Affairs of State

Friday 29 November

The telephone rings, early on this particular morning. Bornand surfaces slowly from a heavily drugged sleep and gropes around. A shooting pain in his left hand, a brutal reminder of the evening at Mado’s, the vanished plane, blood spurting everywhere. He picks up the telephone blindly.

‘Morning, François. André Bestégui here. Am I waking you up?’

A long sigh:

‘How did you guess? What do you want at this hour?’

‘To see you. Very soon, and to talk.’

‘About what? At least give me a clue.’

‘About the plane that disappeared yesterday over Turkey.’

‘Later, over lunch, one o’clock at the Carré des Feuillants?’

‘Perfect.’

He replaces the receiver. Bestégui. Bornand had first come across him way back in 1960, during the Algerian War of Independence, at the offices of his import-export company, avenue de la Grande-Armée. He’d been a slightly self-conscious young student in a modern décor of electric blue carpeting and steel furniture, with a painting by Nicolas de Staël on a white wall. There was a stunning receptionist who had no objections to working overtime entertaining important clients. Easy to dazzle, easy to seduce. Bornand had no hesitation in doing both, just in case, and he’d been right to cultivate Bestégui. Nowadays, Bestégui represents the type of French investigative journalism that Bornand most abhors, but it’s always useful to have friends in the right places. Look after Bestégui.

He is awake now, contemplating the orange, red and brown bedspread. Things are looking clearer. Not an accident, an attack. A sudden attack. The plane disappeared yesterday, the press hears about it the same day. In a way, good. He’s going to have to be very effective. Aim: find out who, exactly, was behind the strike.

It’s going to be a busy day. He’s up. In the burgundy and white tiled bathroom, he takes a freezing cold shower, as is customary on important days and grooms himself meticulously with a series of rapid, efficient movements. He has no particular liking for his long, skinny body with protruding rounded shoulders and skin that sags in places. Nor for his heavy, bony face and too pale blue eyes. But he’s as obsessive about his appearance as a professional lothario. He shaves, carefully trims his moustache, splashes on aftershave, styles his hair with gel and applies cologne before getting dressed. It’s the season for closely tailored cashmere and silk suits in every shade of grey. And today he selects a red and grey Hermès tie.

The day begins, as always, with his morning stroll with the President.

It’s a dull day with icy rain falling in huge heavy drops, at times it feels like sleet. They walk through the streets side by side, two silhouettes in woollen coats, scarves and felt hats, heading towards the Élysée. Bornand, in his long, tailored coat and pearl-grey fedora, looks like a 1920s dandy. He leans slightly towards the President, who is stockier. The two old friends chat idly of this and that.

Earlier their paths had crossed several times, one a lawyer, the other his client. No more. Then came 1958 and De Gaulle’s accession to power, and Mitterrand emerged among the French political elite as one of the few opponents of the General who wasn’t a member of the Communist Party. Long conversations between him and Bornand. They found they shared a faith in the Atlantic Alliance, and the same visceral anti-Gaullism, the same anti-Communism mediated by their understanding of the Party. Going further still, they touched on possible shared sympathies during the war, without probing deeper. Bornand developed a profound admiration for Mitterrand’s subtlety and skilful political manoeuvring. He found himself on the fringes of the political power machine, excluded from political circles, ostracised in a way since the end of the war. Condemned to low-level pro-American conspiracies and wheeling and dealing that was lucrative but gave him no status, Bornand saw this budding friendship as his chance to enter the worthy sphere of French politics at last. He offered Mitterrand his services, and that was the beginning of a lasting association during which Bornand played a shadowy role in the President’s entourage, which suits him perfectly, until he became his advisor at the Élysée in 1981, and one of Mitterrand’s chosen companions on his Parisian walks.

‘The latest news from Gabon … President Omar Bongo has put on weight recently …’

A hint of anxiety in the deep voice. The President is joking already. Bornand takes his time.

‘… I heard it from Akihito, his regular tailor. Ten centimetres around the waist in two months.’ A pause. ‘At the Franco-African summit in La Baule, he’ll be wearing long, double-breasted jackets.’

‘In that case, if I were him, I’d change tailor.’

‘So would I. But Akihito has other qualities. He sent five gorgeous blondes to deliver the suits. Whom he had a bit of trouble recruiting, incidentally.’

‘I don’t believe it …’

‘There are rumours about Bongo’s health …’

The President and Bornand stop in front of a luxury couturier’s window. Two young sales assistants observe them from inside the shop, and smile. The President waves at them before resuming his walk.

‘The little brunette’s a stunner.’

Bornand takes note, then takes the plunge:

‘A plane crashed yesterday in Turkey …’ The President gives him a sidelong glance. ‘There’s a rumour in the Parisian press that the plane was carrying French arms to Iran.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to start talking to me about arms deals too, it seems to be all the rage at the moment … and to Iran what’s more! A country under international embargo … If people are stupid enough to go in for that kind of deal, let them pay the price.’ A few steps in silence. ‘You know very well that I’m very much against selling arms to warmongering countries as a matter of principle.’

‘It’s a rule that can be bent a little when it comes to Iraq. Only two days ago the Tehran Times accused us of having delivered to Iraq five Super-Étendard fighters, twenty-four Mirage F1s, and the ultra-modern missiles that are destroying Iranian oil installations. And they weren’t wrong …’

The President quickens his pace.

‘Don’t spoil this beautiful walk in the rain. I don’t want to hear any more talk of arms sales to Iraq.’ He turns to Bornand. ‘And you know it. Talk to the ministers concerned.’

They walk on in silence for a moment.

‘I’m not talking to you about arms sales, but about France’s role in the Middle East …’

‘France is not Iran’s enemy …’

‘That won’t be sufficient.’

‘… but in the Middle East, the age-old balance between Arabs and Persians must be maintained.’

