Lorraine Connection

PART FOUR

27 October

Quignard has an early business breakfast appointment in Brussels today, and leaves Pondange in the small hours, before the national press reaches the region. He feels a mounting anxiety during the journey, and by the time he reaches the suburbs of Brussels, he’s having difficulty breathing.

In the lobby of the Silken Berlaymont Brussels, he rushes over to the newspaper stand and flicks rapidly through the papers: no headlines. He begins to breathe more easily. That’s a good sign, the worst of the attacks is probably over. He heads for the dining room leafing through the papers in search of the financial section. He finds the Figaro’s. It reads:

THOMSON PRIVATISATION

COB LAUNCHES INVESTIGATION INTO INSIDER DEALING

The financial editor hasn’t had time to write an article and merely reproduces the AFP despatch:

Following several anonymous tip-offs, an initial examination of Matra share fluctuations suggests the possibility of insider dealing, with funds being channelled into private accounts in Luxembourg. COB, the stock market regulator, has decided to launch a full investigation.

Quignard suddenly feels faint. His heart turns to ice, sweat streams down his face, he is unable to move and can no longer follow what the people around him are saying. The maître d’hôtel and a waiter race over, sit him in an armchair, loosen his tie and shirt collar and remove his jacket. He gradually recovers his wits, and his first instinct is to run away, as far away as possible. To Mongolia, his favourite fantasy, to ride the stocky little horses with short legs and large heads and track snow tigers with their thick white fur striped with black, ad infinitum. But he doesn’t run away. Several anxious faces ask him if he’s feeling better. Much better. In fact he feels fine. A dizzy spell due to exhaustion, travelling on an empty stomach, it’s nothing. He hears himself grinding his teeth. A COB investigation takes several months. By that time … By that time he only knows that he’s no longer certain of anything, and that he’s afraid.

A few minutes later, having washed his face and hands, he’s at the table of three EU officials, calmly and competently discussing the reorganisation of the railway system in the European Development Plan zone, while tucking into toast and marmalade.

It’s nearly nine a.m. and dead quiet in the Cité des Jonquilles. Two men cross the lawn in bomber jackets, jeans and work boots. They go up staircase A and stop on the first-floor landing. The one wearing a white silk scarf around his neck takes a short crowbar out of his jacket, and attacks Rolande Lepetit’s door which gives way with a sharp snap at the first blow. The two men enter and shut the door behind them. An elderly woman in a blue towelling dressing gown is sitting at the kitchen table facing three cans of beer. Her long white hair is in a plait, from which a few stray tousled strands escape. Her mouth drops open, her eyes staring, as she attempts to rise. One man is already upon her, stuffs a rubber gag in her mouth, folds the dressing gown behind her to pin her arms, grabs her plait, yanks her head back and knees her in the small of the back. The man with the white scarf strolls round the apartment.

‘Nobody home. We can get on with it.’

He contemplates the elderly woman in a long blue floral-print cotton nightdress immobilised before him. She chokes convulsively. He pulls out his knife, and slits the fabric from the neck to the hem in a single movement. The elderly woman struggles, wriggles, helpless, is naked, breasts swinging, her flesh badly mottled, with purplish fatty lumps in places. He laughs, biting his lips, traces the folds of her stomach with the tip of the knife barely applying any pressure, the skin splits, a long gash from one hip to the other, scarcely a trail of blood. He shoves the elderly woman against the table and pushes her over on to her back. She chokes, her legs flailing.

‘Hold her down, I won’t be long. Just want to see if the equipment’s still working.’

He puts his knife down on the table, unzips his flies, grabs her hips with both hands, penetrates her, a few violent up-and-down movements, he climaxes, releases her, zips up his flies. Winks at his associate.

‘Best way to show them who’s boss.’

He leans over the elderly woman who remains spreadeagled on the table, her body jerking convulsively, the gash has begun to bleed more seriously, her eyes show their whites, she’s no longer breathing.

‘Get her up.’

He gives her two hard slaps and the elderly woman opens her eyes. He presses the tip of the knife to her throat.’

‘Listen, slag. I’m going to take off your gag.’ Presses the knife harder, cuts. ‘You keep it shut, otherwise I’ll slit your throat. And you know I mean it.’

He removes the gag. The elderly woman, mouth gaping, gasps frenziedly, a low, hoarse groan, not a scream.

‘Perfect.’

He signals to his associate. They drag the elderly woman over to the telephone in the hall.

‘I’m going to dial Aisha’s number, and you’re going to ask her to come here, you need her to come now, you’re ill. When she’s here, my friend here and I will ask her some questions quite politely, and then we’ll leave the pair of you alone. Understood?’

The elderly woman nods, her eyes closed. He presses the tip of the knife to her throat again.

