bastard. Now sole master on board. Efficient. Return to order. No waves in the national press. A glorious future ahead. The world’s my oyster. His feet sink into the clay. You can be proud of yourself. Smile. Pay attention, the superintendent’s talking to you.

‘Your tip-off about the Hakim brothers, terrific. Did you see, we teamed up with Customs. I shan’t hide the fact that it’s helped get me a transfer to Nancy, which is now on the cards. Nothing definite yet, but …

‘Good. I told you about that business, which naturally I got wind of purely by chance in Brussels … especially because I hope we can protect the region from traffickers of that kind. But if you benefit from it, between you and me, I’m only too pleased.’ Friendly thump. ‘And I very much hope that after you’ve moved to Nancy, you’ll still join us on the Grande Commune hunt, it’s one of the best in the region.’

‘I should hope so, if you carry on inviting me …’

Laughter. The two men are the last to reach the meeting point, around two big four-wheel drives. The gamekeeper composes the tableau, lining up the kill on the ground. The hunters admire and comment on each other’s shots. The smell of blood and gun grease in the still air. Some thirty metres away the beaters, in white overalls, armed with big sticks, tuck into thick sandwiches and knock back the beer. Beside the vehicles are two small picnic tables covered with white tablecloths. On one are four hollowed-out loaves filled with canapés, and on the other, a selection of chilled red and white Loire valley wines and some glasses. Two drivers, seconded from the 3G company, pour the wine. The hunters jostle each other, laughing. The superintendent helps himself to a glass of red, raises it high, and booms:

‘You’re the first to hear the news. Tomorrow it’ll be in the papers. The investigation into the Daewoo factory fire is over and the arsonist was arrested yesterday.’

Commotion. ‘Bravo … Terrific … That was really fast … Congratulations.’ The superintendent is beaming.

‘Yes, I think we can say it was an exemplary investigation, speedy and efficient.’

A big-shot notary from Nancy goes over to Quignard.

‘Congratulations. Tell me, Daewoo’s hit the jackpot with the Thomson privatisation. You’ve been keeping that close to your chest.’

‘Business isn’t bad, that’s for sure.’

‘Isn’t this fire likely to damage you?’

‘No, providing the investigation is closed quickly, as it has been. The arsonist is one of the factory workers who got overexcited. Nothing serious.’

An entrepreneur from the valley who prefers to hunt down EU subsidies, greatly indebted to Quignard, enquires after Park.

‘I thought he’d be here today …’

‘He’s gone back to Korea to review things with the parent company.’ Then with a broad smile: ‘I bet the beaters are relieved, he’s a lousy shot, a danger to the rest of us.’ Quignard raises his voice. ‘Come gentlemen, the break’s over. Two more beats before lunch.’

The beaters have already left. The hunters move off towards another field, other hides. Quignard and Tomaso bring up the rear, side by side. Daniel Tomaso slows down to keep pace with Quignard. On this glorious day, his feet in the clay of the Lorraine plateau, on the Grande Commune hunt, he feels a growing sense of elation. A lot of ground covered in a very short time. A black sheep, the Foreign Legion, a mercenary, Lebanon, Croatia, one training’s as good as another. Five years ago, sickened by the violence and penniless, he dropped everything to take over the garage in Nancy run by his father, until his recent death. A respectable business, nothing more. He expanded the garage, set up a limousine hire company with drivers and bodyguards, and then a security company. Next a nightclub, a brilliant idea of Kristina’s, the mistress he’d brought back from Croatia, to grab all those bourgeois provincials by the short and curlies. His business is booming. He knows he owes his success mainly to Quignard, and he knows that his invitation to the hunt is the equivalent of a formal introduction into local society and a reward for the successful conclusion of the Daewoo Pondange factory occupation and fire. He leans towards Quignard.

‘The case is closed, apparently.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘What about my security guards?’

‘Fine in every respect. During the investigation they changed direction as obediently as on the parade ground.’

A few steps in silence. Quignard greets the chairman of the regional council with a smile. They go a long way back: having both been in the OAS in Algeria when young, with a shared past they have tacitly agreed to keep quiet about, they had created a staunch closeness and complicity neither had ever betrayed. The chairman is in hide number one. Not a good position. So much the better. A mediocre shot. Tomaso resumes.

‘Do you really believe Park’s gone back to Korea?’

Surprised. ‘Yes. I asked for him and all the Korean managers to be recalled to the parent company. I felt they’d done enough harm as it was. Why?’

‘Park is a man who’s never suffered from scruples, if I’m not mistaken. He knows there’s a lot of money to be made, and fast. He has inside information, and he’s getting out?’

‘And where do you think he might be?’

‘Think, Maurice. Put yourself in his position. Where would you go to make your next move?’ Quignard walks on in silence for a few moments. Not for long.

‘Warsaw.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’

‘Now you’ve got me worried.’ A silence, an exchange of pleasantries as they walk past a magistrate newly appointed to the Briey courts.

‘Do you have any way of finding out if he’s over there?’

‘Perhaps. I have a car dealership network in Poland. Give me some photos, a description, I’ll see what I can do.’

Then Tomaso stops at hide number three, an excellent position for an excellent marksman, and Quignard continues. He has number fifteen, at the very end of the line, a shitty number. Nothing ever happens that far out. Sigh.

At number six, a Luxembourg banker is sitting on a folding hunting stool, his eyes half shut. Don’t be taken in, he’s quick off the mark, despite his corpulence. He’s CEO of Daewoo Pondange’s lead bank. The day after the fire, he agreed to defer all the firm’s payment dates. On condition that Quignard was put in sole charge. On condition that you return the favour sometime, dear friend. The two men exchange smiles.

At hide number ten, his son-in-law watches him arrive accompanied by Tomaso. First time this fellow’s invited to the Grande Commune hunt. I don’t know how wise that is. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his past, his nightclub, the Oiseau Bleu, his loud mistress and all the rumours about him in town. I’ll have to have a word with my father-in-law about it. Quignard stops and taps his son-in-law on the shoulder.

‘Bravo the lawyer. I don’t know how you wangled it with Karim Bouziane, and I don’t want to know. His testimony was decisive. The superintendent is delighted, and I owe you a big thank you.’

‘You’re most welcome. My pleasure.’