Affairs of State

Thursday 5 December

Bornand reaches Lamorlaye before seven a.m. and parks near the training track. Before even seeing the horses, he can hear them galloping behind the curtain of trees, a dull, irregular thudding that reverberates deep in his chest, in waves, at regular intervals. He switches off the engine of his Porsche. Windows wound down, eyes closed, he listens with a lump in his throat. No going back now … All that matters is the rhythm of the galloping, in sync with his heartbeat. A foretaste of the race. There’s nothing comparable to the thrill he experiences in the last hundred metres with the riders at full pelt, when he sees his horse put on a final spurt, inch by inch forge into the lead and push its muzzle over the finishing line first. A feeling that he’s bursting inside, an apocalyptic state of bliss. Bornand remembers having cried the first time one of his colts won. Coming second is nothing less than a calamity.

He collects himself, slips a pair of wellington boots over his town trousers, puts on a fur-lined jacket and walks through the woods to the Aigles racetrack. He emerges in a sandy clearing where four horses are walking round in step, ridden by helmeted stable lads. Long strides, necks straining, taut, elongated muscles under their gleaming coats, beautiful to behold. Elegant. All four of them. And so alike they could be siblings. Bornand immediately spots his colt Crystal Palace, a burnished bay, up front, stepping with exquisite grace. He has a precise recollection of every racehorse he’s owned. The colour of their coat, their markings, their style, their idiosyncrasies, and the course taken by every race he’s ever attended, down to the last detail. Four men are talking together at the centre of the clearing: the two jockeys who’ll be riding the horses in the race, the trainer and Karim, his partner at the International Bank of Lebanon for more than ten years. A complete surprise. A nasty surprise: Bornand has a feeling Karim has come to talk business and ruin his day. Don’t give anything away. Handshakes all round.

‘We were waiting for you,’ says the trainer. ‘Let me put you in the picture. The two three-year-olds are running in the fifteen hundred metres. The grey will lead them to the start, gently, at a walk, the chestnut will act as pacesetter at the start of the race.’ To the jockeys: ‘At thirteen hundred metres, give them their head. It’s the last two hundred metres I’m interested in.’

The jockeys replace the stable lads on the two colts, and, following the line of trees, the group heads towards the starting line at the far end of the wide, tree-fringed, slightly undulating turf track. The two men gaze after the receding horses; they disturb two hinds which take fright and bound across the track. Karim’s presence irritates Bornand, it’s like having a stone in one’s shoe.

‘What are you doing here, Karim?’

‘Pretty much the same as you. I’ve got a colt competing.’

‘And you’ve come from Beirut for the training?’

‘I was in Paris. I found out you’d be here this morning, and I grabbed the chance to see you. I wasn’t able to get hold of you on the phone yesterday.’

‘What do you have to talk to me about that’s so urgent?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You recall that the IBL is implicated in the arms delivery to Iran that just ballsed up? The bank’s covering the operation …’

Bornand finds it hard to breathe, feels the blood drain from his face. He concentrates on the horses now on the track. They’re off. Concealed in the dip, you hear them before they come into view, and the pounding of their hooves heralds the magic moment when they reappear. They come charging down, all three flank to flank, their breath sounds as if drawn from deep within them. Bunched together on the flat, they gather speed, draw level with the watching men, the brown bay a head in front of the others. A thrilling moment. At the end of the track, the jockeys straighten up, bring the horses to a halt, and slow down to a walk.

‘Well, the chestnut put on a spurt at the end.’

‘She was pushed to the limit, whereas Crystal managed it easily.’

No one said a word about Karim’s colt which was trailing behind. Not at all ready. A pretext of a race, clearly. Bornand has regained his composure.

Back to the ring, where the horses are walking in step, their heads down, dripping with sweat, their veins bulging, steaming, snorting. The stable lads unsaddle them and rub them down. Bornand borrows a damp cloth to clean out Crystal’s nostrils.

The trainer walks a few paces with the jockeys and the owners.

‘In the race, try and keep Crystal’s blinkers on pretty much until the home straight, I leave that up to your judgement. He’s always been a front runner, but that’ll have to change if we want him to race longer distances. He proved this morning that he can pull it off at the last lap.’

The jockey nods. Turning to Bornand:

‘Crystal Palace is in with a real chance on Sunday.’

‘I won’t be able to watch him race, I’ll be out of the country.’ The jockey nods again. The trainer turns to Bornand:

‘Call me after eight p.m.’

The lads lead the horses back to the stables, the trainer and the jockeys follow them, the woods are deserted. Karim and Bornand are left alone. Bornand picks up where they left off:

‘The bank didn’t invest a cent in the operation, and therefore hasn’t lost anything.’

Karim replies: ‘Which isn’t the case as far as you’re concerned. The Iranians have already cashed your guarantee of a million dollars …’

‘I took the risk. After all, I’m not exactly out on the street yet. And from what I’ve heard, you lost similar sums at the Beirut casino, in the good old days.’