‘This time, I want to hear your voice. Find out whether you can still talk. Say: “Yes, sir”.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The man with the white scarf takes a walkie-talkie from his belt, presses the button.

‘Here we go.’

Lying on the roof of the Cité des Jonquilles, next to the fanlight above stairwell A, two men receive the walkie-talkie message.

‘Over to us.’

They open the fanlight, jump down on to the fourth-floor landing and hide on the staircase. Barely two minutes’ wait before Aisha comes out of her apartment wearing blue jeans and a red polo-necked sweater. As she turns round to lock her door, a man grabs her round the waist and forces a rubber gag into her mouth. She arches her body, her legs buckle as she grabs for the support of the wall. The other man comes to help and gives her an injection in the waist, through her sweater. Her body immediately goes limp. While one carries the unconscious Aisha, the other takes her keys, enters the apartment and comes out with a kitchen stool, locks the door and puts the key back in the pocket of Aisha’s jeans. He positions the stool under the fanlight. As the first guy climbs on to it, passes a rope through the handle of the fanlight then a slipknot around Aisha’s neck, the other retrieves the rubber gag while keeping hold of her body, and slips it into his jacket pocket. Between them, they haul up the body and let go. Aisha’s body revolves slowly. One man kicks over the stool, the other encircles her hips and swings himself from her body. A snap. The two men give a final glance to check: girl dead, body hanged, stool kicked over, fanlight closed, gag in pocket. They both then calmly walk down the four flights of stairs.

On the first-floor landing, the door to Rolande Lepetit’s apartment is still open. They don’t look inside.

Rendezvous in the main square, the teams meet up, divide themselves between three cars and drive off in the direction of Nancy.

Montoya parks his car in the car park opposite the police station without hurrying. The superintendent asked him to drop in: to review the progress of his investigation, he said. Have a chat. By the entrance to the car park, a big black Mercedes is waiting, engine running. A man is sitting alone at the wheel, very close-cropped hair, bomber jacket, square shoulders. Montoya has no difficulty in recognising one of the two mercenaries who cornered him in the alcove at the Oiseau Bleu less than forty-eight hours ago. The man calmly stares at him and smiles. We know who you are, we know who you’re going to see. Pure intimidation. When they stop showing themselves, then it’ll be time to worry. He’s not entirely convinced by his own argument.

In the superintendent’s office, a polite exchange of greetings. To avoid touching on other subjects, Montoya talks drugs. At Daewoo, hash was definitely being smoked, perhaps regularly? Dealing on the factory premises, worrying in terms of security. No, the superintendent doesn’t find the situation a matter of concern. Grossly exaggerated, the amount of hash circulating at Daewoo. In a small town like Pondange, it doesn’t take much for people to get upset. Montoya starts fishing: trafficking linked to the arrest of the Hakim brothers, maybe? The superintendent ducks the question and the conversation continues to flag, when the door suddenly bursts open and a podgy young police officer wearing glasses rushes in theatrically, then stands rooted to the spot, gawping. The superintendent rises, tense.

‘Dumont, don’t tell me …’

‘Yes, superintendent. Two bodies at the Cité des Jonquilles.’

Montoya suddenly feels drained. Aisha and Rolande. Drained and chilled. He knew the danger, said nothing, did nothing, and so those two women, friends, so full of life. Criminal. Think about it later. For the moment, get over there, hurry up, don’t think about anything. The police drive off, sirens wailing. Montoya follows in his own car. The black Mercedes is no longer waiting by the car park entrance.

In front of the entrance to staircase A, two uniformed police officers are holding back a small crowd of neighbours and onlookers. People are talking about Aisha and Rolande’s mother. Montoya, his throat dry, his mind in turmoil, doesn’t ask any questions. And waits. A police car pulls up and Rolande stumbles out. A police officer escorts her through the crowd, which abruptly falls silent, and they disappear up staircase A.

The door to the apartment is wide open. Rolande freezes on the threshold, head lowered. On the floor in the middle of the hall lies a shapeless form beneath a white sheet, a few scraps of blue towelling dressing gown peeping out, and the tip of the white-haired plait bound with a very ordinary red elastic band. Her gaze rests on the elastic band. Then she looks up. All the apartment doors are open, she sees overturned furniture, things on the floor. She thinks: a battle scene. And again: stage scenery. None of this is real.

The superintendent stands close to her, one of his two men raises the sheet. Face butchered, the right temple and cheekbone smashed in, mouth open, twisted, dentures broken, body naked, terrifying. Poor, poor woman, what a wretched life. Immense pity but not a tear. The superintendent points to a long gash across her stomach.