A gesture of irritation:

‘Let’s look at this another way. Instead of talking about arms, let’s talk about elections. We have four French hostages who’ve been held in Lebanon for between seven and nine months. The ministers concerned, to use your expression, are playing the Syria card, and after all this time they haven’t even managed — I won’t even say to enter into negotiations with the hostage-takers — but simply to find out who they are and what they want. I can tell you the key to the hostage affair lies in Tehran, as everyone knows, and I am capable of securing their release.’

‘The hostages’ release is one of the government’s ongoing preoccupations, and it is continually working towards a solution, which I approve of.’ A silence. Then the President adds: ‘Of course, anything you can do to assist in Tehran will be welcome, as I’ve already told you.’

‘But unofficially. Officially, we have broken off relations with Iran. At least give my contacts a clear signal. Otherwise, there’ll be no progress on the hostages before the general election, and March ’86 is just around the corner.’

After a few more paces in silence, the President embarks on a monologue on Saint-John Perse. Bornand switches off and massages the palm of his left hand. Shooting pains. How to find out who ordered the disappearance of the plane?

The President stops, his face waxen, leaning for a moment on Bornand’s arm.

All things considered, it is certain that it would be better for the Parisian press to talk about your contacts with Iran rather than this unfortunate plane crash.’

This was the green light he’d been waiting for.

Bornand drops into the Élysée unit headquarters and finds only two young women at their desks. The previous day’s telephone taps have been transcribed, and they’ll be sorted and classified before being passed on, as every day, to the President’s secretariat. Bornand sits down for a moment and accepts a coffee, with two sugars, asks how their children are and complains about the miserable weather. There’s snow on the way. He flicks through the files rapidly. It’s one of life’s small pleasures that Bornand regularly enjoys: lifting the lid of the hive and watching the bees make honey. But today he knows what he’s looking for and he hasn’t got time to hang around: he’s after all yesterday’s calls involving Bestégui, code name: the Basque. At least ten made to the newspaper’s office. Various appointments. Interesting, one with the General Secretary of the Paris Mayor’s office. Well, well. Covering his rear with a view to the upcoming elections? His daughter has an ear infection. Restoux won’t file his article in time, it will have to be held over until the following week. A furious tantrum ensues. Bestégui’s writing a substitute under a new pseudonym (Rancourt, make a note, just in case). And lastly, someone called Chardon announces he has a dynamite dossier on a plane crammed with French missiles heading for Iran, which vanished in mid-flight yesterday over Turkey. The Basque warily advises him to be more discreet on the telephone and agrees to meet him that evening at seven p.m.

That was it.

Bornand crosses the street and climbs the steps of the Élysée. His office is a comfortable little room under the eaves, with two windows looking out over the rooftops. Plenty of calm and light. Huge mahogany cupboards lining two walls, kept permanently locked, good armchairs, a few nineteenth-century English engravings depicting hunting scenes with hounds, green carpet and curtains. And in the centre of the room, an English pedestal desk, with a tan leather top. Sitting on it are a notepad, a crystal tumbler filled with pens and felt-tips, and a coloured glass art deco lamp.

Fernandez is waiting for him. A cop Bornand first met ten years ago on the racecourses, when he was working in Intelligence for the Racing and Gambling division. Very young, fairly tall, broad shoulders and flat stomach; short, dark hair, swarthy complexion, a somewhat loud taste in clothes, flashy gold bracelet watch and a signet ring on his middle left finger, tight trousers and colourful shirts. Good-looking guy, in a way, and very keen on easy, good-looking girls: sharing women had soon created a bond between them. Intelligent: it didn’t take him long to understand how to network in racing circles, and who the guys with real power are. Enterprising: always looking to make a deal, or a financially useful social contact. And left-wing, in other words, he liked Bornand and trusted him when he was still a long way from power. So when Bornand arrived at the Élysée, he had him transferred from Intelligence to his personal security, which opened up new career prospects for Fernandez and confirmed he had made the right political choices. A bit too much of a lout to be truly integrated into the inner family circle, but a distant cousin for whom Bornand feels a certain fondness.

‘I’ve got a job for you, my friend.’

Bornand opens the notebook, selects a green felt-tip and begins to draw complicated squiggles with application, his long, slender hands never still. A silence, before he continues:

‘A journalist has approached Bestégui offering to sell him some strictly confidential information about our contacts with Iran and our dealings to secure the hostages’ release, which include arms deliveries. We’ve already talked about this, haven’t we?’ Fernandez nods. ‘Have you heard of a guy called Chardon?’

‘Never.’

Bornand slowly jots down a few words, looking distracted, then looks up.

‘Bestégui seems to know him though. If this makes the headlines, the Iranians will break off talks. We have to identify the people behind this Chardon guy and shut them up. And to do that, I’m relying on you. If he’s mixed up in this sort of business, Intelligence must have him on file. You’re going to ask them for me. Then, depending on what they come up with, you’re going to find this Chardon, try and glean anything that might shed light on what’s in his dossier and who his sources are. You can call me here, or at the Carré des Feuillants at lunchtime.’ He rubs the palm of his left hand which is still giving him shooting pains. ‘Be smart, Fernandez. We need results.’

Once Fernandez has left, Bornand sets to work.

The first thing is to find suppliers with stocks of missiles available, preferably overseas. I’ll check out Meister in Hamburg. If news of the scandal breaks after the arrival of a new delivery to Tehran, we’ll come out of it relatively unscathed. Then, make amends where possible. And don’t expect any help from government departments on that front, turn to the family first. A basic rule of self-preservation. First of all, Pontault, one of the Defence minister’s staff. A gendarme. A friend of some of the men in the unit. His father, also a gendarme, ended his career as head of security at Bornand’s father-in-law’s firm. He’s loyal. He takes it upon himself to remind all concerned that the missiles sent to Iran had been purchased from the French army, following all the correct procedures. Clearly the military wouldn’t like their financial transactions and methods to become public knowledge. Nor would the politicians at the Ministry, who took their cut from the deal. So, defence secrets all the way down the line. Pontault acts as guarantor. Covered on that front. Bornand notes the date, time and content of the telephone call.