Laughter.

‘Gambling and business aren’t the same thing at all. Losing at cards is still enjoyable. Losing in business … But seriously, you were reckless, you were too greedy, you’d have done better to work through our usual brokers.’

‘Are you lecturing me?’

‘It’s not a question of lecturing, but of risk management. First of all, by cutting them out, you upset the traditional Middle East arms brokers. They’re powerful people, and our best customers. I hope you’re not forgetting that …’

‘I’m not forgetting it …’

‘And besides, if there’s a scandal in France …’

‘There won’t be a scandal. I’ve identified the people behind the attack and the press dossier. They’re also involved in arms deals with Iran. I went to meet them yesterday in their stronghold.’ He falters. ‘In Côte-d’Ivoire. I can ruin them and they can ruin me. So we came to an understanding. They cut it out and everybody minds their own business. The incident is closed.’

‘I beg to disagree. First of all because you may be wrong as to who’s behind the operation, there are a number of interests at stake. And secondly because French political life is a sack of cats nowadays, and the scandal can be re-ignited from just about any quarter. So, to continue. If there’s a scandal, there’ll be an inquiry. And if there’s an inquiry, you’ll be in the eye of the cyclone. A bank like the IBL needs absolute calm and discretion to function properly.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘It must be made impossible to trace things back to the IBL via you. Close all your accounts. Use cash, that’s always the best way to cut all connections. And I’ll erase all trace of the accounts.’

Bornand holds his tongue, looking down at his boots sinking into the thick, sodden turf. The bitter taste of friendship betrayed. The house surrounded by flowers looking down over Beirut, full of fragrances so much warmer than here in France, the beautiful Syrian woman I gave him, and his first horse which I chose for him. Flashback to the stands at the Beirut racecourse, with its walls riddled with machine-gun rounds, the shooting that stops just long enough for the race to take place, Karim winning, the two men embracing at the finishing post … Karim continues:

‘I’ve already made arrangements with our Geneva correspondent. They’re expecting you.’

Chilled to the bone, Bornand shivers. Think fast. So this is what it’s come to. Business is business. It’s him or me. Time to take advantage of the circumstances to cover my tracks.

‘I’ll send someone next week.’

Before driving back to Paris, Bornand stops for a coffee and brandy at the bar-cum-tobacconist’s in Lamorlaye and reads Paris Turf.

‘Fernandez? Cecchi here.’ Fernandez has recognised him — his master’s voice. ‘I’ve got some news on Chardon. Bornand won’t be disappointed. First of all, he served in the Marines for five years, in Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire, from 1973 to 1979. I’m not sure that’s relevant to our particular business, but just in case … Then he resurfaces on the payroll of the Intelligence Service. You didn’t know that?’

‘No.’ What an arsehole. That record, so bare, of course. I’m losing my touch. ‘You’ll have to do a bit better than this in future. And finally, the cops found around a hundred grams of heroin at his place, Lebanese. He doesn’t seem to be a junkie, so he’s a dealer, small time at any rate. The Crime Squad’s done well, in two days. That’ll give Bornand something to mull over. Remind him that I never do favours for free.’

Cloistered in his Élysée office, Bornand doodles feverishly, drawing acanthus leaves on his notepad. Last night he spent an hour in a tête-à-tête meeting with the President, who as usual didn’t want to hear about arms sales, but noted the fact that the current problem was resolved, and seemed satisfied. He draws another line, rips out the page, crumples it into a ball and bins it. Fernandez, sitting opposite him, waits.

‘So, where are we up to with Tardivel?’

‘Mission accomplished. Raymond, an old friend from Intelligence, and I abducted the little faggot in the middle of the street, not far from here. No one batted an eyelid. As soon as he saw the photo, he caved in. I beat him up a bit, not badly.’ Flashback, squeezing the back of his neck, which yielded, submissive. He smiles. ‘More for pleasure than from necessity, to be totally frank. There won’t be any more talk of the Chardon dossier from that quarter.’

Bornand does not react. Fernandez continues:

‘Chardon was blackmailing him all right, and Tardivel paid up. But that’s not all. I had a call from Cecchi this morning. The investigation is progressing. The cops have established that Chardon is an ex-Marine and was stationed in Gabon, and they found a little stash of Lebanese heroin at his place …’

Bornand’s ears suddenly prick up. Chardon encounters the Djimil brothers while he’s serving in Africa, stays in touch trafficking Lebanese with them, and they use him to take their dossier to Paris. The piece fits into the jigsaw.

‘… Again according to Cecchi, Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’

Bornand is gutted. He leans back in his chair, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short convulsive gasps, his face ashen, his hands clasped. For several minutes. Fernandez starts getting worried. Heart attack? Then Bornand’s muscles gradually relax, his breathing returns to normal, he remains motionless for a while longer, before opening his eyes and sitting up.