‘Prowlers obviously. They must have tortured her to find out where the money was, then knocked her out with the crowbar they used to force open the front door. The weapon was found by the telephone.’

He covers up the body. Again that overwhelming feeling of strangeness.

‘I don’t believe it. We’ve never had a bean and everyone knows it,’ says Rolande in a very low, very hoarse voice.

Montoya’s still milling among the small crowd of onlookers. His mind starts working again. He broods over his silence and his mistakes, his doubts too. You thought you had time, and she’s dead. How did Quignard trace things back to her so quickly? He feels sluggish, heavy, out of his depth. He decides to leave. Phone Valentin. The reflex of a subordinate, deferring to his boss, like in the old days in the police. Sometimes it’s useful. His gaze falls on Karim Bouziane, at the back of the crowd, standing slightly apart, ashen, dishevelled. Electric shock. Suddenly he feels a tingling in his fingers, takes a deep breath, mind in overdrive. Bouziane-Amrouche. Amrouche, of course. Amrouche who put you on Bouziane’s track and tipped off Quignard about Aisha. Why do you think he put him in an office next to his? Quignard alerted perhaps by the Neveu widow’s phone call … Time for regrets later, must never let an opportunity slip. Bouziane roams from one knot of people to another, tries to catch a phrase here and there, his eyes on the lookout. Flashback: eyes meeting in the cafe. He’s seen me before. Careful. Karim takes out a packet of cigarettes, three attempts before he manages to light one, throws it away after two drags. I know that bitter taste at the back of the throat when you can’t swallow anything, not even cigarette smoke. This guy’s in a very bad way. He senses he’s in danger, isn’t used to it, and doesn’t know why. Don’t lose sight of him. He saw the lists at the same time as Neveu. For the time being, Quignard doesn’t know that, but at the rate he’s going, Karim may not have long left. He’s got to talk.

Karim walks away from the crowd, his steps faltering, reaches the car park, gets into an old red Clio and sits there for several minutes, his head resting on the steering wheel. He’s got to find a way out, he’s going round in circles, can’t find one. Montoya slides behind the wheel of his car, waits. Karim starts up his engine, manoeuvres and drives slowly out of the car park. He appears to be heading towards the plateau. The motorway to Paris? Montoya allows him to get ahead, and then catches up with him. Tailing him is easy as long as he stays on the plateau with its straight, sloping roads. Karim leaves the main road, so he’s not heading for Paris and turns on to a secondary road, driving slowly, his mind elsewhere. He probably still hasn’t decided where he’s going. It’s lunchtime, not much traffic, lonely road. Risky but doable. Montoya hangs back, rummages in the glove compartment, leaves the revolver but takes the plastic handcuffs which he flings on to the back seat. Goes over the controlled-crash training course he’d been on in the old days. He’d never used the technique until now. Recites the advice and recommendations. Above all, don’t injure Karim. As they say in the movies, I want him alive. Action. Puts his foot down on the accelerator. The red Clio reappears. No one in front, no one behind. Overtakes, brakes, cuts in front of the Clio’s wing, which he hits with his bumper. Karim, thrown off course, his expression terrified behind the windscreen, tries to straighten up, jerks the wheel and swerves into the ditch where the Clio lands, bonnet first. Montoya stops on the verge, roars into reverse, pulls up level with the Clio, jumps out, opens the driver’s door where a dazed Karim is trying to unfasten his seat belt. Montoya grabs him by the shoulder, extricates him from the car, leans him against the bonnet, and with his right hand straight, fingers taut, gives him a blow to the plexus. Karim crumples to the ground. Montoya picks him up, throws him on to the back seat of his car, handcuffs him tightly, that’ll loosen his tongue, attaches the handcuffs to the seat belt anchor, gets behind the wheel and drives off at speed.

Karim slowly comes to his senses. Feels like throwing up. Utterly lost. His last memory: Aisha’s dead. He groans. He got into the Clio. Was going where? Can’t remember. He’s half lying down. Glimpses foliage and blinks, the trees are very close and aren’t moving. Rubs his cheek against a familiar fabric, blinks, grey fabric, he’s lying on a seat in a stationary car. A surge of panic. Sits up, sharp pain in his chest, a man is sitting on the front seat, watching him without moving, hazy face, the lawyer? Tries to get up. Impossible, arm hurts, pinned behind his back. The nightmare comes back, tied up in the four-wheel drive, the lawyer. He howls, pulls frantically on his arms, kicks the back of the seat with both feet, a spasm, vomits on his shoes.

‘Finished blubbering like a woman? I’m not going to rape you, for fuck’s sake.’

Down to earth with a bump. Recognises the guy who was in the cafe with Rolande. Still doesn’t understand what’s happened to him. Shuts up. Wipes his mouth on his right shoulder.