Distraction: an appointment with an Israeli agent he met in Washington and who’s passing through Paris on his way back from a trip to Côte-d’Ivoire. Not long to go before the Franco-African summit opens. Exchange of information. The Côte-d’Ivoire recognises the State of Israel and is playing a growing role in arms smuggling to South Africa. A link between the two? In any case, large quantities of arms are currently circulating in the region. Always good to know in case Hamburg doesn’t respond.

Bornand writes a summary of the conversation for the President, expurgated of all reference to arms deals, since he doesn’t want to know.

It’s time to meet Bestégui at the restaurant. On the way, a detour via the couturier’s window where the President paused this morning. He buys a vicuña scarf and asks the pretty brunette sales assistant to take it to the Élysée that afternoon. The President will appreciate it.

Extract from Chardon’s intelligence service record:

Chardon, Jean-Claude. Born 1953, in Vincennes, Val-de-Marne, where his father ran a hardware shop. Baccalaureate in literature, 1973. Then joined the marine infantry, served for five years in Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire. Returned in 1978 as a lieutenant. In 1980, he was tried and convicted for living off immoral earnings. He then reinvented himself as a journalist, freelancing for France-Dimanche and Ici Paris under various pseudonyms (the most frequent: Franck Alastair, Teddy Boual, Jean Georges) mainly writing gossip columns about the private lives of showbiz celebrities and the jet set. Numerous known liaisons with call girls and models who act as informers. Since the immoral earnings case in 1980, no further complaints have been lodged against him. He currently resides at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht, Paris 19, in a house which he owns.

A rather brief record. It is highly likely that he must be earning a bit on the side from blackmail. But what the hell’s he doing mixed up in an arms deal? At least it’s a starting point.

Fernandez starts tailing Chardon when he leaves home at 11.47 a.m. Brown corduroy trousers, heavy work boots, khaki parka, unremarkable features and shaggy, lifeless chestnut hair. Fernandez feels good-looking in comparison. Some fifty metres further on, Chardon turns into avenue Mathurin-Moreau, walks down to the metro at Colonel-Fabien, and goes into the Brasserie des Sports, Fernandez hard on his heels. It is a busy bar adjacent to a large restaurant with around forty tables, separated by curtains of green foliage, a buzz of voices, mainly regulars, but at this hour, still plenty of free tables. A waiter recognises Chardon and signals to him that someone is waiting for him at the back of the room. Fernandez follows him from a distance, then pauses and takes cover behind a line of bamboos. Chardon clearly knows the girl who’s waiting for him. It’s Katryn, a call girl whom Bornand regularly uses. Be prudent. Concealed by the plants, Fernandez manages to sit not far from them. They order two beef and carrot casseroles, and half a bottle of Côtes. Fernandez watches. They start a relaxed conversation about this and that. Coffee, bill, they go Dutch. Then they wander over for a chat with the woman owner at the till and go down to the basement via a staircase right next to the bar. After a few minutes Fernandez attempts to follow them. But the owner stops him: the toilets and telephone are at the back of the restaurant to the left. Downstairs there’s only a snooker table, and someone’s using it. Fernandez curses. That has to be where important matters are under discussion. He calls Bornand.

‘Katryn. Holy shit.’ Last night, with the Iranian. Familiarity … Perhaps they already know each other? She lays on the hero number, wheedles information out of him, she’s capable of it. It reaches Chardon … Possibly. But who are the pair of them working for? It’s a lead, Fernandez, don’t lose them.

Fernandez props himself up at the bar and orders a coffee and brandy.

In the basement is a narrow, windowless room with a snooker table in the centre. A suspended copper lamp shines a glaring light on the green baize, plunging everything around into darkness. Chardon sets up the balls in the triangle and removes the frame. He plays first, his head and torso in the circle of light. Too fast, too hard. The triangle shatters, a series of dry clacks, no score. He straightens up, steps back into the shadows and asks:

‘Have you got anything new for me?’

Katryn appears not to hear him. She stalks round the snooker table in her tight black jeans and black polo-neck sweater, her piercing eyes concentrating on the baize. Then she leans over, her black hair reflecting the light, the cue slides smoothly, one precise move and ball number four plops into a corner pocket. She plays again, too quickly, misses. She sighs and straightens up.

‘There was a piece of news, three weeks ago.’

‘You already told me.’

‘Are you playing?’

He plays almost randomly. Nothing.

Katryn begins a kind of dance around the baize. She moves slowly, leans half her body into the light, straightens up, starts walking again. Then makes up her mind, and lines up three shots in a row, talking all the while.

‘Three days ago, Lentin and his buddies came to train her.’

‘Lentin, the film producer?’

‘That’s him. He’s used to this type of operation at Mado’s.’

She leans forward, in silence. Then he continues:

‘Mado thinks that to be a true professional, you need experience. And she’s right about that. She tends to keep the training period down to a minimum in the interests of profitability.’

Chardon plays again, without success. Katryn, irritated, lightly taps the light shade with her cue, and the table oscillates between light and darkness.

‘You’re not concentrating hard enough, this is no game.’

‘So what about Lentin?’

‘This time, the training session degenerated. Lentin had come with two of his friends, novices at this game. I have no idea what happened, perhaps the girl had a romantic idea of the job, or she’d been conned into it from the start. Anyway, she ended up with a broken nose, a couple of broken ribs and her back slashed. Mado had a real job calming her down. She sent her back home to Périgueux.’ She slides a piece of paper folded into four onto the baize. ‘Her name and address. You can get her to tell you her story. I know, it’s risky. But she’s not even fifteen. Lentin will pay up to keep her quiet. And now, how about giving me a proper game of snooker?’