‘That changes the whole picture. Pay attention to what I’m saying. The Djimils plan the job with Chardon, who informs the Intelligence Service, his paymaster. Intelligence leap at the opportunity and kill two birds with one stone. They give us a completely abridged dossier on Chardon …’

‘That’s how they always protect their informers.’

Bornand bangs his fist on the desk.

‘Shut up, Fernandez. It’s common knowledge that the police department is at war with the Élysée unit. And the unit is Grossouvre, Ménage and myself. So if Intelligence have been informed of this business by Chardon, they’ll have no hesitation in using it to bring me down and cripple the Socialists in the March elections too while they’re at it.’ In a sudden outburst of rage, his voice quavering, he continues: ‘This just proves they’re a bunch of uncontrollable incompetents. Don’t tell me any different.’

‘I haven’t said a word, sir.’

Bornand gets up and turns to the window. The roofs look bare. He takes two deep breaths and tries to regain his composure. A bad day. The pleasure of the horses ruined this morning, being ditched by a friend, and now the whole business has become more complicated, just when he thought he had things under control. He speaks without looking at Fernandez.

‘Who’s behind Chardon? Your old boss Macquart? We have to seize the initiative. I’m going to warn the unit. We’ll see what blocks to put in place, we’ll find a chink. They’re not invulnerable, these Intelligence cops, are they, Fernandez? They have their little vices, their little weaknesses, like you, like everyone else …’

Fernandez pictures Macquart, forthright, massive, behind his desk, a cop to the very marrow. He lives in the countryside under a false name; nobody knows his family; he always checks that he’s not being followed when he leaves the office; all the more upright because he’s not interested in money. The chink … Bornand’s going to come a cropper, and he knows it, and Fernandez rejoices.

‘… Then I’ll go and see the Interior Minister to have a word with him about the way some of his departments operate.’ He turns around. ‘Disbanding the Intelligence Service was in his electoral manifesto in ’81, wasn’t it, unless I am much mistaken?’

‘It was more or less in the manifesto.’

‘Well I think it’s time to remind him.’

‘Sir, if you see the Minister, you know that Cecchi is waiting for his authorisation to reopen the Bois de Boulogne gambling club, which Intelligence is blocking.’

Surprised, Bornand stares at him and thinks for a moment.

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to confuse the two issues.’

‘Cecchi is very useful to you, especially at the moment …’

‘Cecchi seems to me to be rather too compromising an individual under the circumstances. And I’ve got him on-side, in any case. I’ll look into that later, when I have the time and more elbow room.’ A silence. ‘Intelligence must have sent Chardon to a safe house. We’re not likely to see him again.’

‘That’s for sure.’

Back at the police station, a crushing workload has accumulated over the past few days. Noria and Bonfils plod on in silence. Noria looks up from time to time and glances at Bonfils, who doesn’t react, seemingly absorbed in his tasks.

Lunch break. After a dull morning, it’s now a glorious day. Bonfils suggests having a sandwich on a bench out in the sunshine, in the Buttes Chaumont park overlooking the lake. It’s still cold, but it makes a change from the office. He sits there, legs outstretched, silent, half absent. He finishes his sandwich under Noria’s gaze. A clear-cut profile, lips parted, very well defined. His jacket is open. Under his grey polo-neck sweater, she can make out his regular breathing beneath the bulge of his chest. She has a clear image in her mind of the photo and wants to slip her hand under the wool and touch his skin, and let it linger there, with his nipple in the hollow of her palm. It’s fun toying with desire and ambiguity. These are completely new feelings for her. Halt there.

‘You didn’t come in to work yesterday?’ she said.

‘I took a day off. I was feeling down.’

‘I’ve got news of Chardon.’

Bonfils suddenly sits up.

‘You never give up …’

She wants to tell him about running away, the loneliness. But the words simply won’t come out.

‘Should I?’ she queries.

‘To be honest, I don’t know.’

And now she’s aggressive:

‘Well I don’t have a choice.’

He gazes at her for a moment in silence, then says:

‘If you say so. Shoot.’

‘Chardon went home after leaving the Brasserie des Sports. He went out again alone at around four thirty, and a man driving Fatima Rashed’s Mini came and picked him up outside his house. He got into the car and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘How do you know that?’

She tells him about the house, the day it snowed, the kids in the street and their snowball fight … Bonfils looks pensive.

‘By that time, it’s likely that Rashed was already dead.’

‘The driver is almost certainly the man who followed him to the restaurant. Perhaps he and Chardon are accomplices.’

‘This is exciting. We should go back to the brasserie and try to find out more about this guy, and file an additional report. We’ll take it to the investigating magistrate.’

‘To the magistrate? Why not to the Crime Squad?’

He has dimples when he smiles.

‘Because the magistrate is a lot more attractive than the section boss at the Crime Squad.’

The irony is not lost on Noria: If you find him, be a darling and let us know …

‘OK, we’ll give it to the magistrate.’