‘That’s better. Are you capable of understanding what I say to you?’

Nods. ‘Who are you?’

‘The Hakim brothers, does that name ring a bell?’

Karim feels his bladder empty into his trousers. Dense trees all around, dusk outside, no way out. He closes his eyes, leans back and groans.

‘My wrists and arms really hurt. Can’t you loosen these handcuffs?’

‘Let’s try and make this quick. The brothers weren’t very happy about you grassing on them.’

‘I didn’t grass.’

‘But they seem to think you did.’

‘When they came to pick up their last delivery, someone had tipped off the cops. They took photos.’

‘Who snitched then, if you didn’t?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And they forced you to testify against Nourredine.’

‘You know about that too?’

‘I know a lot about it. Except that it wasn’t the cops that were behind it, it was Tomaso. The cops only saw the fire.’ Karim opens his eyes and wriggles his back slightly.

‘You know more than I do. I don’t know any Tomaso.’

‘A guy from Nancy who used you to grass on the Hakims and is taking over their business. I don’t think they’ll let him walk all over them. There was an explosion in Tomaso’s nightclub two days ago, and the battle has only just begun. And you’re right in the middle of it. Not a good place to be.’

‘Why me? I’m small fry, I don’t count.’

Here we come to the epistemological disassociation, as my intellectual student friends would have said. Concentrate and cross your fingers in the hope that the kid will be scared enough not to realise that you’re changing the subject and that there’s no logical link between the two.

Montoya leans over towards Karim and strokes his cheek. A nervous twitch from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his eye. The smell of vomit, urine, sour sweat.

‘Poor kid. You saw the lists of names in the Daewoo accounts, when you were playing on the computer with Neveu, and everyone’s interested in those lists. Neveu was murdered because he’d seen them.’ The cheek twitches again. ‘Aisha was murdered because she was with Neveu during the strike. You haven’t been murdered yet because I’m the only person who knows that you were messing around on the computer with Neveu.’ Karim pictures himself sitting next to Étienne, shoulder to shoulder, the porn pop-ups against a background of accounting information which he didn’t even glance at. He hears Amrouche coming in and going out, slamming the door. Amrouche … ‘So you see, you may not have too long to live.’

Karim’s arms have gone numb. Now, all the pain is concentrated between his shoulders and up into the back of his neck. How long before Amrouche grasses on me, to Quignard, Tomaso, whoever? Despair. He shouts, ‘But I never saw those accounts. We were watching the porn. Étienne copied it on to a disk for me. We wanted to duplicate it and sell it. I took it with me and went home, that’s all, I never saw anything else. I haven’t even had time to do anything with it yet. I don’t know anything about disks and computers. Étienne was going to do the editing, and I was just going to sell it.’

Montoya turned back to face the windscreen. This kid’s telling the truth. I got close, but missed it. Wait. Pursue this idea to the end.

‘Give me the disk.’

‘Whenever you like. Right away, if you want. It’s in the Clio’s glove box.’ Montoya starts up the engine.

‘Fine, we’ll go there. Then, I’ll let you go and I advise you to disappear for a month or two, until things calm down. You’re out of your depth.’

Montoya pulls up at a junction between a farm track and a secondary road. A sweeping glance over the plateau’s clear horizon to check that he’s not being followed. The majestic swell of ploughed fields, as far as the eye can see. He hears Neveu’s widow: ‘It’s unbelievable how beautiful the plateau can look when you see it from the windows of our farm.’ He takes out his ‘special Valentin’ phone and calls him.

A groan. Montoya smiles.

‘I’ve got the list of Luxembourg accounts.’

‘Well … What does it look like?’

‘It looks like provincial wheeling and dealing. That’s what you called it, isn’t it?’

‘Something like that. Fill me in on the detail.’

‘Ten names of Daewoo workers, payments every month for just over a year which all come from another Luxembourg bank account. Sums ranging from fifty thousand to a hundred thousand francs.’

‘Which amounts to around three million a year. It’s a wealthy region.’

‘But these aren’t the sort of figures you’re interested in, am I right?’

‘Yes, but we can still make good use of them. Do you have the instructions?’

‘Not yet. The files I have were copied by mistake. The person who made the disk thought he was copying the porn videos the accountant watched while performing his onerous duties, but he copied the bank statements instead. I have an idea of how to find an explanation for all this. I just need a little time — forty-eight hours.’

‘That’s much too long. Fax me that list and we’ll work on it at our end too. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.’

Laughs. ‘I can’t do exactly as I please here. You said yourself that Pondange was the Wild West. This morning, we had two more corpses.’

Silence. ‘Clearly, you’re not joking.’

‘Clearly.’