Bestégui is waiting for Bornand at the Carré des Feuillants. As always, Bornand’s running late. A hushed atmosphere. He slowly sips a pure malt whisky and relaxes. Their paths first crossed in 1960, when he wasn’t even twenty, during the Algerian War of Independence. A luxurious, uncluttered office. Him feeling lost, adrift, vulnerable. Bornand had the reputation of being a diabolical boss, a staunch supporter of decolonisation since the days of the Indochina war and with ongoing business relations with the Provisional Government of the Algerian Republic,5 and there were even rumours of arms sales to the National Liberation Front. There was something of the buccaneer about him, and he was elegant and well-spoken, with a penchant for irony. Yes, he was willing to support the French national student union’s demonstrations of solidarity with the Algerian students.

‘It’s high time you took some public initiatives. This war is bleeding our economy and boosting de Gaulle,’ Bornand had said.

He had signed a cheque in support, and gone on the student demonstration in October 1960 with a few of his friends, including François Mitterrand, who received a few blows from the cops’ batons witnessed by journalists. That’s not something you forget when you’re twenty.

Bestégui is still elegant, rich, self-confident and highly informed. Incidentally, how many articles has he penned, including some that have helped build Bornand’s reputation among Paris’s elite? A vast number … and a few dirty tricks too. You don’t get anything for nothing.

Bornand arrives at last and, without apologising, squeezes Bestégui’s arm warmly by way of a vague embrace, like a man in a hurry, then sits down. The head waiter hastens over. Bornand doesn’t open the menu.

‘I’ll have what you’re having. I trust your judgement.’

Bestégui orders a cream of chestnut soup and pheasant. Bornand eats without even noticing what’s on his plate. He has always considered a taste for fine cuisine as incongruous. He only frequents good or very good restaurants because in France they are the undeniable external trappings of wealth, as well as reliable indicators of the esteem in which one holds one’s guest. He is fully engrossed in what Bestégui is telling him.

‘I’ve been offered a dossier on a plane that crashed in Turkey yesterday morning. It was supposedly carrying French missiles destined for Iran.’ Bornand doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I’d like to know what I might be getting myself into before going any further.’

Apparently he’s playing fair, which will make things easier.

‘You can hardly expect me to tell you that.’

Bestégui continues, ignoring Bornand’s reply: ‘In your view, is a deal like that possible, or probable, or am I likely to find myself walking into a trap?’

‘That’s certainly a possibility. Even a probability. Nearly all the world’s arms dealers are doing business with Iran. Embargos have never prevented arms from being sold, they just make them more expensive, and the profits are higher.’ He leans towards Bestégui, who is tucking into his food. ‘Which doesn’t necessarily rule out the possibility that it could be a sting.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Allow me to make a little detour via Lebanon where the French hostages are being held. Yesterday I was with a Lebanese friend who was telling me about the outbreak of the current war between the militias, one of the most violent that Beirut has seen — and Beirut has seen many such conflicts. An Amal militiaman, a Muslim and an ally of the Syrians, was driving at breakneck speed as usual, and at a crossroads he demolished the car of a Progressive Socialist Party militiaman, an ally of the Syrians and of Amal. Out came the guns, and war was declared between Amal and the PSP. There are countless French envoys supposedly negotiating the hostages’ release in Lebanon. Our lot are wandering around carrying suitcases stuffed with money and speaking on behalf of some minister or other, or the President, or a political party or whatever. You can just imagine. Lebanon’s in a state of chaos, about which they’re utterly clueless. The result: nothing. Nothing. André, even after more than six months, and for one very simple reason: the key to the hostages isn’t in Lebanon, it’s in Tehran. And that plane may be part of a much bigger deal.’

‘Can you tell me any more about this hypothetical deal?’

‘Point number one: it could be a question of stopping arms deliveries to Iraq, or of balancing deliveries to both sides, which the cargo in question may or may not be a part of.’

‘If the plane is part of this deal, there are some people who have an interest in preventing it from reaching Tehran.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not yet. But if we look at the people who want us to lose the election in March ’86, we should come up with the answer. And track them down. Fast.’

Bestégui attacks his chocolate and pistachio dessert.

‘Will I get to hear of it first?’

‘You won’t publish anything about the plane for the moment? And you’ll put off the competition?’

‘The ones who talk to me at least.’

‘You’re on.’

The meal’s over. Bestégui gives a deep sigh.

‘Fine, then I won’t rush into it.’

Connivance, compromise, always treading a fine line.

Katryn and Chardon part company in the street in front of the Brasserie des Sports. From a distance, Fernandez follows Katryn who walks very fast. She’s wearing a long cream-coloured waterproof duster coat. She enters an upmarket apartment building on avenue Mathurin-Moreau. Fernandez draws nearer. She punches in the entry code for the front door. Her fingers leave grey smudges on four figures and a letter. He tries various random combinations; on the third, the door opens. He goes inside. Katryn is no longer in the lobby. The lift is on its way down. To the cellar, or the garage. It stops at the lower basement level. Instinctively, Fernandez follows. I’ll think of something.

There’s a dim light controlled by a timer switch and one of the lock-ups is open, two rows further back. Katryn drives out a red Mini, stops the car and gets out to close the door behind her. Fernandez moves closer. She might recognise me. He places his hand on her arm. Katryn over-reacts violently. She screams and punches him in the face with all her strength, hitting out wildly. Fernandez, caught unawares, protects himself as best he can.

‘Stop … I want to talk to you …’ Crushing her arm: ‘Talk to you, do you hear, shit …’

She’s not listening, but carries on lashing out blindly, screaming. He pushes her into the lock-up, a hand over her mouth.

‘Shut the fuck up.’

She bites him and draws blood. He releases her and she makes a dive for the open door of the car. A whore … That’s why she’s making trouble … He takes out his revolver with his right hand, to keep her quiet, grabs her again with his left hand and yanks her away from the car which she’s clinging on to. She’s hurt her hands. He pins her to the wall again, waves the revolver in front of her face, yelling:

‘Calm down!’

Feeling the gun barrel at her throat, her whole body convulses, she shoots both her legs out at waist level, he doubles over and a shot is fired. Killed outright, Katryn slides along the wall.

The shot resonates for a long time. The sound mingles with the smell of gunpowder and burning petrol. Winded, Fernandez stares aghast, his heart thumping wildly.

The light timer cuts out and the only sound is the Mini’s engine ticking over. He leans against the wall. This killing means curtains for me. Unacceptable. A left-wing cop, the security branch, all the fun and games, my meeting with Bornand, the Élysée, a ten-year battle. He catches his breath. I’m not giving all that up. I need a few hours. Got to get going.

He switches the light back on, gets behind the wheel of the car and drives it back into the lock-up. He closes the door. It’s not the ideal shelter, there’s another car, but even so it’s better than leaving it wide open. The body lies crumpled on the ground right there in front of him. There’s a streak of blood down the wall and a dark red pool is gradually spreading over the floor. This is a total fuck-up. I can’t leave her here, someone might find her any minute and identify her straight away, and I’m in the front line. I’ll play for time and try and pin it on Chardon.

He opens the car door and dumps the body on the passenger seat, turning it to one side as if the girl were asleep. He covers her with her long raincoat, rummages in her bag and finds the remote control for the garage. He takes a deep breath and drives the Mini out of the garage. Blood on his clothes and in the car. It’s starting to snow. That’s probably good news, there’ll be fewer nosey people about, but it’s not possible to drive too far, too risky in this weather.

Nearby in the 19th arrondissement there’s a place that’s deserted at this hour and in this weather — the La Villette automated parking lot. He heads in that direction, driving cautiously. He reaches the esplanade with its asphalt avenues divided by pavements fringed with bare trees. The street lamps are out. The snow’s falling thick and fast and settling on the tarmac and on the branches of the trees. A glow comes from the ring road above the parking lot, and there are a few lights shining on the vast La Villette construction site a hundred metres away. Fernandez and his corpse are surrounded by a fuzzy black void. He pulls up alongside the row of shrubs and pines bordering the parking lot exit ramp, walks around the car, opens the passenger door, heaves the body onto the ground, nudges it under the bushes with his foot and covers it with the cream-coloured raincoat. Immediately the snow begins to obliterate the corpse. He glances around him, still nobody. In ten minutes, everything will be covered with snow. He gets back into the car, pays at the machine, and turns onto avenue Jean-Jaurès. He pauses to adjust the seat and the driving mirror, then stops by a telephone booth, rings directory inquiries for Chardon’s number and calls him. Oh God of all cops, please let him be home. He’s home.

‘I’m a friend of Katryn’s. She wants you to come and take some photos.’

‘Don’t say anything over the phone.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up outside your place in fifteen minutes. I’ve got Katryn’s car.’

‘OK.’

He buys a roll of kitchen paper, cleans up the most visible bloodstains in the car and puts Katryn’s handbag in the boot. He places his revolver on the back seat concealed under his leather jacket and sets off.

Chardon lives in a house in a little dead-end street at the top of a hill. The snow makes driving really difficult. No cars, no pedestrians, everyone shut up indoors. Only some kids ducking behind parked cars are having a huge snowball fight, shrieking and yelling. Chardon is waiting for him by his front door, sheltering under the porch. He slithers his way over to the car and gets in beside Fernandez, more intrigued than suspicious.

‘Katryn is in Aubervilliers where we’d planned to meet up. Completely by chance, she spotted the CEO of a major company with some young — very young — local kids, that’s all she told me. She stayed there and sent me to fetch you.’ A long silence.

‘Have you got your camera?’

‘Don’t worry.’

Silence. Unease. Be quick.

‘You’ll see, we won’t be long.’

The road surface is slippery. They weave acrobatically in and out of the cars moving at a crawl. As long as Chardon keeps his eyes on the road, as long as he’s afraid, he won’t inspect either the car’s interior or my trousers too closely. The window’s open, letting in icy draughts to dispel the smell of blood.

Porte d’Aubervilliers. Fernandez takes the road running alongside the Saint-Denis canal, pressing harder and harder on the accelerator. He crosses the canal via the Pont du Landy, then, without slowing down, turns sharply onto a barely tarmacked path. Chardon turns to him with a questioning look. Fernandez, driving in the ruts with his left hand on the wheel, grabs his revolver from under his jacket on the back seat with his right hand, raises the gun to Chardon’s head and fires. The body slumps forward onto the dashboard and the passenger window shatters. Without stopping, still using his right hand, Fernandez thrusts the body down between the dashboard and the passenger seat then covers it with his jacket. It’s only a rough sort of camouflage, but we’re not going far, and the people around here tend to keep themselves to themselves. He drives over a muddy waste ground bordering the canal and lands back on tarmac, zigzags through some sordid side streets, drives under the motorway and the railway line and into a breaker’s yard. He stops the Mini fifty metres from a Portakabin and honks the horn. A skinny young man in blue overalls stands in the doorway waiting for him. They shake hands.

‘A car for the crusher. And no looking inside.’

‘Have you informed the boss?’

‘Didn’t have time. It’s an emergency.’

The young man points to the telephone, inside the cabin.

‘You have to. I don’t take the decisions here.’

Fernandez calls. The boss is there. The young man turns on the loudspeaker.

‘I need to dispose of a car, and it’s urgent.’

‘Full?’

‘Partly, yes.’