‘Have the corpses got anything to do with our affair?’

‘Of course. Elimination of a potential witness.’

‘Fine. Forty-eight hours, if you insist. Things have been dead quiet at this end. Quignard hasn’t set foot in his office. More worrying, our phone tap hasn’t picked up any calls between Quignard and Tomaso.’

Silence. Montoya rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘Is Quignard’s driver employed by 3G?’

‘Good question. We’ll find out. I’ll page you on this phone as soon as I have any news. Don’t forget to check it. And be careful.’

‘That goes without saying. Goodbye, chief.’

Montoya is patiently waiting for Rolande outside Pondange police station. He’s parked across the street from the entrance and has been leaning against the car for more than an hour. Darkness is falling, he can feel the cold and damp in his bones. Behind him stands the local primary school, silent and empty. He hasn’t glanced at it, the memories it stirred are fading. The dark shape of the police station looms before him. The neon-lit entrance can be seen through the open door, hinting at the activity going on inside and casting a band of light on the white stone steps and the neat lawn.

Rolande’s tall, slim, upright silhouette in its black overcoat steps into the light as she descends the three steps, her hands in her pockets. He straightens up, takes a step towards her when she sees him. Her entire body freezes on the spot, hesitates. He thinks of her hands fluttering as she struggles for words, her eloquent body. A rush of affection. He walks swiftly towards her, offers his arm, which she takes without looking at him. The two bodies brush, touch, recognise each other, then move apart. Observation: between them, a silent, dead space. He leads her to the car and opens the door for her. She sits down. He sits behind the wheel.

‘I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. There’s a room for you at the Hôtel Vauban if you like. And you can have something to eat there too, with or without me, as you wish.’

She nods and signals to him to get going.

A quick dinner in the Hôtel Vauban’s empty, dimly-lit dining room. Not a word. She doesn’t meet his eye, concentrates on eating a vegetable soup and cheese with slow movements, her head bowed. Then she sits upright.

‘I spent hours in the apartment with the superintendent, drawing up an inventory. He wanted me to tell him what had been stolen. Of course nothing had been stolen.’ She gives him a harsh stare. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told me who you are and what’s going on? Don’t you think I’ve paid dearly enough to find out?’

He takes her into the lobby. The security guard has left, the main door is locked and the curtains are drawn across the bay window overlooking the main square. The night lights give off a dim glow and the only light comes from a single bright lamp with a big shade standing on a coffee table. They sit side by side in two big chintz armchairs. Rolande sinks back in hers, her arms on the rests, her hands spread flat, tensing occasionally. Montoya tells her in a low, monotonous voice about Matra and Alcatel’s rival bids for Thomson, how he came to be hired, his arrival in Pondange. Note that I arrived after the fire and after Étienne’s death. I have nothing to do with the start of the trouble. He tells her about the bogus Daewoo accounts, what he knows about the collaboration between Quignard and Tomaso. He tells her that the fire was started deliberately and that Étienne was murdered, about Amrouche’s statement fingering Nourredine — she closes her eyes, ashen — and about Karim Bouziane. He doesn’t tell her about his meeting with Neveu’s widow or her phone call to Quignard. At that particular point, he underestimated the enemy. At that particular point, he pushed Aisha towards her death. He’ll never tell her that. Not because he doesn’t want to lose her, he knows it’s already too late for that. But because he doesn’t want to admit responsibility and make it official.

Then he gives her a list of the Luxembourg bank accounts which has her name on it. ‘It got into my hands sort of by mistake. The person who copied it from the computer thought he was copying porn videos, the pastime of the person who kept the accounts.’ She becomes more animated, turns the sheets over and over, reads them several times, folds them, puts them in her coat pocket. Montoya reckons he’s winning and is almost surprised. She’s changing, fast.

‘I’m telling you these things, Rolande, because I’m almost certain of them, and am acting accordingly. But I have no proof. So you must be very careful what you say, including to the cops. Especially to the cops. Because in this affair, anyone who knows anything is in danger of being murdered. I’m not exaggerating, that’s really what happened.’

‘So I gather.’

‘One question: Aisha?’

‘It was terrible. Hanged from the handle of the roof fanlight at the top of our staircase, in front of the door to her apartment.’ Rolande buries her face in her hands for a long moment. Those hands, the memory of their touch, her caresses both gentle and rough at the same time, Montoya shivers. Then she continues in a calm voice: ‘The cops are clueless and are beginning to talk about suicide. I don’t believe it. Aisha had a strength that I haven’t always had. Aisha was a force of nature. What do you think?’

‘Murdered, like Étienne, because she was with Étienne during the strike. Quignard didn’t know that at first. And then he must have found out from Amrouche, in an informal conversation. Amrouche wasn’t exactly cautious. In any case, he didn’t see any reason to be wary.’