‘You know it’ll cost you?’

‘I’ve always paid, and always returned the favour.’

‘OK.’

The young man heads over to the crusher, at the far end of the yard. Fernandez goes back to the Mini, removes Chardon’s keys from his pockets and Katryn’s key and diary from her handbag. Reluctantly he leaves his own soft leather jacket lined with sealskin on the front seat, but he can’t afford to make any mistakes, then drives the car over to the crusher. He gets out and watches it being crunched. When a small car is flattened, it becomes like a pancake, a giant pancake, dripping with petrol, oil and blood, thrown into a tipper truck with other crushed vehicles. Fernandez feels relieved of a burden. I’ve never heard of any corpse coming back from here.

Time: five thirty. It’s pitch dark. The yard’s about to close. And my day’s not over. Metro, rush hour, keep a low profile. Back home, he removes his clothes and stuffs them into a plastic bag. Throw everything away. He has a quick shower and dresses in similar style clothes — jeans and a leather jacket. Then he jumps into his car and races over to Chardon’s place.

He parks at the bottom of the hill and walks up. It’s still snowing but the kids have all gone home. He walks slowly, carrying out a recce. Railings and a half-open iron gate. He enters a small garden overgrown with ivy and shrubs covered with a blanket of snow which shield him from prying eyes. A two-storey brick house. The curtains haven’t been drawn and no lights are on: the place looks empty. The key turns easily in the lock. But what if there’s an alarm … the door opens, not a sound. He slips inside, closes the door behind him and begins to explore. The rooms are bathed in a faint orange glow from the street lights, striped by the curtain of steadily falling snow. Take care to stay away from the windows.

On the ground floor there’s a junk room, a garage with a freezer, washing machine and workbench, and a locked door. It takes him a few moments to find the right key. He switches on the light to discover a windowless room that turns out to be a well-equipped photographer’s darkroom. Everything is neat and tidy. Two photos are hanging from a line, drying, presumably taken by Chardon just before he went off for a drive. Two porn scenes, with people Fernandez recognises. He pockets them. They’ll enjoy these at the Élysée. He switches off the light and goes upstairs.

The entire floor is taken up by one big, sparsely decorated room with windows on two sides, a Moroccan wool rug on the floor, and designer furniture: sofas, armchairs, a solid wood table — opulent comfort. Against one of the walls is a half-empty wall unit with a television, video recorder, hi-fi, records and cassettes. There’s a state-of-the-art open-plan kitchen. A coffee pot on the hob, a dirty cup in the sink. Otherwise, the place is immaculately tidy. Nothing for me here, don’t waste time.

On the second floor is a bedroom, office and bathroom. Try the office first, makes sense. An antique writing desk standing against one wall has been left open. Two piles of coloured folders. Fernandez flicks through the files quickly. The left-hand pile is all income tax, payslips, social security. Move on. The right-hand pile contains a few handwritten sheets, names, addresses, dates, memos probably, hardly of any interest. Chardon’s archives must be stored somewhere else, at his bank perhaps, which would explain why there’s so little protection. In the middle of the pile, there’s a thicker folder. The first sheet of paper is a photocopy of the flight plan for a Boeing 747, Brussels-Zavantem-Valetta-Tehran, Thursday, 28 November 1985. Bingo. Easy. For a blackmailer, this guy’s got no sense of security. Fernandez grabs the whole thing, fast. He places Katryn’s diary and keys in one of the desk drawers, having wiped them carefully, aware that it’s not very convincing. But he’s improvising as he goes along, and he can’t hang around for ever. Back in the hall, he waits a few moments, still not a sound in the street — the compelling silence of a snow-covered city. He leaves the house, slamming the door behind him, and walks off, turning up his jacket collar.

Bornand’s afternoon continues to be busy. At some point, Customs may decide to poke their noses into the business about the plane. So it’s vital to talk to the Finance Minister. But relations between the two men are complicated, fraught with stumbling blocks. He must prepare the ground. Timsit is the man of the moment. A graduate from the elite École Nationale d’Administration from which civil servants are drawn, his culture is very different from Bornand’s and he has a great deal of influence on the government. They’d met several times on hunts organised by the Parillaud bank and talked at length about collectors’ guns, and Bornand had offered him some magnificent specimens from Lebanon.

‘I wanted to make a point of informing you before talking to the Minister about it. An arms deal with Iran. Nothing to do with big bucks, it’s to do with secret negotiations over the release of the hostages. I’ve just come out of the President’s office. He wants this business to be hushed up at all costs.’

Message received.

So at last to Flandin, the boss of the SEA, the applied electronics company that covered the deal. The tone is not the same as it was last night. Bornand finds him jittery, anxious to protect his company at all costs. There’s the rub, most likely.

‘I warn you, no way will I carry the can. Do what you need to do to stifle this thing, otherwise I’ll spill the beans on all the lousy payoffs from the Iran deals, yours for starters. And I’m not picking up the tab on my own.’

Bornand reclines in his armchair and stretches out his legs. If things get more complicated, this guy will soon become a problem. The minute I chose to work with a novice on this type of deal, I was taking a risk and I knew it. I’ll give Beauchamp a call and tell him it’s time to shut him up. After all, that’s what I brought him into the SEA security service for. A half smile. To win you have to be one step ahead of the game.