‘What about my mother?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they used her to lure Aisha out of her apartment? Possibly with a telephone call?’ She nods. ‘Where were you this morning?’

‘In Amrouche’s office. He called me to offer me a job. What a farce.’

‘What about Aisha’s father?’

‘At the Social Security office. An appointment came in the post. It was a mistake.’

A long silence. Rolande has a vacant look, her hands mechanically caress the armrests.

‘Rolande, I want to know who kept these accounts and what their purpose was. I need you. You told me Maréchal was in the know. He wouldn’t tell me, but he’d talk to you.’

‘Yes, he probably would. But I’d have to want to get involved. I don’t give a shit about the competition between Alcatel and Matra.’ Silence, then Rolande gets up. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll think about it, I’m giving myself a bit of time, I’m going to bury my dead. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow.’

‘Is your son coming back?’

‘No. He’s staying in Metz. I phoned him. I told him his grandmother was dead. And I forbade him to leave the school. I don’t want him mixed up in all this.’

‘I hoped he’d be there to support you.’ A pause. ‘I’ve brought you some sleeping tablets.’ He proffers a tube in its cardboard packaging. ‘Use them sparingly.’

She smiles for the first time.

‘I don’t have suicidal tendencies. Any more than Aisha did.’ 28 October

Impossible to work. Quignard’s unable to read the file lying open on his desk. Plagued by his obsessive thoughts. Largardère’s being investigated again for fraud, the making and use of forgeries, and misuse of company money. Lagardère is alleged to have falsified his company’s results during his group’s merger with Hachette, two years ago. Two years, in other words, an age. The list is frightening. Two investigations, a tax inspection and a COB investigation, in under a fortnight.

Plus a national strike and demonstration over Thomson Multimedia. He swivels his armchair, puts his feet up on the windowsill and stares out at the peaceful autumnal landscape of the valley, the deep green of the meadows, the varied shades of brown of the trees, the grey of the sky. A brief respite. He is physically conscious of the weight of the huge machine that’s been set in motion, beyond his reach in Paris, pressing on his shoulder and back. For the first time, a little question worms its way into his mind: Supposing ultimately we lose? Unthinkable. True, but no more unthinkable than what’s happened here, the chain of disasters at Pondange. Time will pass and people will forget. No, no one will forget while Tomaso’s there, he’s got me. He won’t let go. And I’ll be under his heel.

The phone rings, he jumps, spins around and picks it up.

‘Mr Quignard, I have a certain Mr Chan on the line who’s asking to speak to you. It’s personal.’

‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me. Put him through.’

‘My dear friend, I am so pleased to be talking to you …’

Quignard sits up, that refined tone, the slight accent that was so familiar … this is it, Tomaso was right, it had to happen. He settles back into his armchair with a faint smile: a flesh-and-blood adversary at last.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this call?’

‘I’ve just read the French press. Rather late, I admit. What can I do, being so far away … and I learn that an investigation is apparently under way into the insider dealing of Matra shares …’ Silence. ‘I want my percentage of the profits.’ His tone changes, becoming harsh and vindictive. ‘Consider it a redundancy payment …’

‘You’ve got a nerve.’

‘… a golden parachute if you like. We’ve seen worse, much more exorbitant than what I’m asking for. You took a big risk in firing me like a subordinate. You made an error of judgement.’

‘You should know that I’m only in charge of the Daewoo plant in Lorraine. I know nothing of financial matters nor anything about the alleged insider dealing. These matters are handled at a more senior level, by the Daewoo group management, and the steering committee for the Thomson bid in Paris, of which I am not a member.’

‘I should like you to pass on my request to them. And to let them know how vulnerable they are at the moment. The newspaper articles mention anonymous letters. If anonymous letters are sufficient to trigger a COB investigation, what would happen if documents relating to Daewoo’s Polish scheme were to be sent anonymously to the press?’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘I think that you’re unaware of a great number of things, Mr Quignard. You knew what was going on in France, but not in Poland. The ultimate target wasn’t the company as you assumed, or as you purported to, but a matter of revenge. Did you believe that the Daewoo-Thomson takeover idea came from you, you pathetically pretentious little creep?’ A hearty guffaw on the other end of the phone. First time I’ve heard him laugh, thinks Quignard, with a lump in his throat and no voice. Silence. ‘Are you still there? Now listen to me carefully. Day in, day out, over the past two years, the major investors have paid for this special relationship with Matra with the money from your subsidies. I have the list of the bank account holders, and I’m sure that if you think a little, you’ll recognise them. Can you picture the scandal? So I’m demanding my share of profits from the Matra share dealing. It’s my due. On second thoughts, call it five million francs, and I’d consider that a fair return …’ Silence. ‘You’re not saying anything, Mr Quignard, that’s up to you. Just do what has to be done. I’ll call you back in two days so that we can agree on the method of payment.’

The line goes dead.

The first stage of the investigation is over, say the police. You may go home. Rolande clears up the apartment, working furiously. Keep busy, don’t stop. The murderers emptied all the cupboards and threw the contents on the floor. Sort out, throw out everything that’s broken: crockery, a bedside lamp, an alarm clock, a standard lamp, her son’s photo frame, not that much stuff in the end. She straightens up. In the kitchen are the enamel beer mugs which her mother used to drink from, the times when she bothered to use a glass rather than drink the beer straight from the bottle. They go straight into the dustbin. Clear out the bathroom and chuck away her toiletries: a brush matted with long white hair, an empty perfume bottle kept as a souvenir. Of what? She goes into her mother’s room. Throw out the teddy bear won at a fairground, the doll in traditional Lorraine costume, odds and ends and mementos, the cushion in which she hid her treasures and the things she nicked. She’d ended up stealing her grandson’s pocket money. All her clothes too, while she was at it, without stopping to sort them out. And bedlinen. A mattress airing in an empty room.

Rolande leaves the room, automatically locking the door behind her. Finished, over, that whole part of my life. A feeling of immense relief, an unfamiliar lightness. She still has to tidy up the rest of the apartment. My life remains inside. Address: Cité des Jonquilles, Pondange. Rolande feels a surge of cold rage. Pile up the crockery and clothes into the cupboards, quick. Any old how, without thinking. Then shut the cupboards. Now to wash away the blood. First the kitchen, then the living room. This is where the old woman liked to sit and drink, often playing patience. A few stains left on the table, on the tiled floor, this is where they found her. In the hall, much bigger stains on the floor and on the wall, by the phone. Montoya’s voice: the telephone used to lure Aisha out of there. This is where they killed her. Pondange, not for much longer.

Summons to a small downstairs meeting room at the Reims Novotel, halfway between Paris and Pondange. Montoya arrives first. On the phone, Valentin simply arranged the meeting. Make sure you’re not followed, of course, and expect two solid hours’ work. Nothing more. Doesn’t he trust his secure phone line? Or is he going for maximum effect? Perhaps by putting on the pressure? Standing in front of the French doors, carefully concealed by net curtains, he contemplates the empty garden and the pool covered with a blue tarpaulin. He sees Rolande’s image reflected in the glass, her face buried in her hands as she absorbs the fact that her life has been turned upside down and she’s now alone, as she always wished. A memory of their meeting last night, outside the police station, their two bodies briefly attuned, echoing their walk through Brussels. Whatever happens, that moment was real, nothing can destroy it. He wanders over to a buffet of cold meats and salads standing in a corner and realises he’s starving. He makes himself a roast pork and mustard sandwich and washes it down with a glass of Beaujolais.

The door opens, he turns around. Two men he doesn’t know, still young, energetic, clean-shaven and well groomed, in dark suits and ties, carrying briefcases. Predictable. They introduce themselves: Pierre Benoît-Rey (warm), Philippe Rossellini (uncommunicative). Handshakes. ‘We’ll wait for Valentin.’ He says nothing.

Valentin arrives. Montoya is struck by his peasant appearance: stocky physique, thick socks, corduroy trousers, baggy at the knees, and grey wool sweater. He gives Montoya a vague but warm embrace and makes the appropriate introductions. ‘Those in charge of the Alcatel working party for the Thomson bid.’ ‘Our very special agent in Pondange.’ Inquisitive looks. ‘I’ve been keeping them up-to-date on the findings of your mission as it progresses.’ Maybe. Be careful my friend, say as little as possible.

They all gather around the buffet, salads and mineral water for the Alcatel men, cold meat and Beaujolais for Valentin and Montoya. Then the four of them sit down at the table to work. Valentin takes out a small tape recorder.

‘I’m going to play you a conversation that took place at eight this morning between Quignard and an unidentified party, perhaps a Korean, calling from Warsaw. We’re trying to pinpoint the precise location. I think this conversation is important, and I’d like your opinion.’ He presses play.