Fernandez is back. Bornand pours two whiskies and leafs through the dossier he’s given him. The entire operation is set out. Well, not quite. The particulars of last February’s decision by the armaments division of the Defence Ministry: the air force’s Matra Magic 550 missiles are to be replaced by a more efficient model. In May, there’s the contract between the armaments division and a company specialising in electronic equipment, the SEA, which purchases the missiles for the sum of five million francs and pledges to disable them and recycle the onboard equipment in the civil aviation sector. The missiles are delivered to the SEA’s hangars in September. In October, the SEA sells electronic equipment to SAPA, a financial company registered in the Bahamas, for the sum of 30 million francs. The same day, SAPA sells the same equipment on to SICI, a Malta-based company, for the sum of 40 million francs. The equipment is loaded at Brussels International (Zavantem) Airport, destined for SICI, in Malta. The flight plan of the Boeing 747 carrying the equipment clearly shows that the plane never landed in Malta but diverted to Tehran. A separate sheet also shows that two weeks ago, Camoc, a Lebanese company specialising in recycling and adapting French, American and Israeli weapons, opened a branch in Tehran. In short, the entire chain is there, all ready to be spoon-fed to the press, it’ll be all too easy for them to check it out.

Bornand looks up at Fernandez:

‘Terrific work, young man. I daren’t ask you how you got hold of this …’

He smiles.

‘Chardon and Katryn left the restaurant together, quite late, around three, after a game of snooker, and from what I was able to overhear, they were off to a meeting together with someone in Paris. It’s perfectly simple, I took advantage to go and check out Chardon’s place. I took the dossier, because I thought it might make him stop and think twice.’

Bornand raises his glass to him and nods. Fernandez continues:

‘Among Chardon’s files, I also found some photos. Jean-Pierre Tardivel, an influential journalist at Combat Présent, the far-right weekly, having a bit of fun with two exceedingly young boys …’

He nudges the photo towards Bornand who leans forward attentively:

‘That’s extremely interesting. I’ll keep it. I’m sure it’ll come in useful.’

‘… and the fabulous Delia Paxton being fucked by two drag queens, in a setting that looks like a porn shoot.’

Bornand takes the photo and slides it into an envelope.

‘For the President. He’s a fan of Delia Paxton, he goes to see all her films incognito, on the biggest screens possible. At least now he’ll know what to talk about when he meets her at a dinner party. Or in his speech when he awards her the Legion of Honour.’

After Fernandez has left, Bornand pours himself another whisky. Silence in the night. Just a disk of coloured light on the desktop. He needs time to mull things over.

Whoever built up this dossier has sources at every level of the operation, within the ministerial department, at the SEA, but also inside Camoc in Beirut, whose involvement is largely unknown back here. The only two people in Paris who are aware of its involvement are the boss of the SEA and myself. It would probably be easier to track them in Beirut than here. Beirut … Moricet.

Flashback: Moricet tall, built like a fighter, a seducer’s smile on the face of a pirate, and a quirky taste in clothes with a penchant for elegant linen suits. Both high on cocaine in a hazily remembered Beirut brothel with fluid outlines, a luxury apartment gutted by the war, and a stupid competition: which of them could fuck the most girls in two hours? And Moricet had won with nine to his six. Age had certainly been against Bornand, but in any case, he put up a respectable performance.

Another flashback: Moricet and himself, totally hammered, in Beirut, in an unknown car, hemmed in by two groups of armed men. Sobering up in a flash, Moricet had pushed him to the floor of the car, then speeding forward, shooting with a gun that had appeared from nowhere, bullets ricocheting off the bodywork, had got them out of there. Then Moricet drove him back to the Christian quarter. The memory of being scared shitless, the kind of fear that makes you feel you’re really living, and a friend he knew he could rely on.

‘Attempted kidnapping plus a demand for ransom,’ Moricet had commented dryly. ‘The most profitable industry in this country since the war started.’

‘More profitable than the bank, I fear.’

And he had confided some of his concerns over the International Bank of Lebanon, the IBL, which was well established in the Christian community but since the start of the war had been losing its customers among the other Lebanese religious communities, the Syrians, and the rest of the Middle East.

‘Negotiate with the Syrians.’

‘We’d like to, but it’s not easy. They’re more than a little wary of us.’

‘I know the head of the Syrian secret services. Do you want to meet him?’

Two days later, he was as good as his word. A long conversation about the latest archaeological research in Syria (my passion, the secret service man had told them), which Bornand had contributed to as best he could. Honourably, it would appear, since the Syrian came to visit him in Paris each time he was in France on unofficial business, and some of his friends had been appointed to the board of the IBL, which had picked up again. As a matter of fact, that had been a major turning point in the bank’s fortunes. Moricet, a man of action.

In 1982, Bornand had invited him to join the Élysée unit. Which he had done, but not for long: ‘Too many nutters,’ he said, ‘too many bureaucrats, too many bosses, not enough action or sun.’ And he’d set up his own private security firm, ISIS, based in Beirut and which operated throughout the Middle East. If you want to find out something about Camoc, Moricet is definitely your man.

Telephone. He’ll be there tomorrow.

Bornand carefully puts away his notes in one of the two cupboards. Amid the ornate arabesques and carved acanthus leaves are records of everything that has been said in this office, accumulated over four years, a real treasure trove. He locks the cupboard then pours himself one last whisky, which he knocks back standing by the window gazing out over the rooftops.

Fernandez finds himself back in the street. It’s still snowing. Gone, the warmth of the office, the whisky and Bornand. He’s exhausted. He has no desire to go back home and be alone with his dead. He enters the nearest café, orders a Calvados, goes into the toilet and does a line of coke. Good feeling. To be honest, if you think about it, the situation is rather funny. Finish the night off at Mado’s, Katryn’s boss. Brilliant idea. What class.

On the ground floor of Mado’s building is a vast bar with English-style decor and a hushed, sophisticated atmosphere. Fernandez, Bornand’s right-hand man, has free access to the whole place. The barman greets him and pours him a brandy, which he downs in one, then he goes downstairs to the basement. Swingers’ club. Among a certain bourgeois clientele it’s the new fad; sounds better than going to a prostitute, but it’s no different, except there are a few non-professionals. Mado’s real clientele to whom she owes her fame and fortune, the ones who have a great deal of money and a great deal of power, prefer the call-girl network and orgies in the first-floor lounges.

In the half-dark, there’s a musty smell of sweat and sex, claustrophobia and dust, and the music has an insistent, deafening beat. Fernandez relaxes. Two women rigged out in various items of spiky armour are dancing in a corner. Elsewhere, scantily clad men and women grind rhythmically against each other. On the fringes, couples are entangled on sofas in the alcoves. Girls everywhere, within arm’s reach, available, accessible. Fernandez is suddenly fascinated by a girl who’s dancing naked in the spotlight, with exaggerated movements. A smooth, round arse, engaging but not aggressive, two huge white breasts jiggling and, above them, her head covered with a helmet of black hair, cut over the ears. She has no face. No face. It touches a raw nerve. Flashback: Katryn’s head in the darkness of the garage, thrust against the wall, screaming, the back of her neck exploding. Against a background of hypnotic music.

He walks over to the girl and grabs her arm, drags her to an alcove and tries to part her hair. No face, just a mouth that opens, a silent chasm. A punch to shut that mouth, two, three, a scuffle, Fernandez crumples, stunned by two beefy bouncers amid the general confusion.

Mado, summoned urgently, has him taken to one of the first-floor bedrooms. The victim has a split lip and a nasty cut over her eye. A doctor is called to tend to her immediately. Really bad luck, the girl was one of the few non-professionals there that night. She groans, threatening to report Fernandez.

‘This guy’s a nutter,’ says Mado, very motherly, and surreptitiously mentions damages.

‘A nutter for sure. He was screaming “Catherine, Catherine”. My name’s not Catherine, he couldn’t hear a thing. He started hitting me.’ Her body quivers with sobs. ‘Scared the life out of me.’

‘Katryn,’ says Mado, suddenly pensive, tidying the young woman’s black hair matted with blood and sweat with her fingertips.

Katryn, a model of professionalism, who’d let her down this evening, for the first time since she’d been working for her.

Bornand, in a black dinner jacket, is reclining on a chaise longue in his mistress’s bedroom, which is done out in green and white with blonde wood Louis-Philippe-style furniture. On his left are two high windows with the curtains open, overlooking the Champ-de-Mars. Through the lattice of snow-covered trees, he can see the Eiffel Tower illuminated, a tangle of girders glinting copper in the light, emphasised by the white snow, the familiar presence of the technological dream shrouded in nostalgia. A wave of tiredness. Shooting pains in the palm of his right hand, and each time the fleeting image of a pool of blood spreading uncontrollably. A tough day. The President dreaming of the Académie Française, Bestégui stuffing himself, Fernandez a petty housebreaker. And earlier, the reception at the Embassy. He feels ground down. He’s come here to recover, in the calm surroundings of her boudoir. Put a greater distance between himself and all the stress. From his pocket he takes out a gold and black lacquered case, carefully selects a cigarette, a mix of angel dust and marijuana, lights it and takes a long drag. An almost instant sense of well-being. He contemplates his mistress, sitting naked on a low stool at the dressing table, carrying out the ritual she performs for him. He can see three-quarters of her back and her full frontal reflection in the big mirror. A Degas painting. He takes a second drag, holds the smoke in for a long time, and slowly exhales. The image of the young woman shimmers and dissolves. Another face fleetingly appears, that of a very young girl. He creases his eyes to capture it. Too late, it disperses with a metallic sound. He stubs out his cigarette.

Her blonde hair is piled up in a sophisticated chignon, showing off the nape of her neck and the outline of her shoulders. He is utterly absorbed in watching each of her slow, accomplished movements. First of all, she applies foundation, almost lazily, like a sort of slow preliminary, then the tension increases, a few dabs to touch up under the eyes, around the cheekbones. She surveys the overall effect, and her gaze is drawn towards the mirror, intense, her torso slightly inclined, her arms raised, her breasts swell, lolling forward too, her back elongates, her hips spread. She outlines her eyes with precise strokes, paints her mouth (he loves the way she pinches her lips together), highlights her cheekbones, hollows out her cheeks, makes a correction here and there. A refined, artificial world that exists only for him. He gently caresses his half-erection.

The application of the mask is complete.

‘We’re going to be late,’ she says without turning round, glancing at the reflection of the man in black in the corner of the mirror.

‘It doesn’t matter. Take your time.’

‘I don’t feel like going out this evening.’

He looks away. She sighs, rises, slips on ivory silk stockings, a magic moment when her living flesh is transformed into a smooth, perfect shimmering shape. He closes his eyes. Good, very good. Then the long dress, crimson like her lips, fluid over her body, flared at the hem, long sleeves covering her shoulders and a V-neck that plunges to her waist, her breasts unfettered beneath the fabric. Matching high-heeled shoes, the superb arch of her feet, sophisticated balance. She leans over her dressing table, takes a pair of gold earrings from the drawer and puts them on, then a necklace. ‘No need,’ he says and she turns around. He gets up and from his pocket produces a velvet box. He opens it and takes out a round object made of gold. Françoise accepts it, running her finger over the chasing: a geometric design depicting a curled-up panther in unpolished beaten gold. There’s something strange and savage about it.

‘Exquisite. Where does it come from?’

‘From the wilds of the steppes, from the depths of time. The minute I saw it, I wanted it for you. I had it mounted.’ He goes over to her and fastens the necklace around her neck. ‘I could picture you wearing it just like this, with this dress.’

He kisses her hair, moves his lips down to her ear which he brushes with his moustache, takes the earring between his teeth, tastes the coolness of the metal, and pulls gently. She moves away, smiles at him and winks: ‘Very fragile, this work of art, don’t touch,’ then urges:

‘Let’s stay here this evening, I don’t feel like going out.’

He holds out her coat, envelops her in it, keeps his arms around her and caresses her face with the fur collar.

‘What you feel like is of little importance, my beauty.’