The phone rings: ‘Mr Quignard …’ Then a secretary’s voice, a voice Montoya doesn’t know. Listening to the anonymous words and sentences, he relives an old, long-forgotten feeling, hunting snipe with Moroccan friends in the marshes near Rabat. The stunning landscape, a completely flat stretch of land covered in short grass floating on the water, your feet sinking in with every step; the water rose, sometimes covering the feet of your boots, sometimes up to your knees, sometimes up to your waist, and there was always the fear that you’d go right under with the next step. The land immediately closed over your footsteps, obliterating all traces of your passing. This conversation is like the marsh: no bearings, no support, shifting. Everything is true, everything is false, nothing exists. A glance at the two executives, they look very excited. Flashback: Rolande, I don’t give a shit about the competition between Alcatel and Matra. Neither do I, sweetheart. And most probably nor do they. But we’re at the gaming table, and we want to win. ‘… in two days so that we can agree on the method of payment.’ The phone goes dead, the tape hisses gently. Rossellini jumps when Valentin stops the tape recorder. The fat cop was right: weapons, strategy, industrial restructuring, all a stage set. This is where the decisions were made, in the bogus accounts of a second-rate business. I’ll never forget this lesson. Valentin turns to Montoya.

‘Charles, tell me, who is it talking to Quignard?’

‘In my opinion, it’s Park, the CEO of Daewoo Pondange, who left town within forty-eight hours of the fire. He was Quignard’s usual contact, and he recognised his voice immediately. But it could be someone else, I didn’t meet any of the Korean managers. They’d all left by the time I arrived in Pondange.’

‘He speaks like a CEO,’ says Benoît-Rey.

‘Let’s suppose it’s Park. Now, what do you make of this conversation?’

‘We seem to be on the right track.’

‘Strange that people aren’t more guarded about speaking on the phone.’

‘Haven’t you ever done any confidential business over the phone?’

Laughter. ‘Yes, but never again from now on, I swear it.’

‘It’s funny to be hearing about the insider dealing again.’ Rossellini turns to Montoya. ‘It’s a set-up. I wrote the anonymous letters myself, and we forced the hand of the COB just a little, to get them to launch an investigation.’

‘That doesn’t prove that there was no insider dealing,’ retorts Montoya. Rossellini freezes. Valentin smiles.

‘What do you make of what Park calls the “Polish scheme”?’

Benoît-Rey embarks on a long explanation of how the losses and subsidies are orchestrated in Pondange and the profits in Warsaw, for the benefit of Montoya, who stops him with a gesture.

‘I know all that. It was explained to me by an expert before I left for Pondange.’ Benoît-Rey turns to Valentin.

‘That is exactly the problem. The Polish scheme is fraudulent, but a large number if not all of the multinationals operate in a similar fashion, and declare as they please, whenever they please, that one or other of their subsidiaries has gone bankrupt. Clearly in this case Daewoo chose Warsaw, and Pondange was only set up in order to channel the subsidies into Warsaw. But I very much doubt that the disclosure of the “Polish scheme” will get things moving in Paris. Everyone knows that’s how things are done. If the funding bodies are stupid enough to continue granting subsidies, that’s their business.’

‘We need the lists of personal accounts into which the payments were made through this scheme. Once we have those lists, we win by a knockout.’

‘True. The financial arrangements remain obscure, and the journalists don’t understand the first thing about it. But if we can say to them that so-and-so was caught with his hand in the till, we hit the jackpot.’

Montoya gets up, picks up a new bottle of Beaujolais and fills two glasses for Valentin and himself.

‘There’s no proof that these personal accounts exist, or that lists were drawn up, even that Park has them if they do exist. And Park is definitely behind this.’

Valentin takes a sip of wine and twirls his glass, watching the liquid shimmer.

‘You’re right, Charles, in theory. That conversation could be pure bluff, straight out of a game of poker. But we know the boss of Daewoo Poland. He’s a swindler and a blackmailer appointed by the CEO of the entire group. Unless it’s to set up an embezzlement scheme using the personal accounts Park mentions, why else would it exist? Let me tell you what I think: there is insider dealing going on, but we drop that aspect. There is embezzlement, and Park has the lists, we concentrate on that.’

‘You’re the chief.’

‘Then I have two questions. The first one’s for you, Charles: How is Quignard going to react?’

Montoya takes his time.

‘It depends how much he knows. He doesn’t necessarily know that Park is calling him from Warsaw.’

‘If he’s clever, he’ll have a suspicion …’

‘He’s very clever.’

‘… and I have some bad news. Tomaso controls a network that sells stolen cars in Warsaw.’

‘That’s very bad news indeed. To go by what I’ve seen in Pondange, he’ll react fast and violently. If he negotiates, it will only be to gain time.’

‘Second question, for all three of you: How are we going to get hold of those lists?’

Benoît-Rey: ‘Find out where Park is, talk to him, negotiate, pay him off.’

Rossellini: ‘Tell him that there’s no insider dealing, Valentin, since we’re all in the bluffing business. Tell him that we set the whole thing up ourselves, and that Quignard hasn’t got the wherewithal to pay.’

Montoya: ‘Give him a scare, a big scare. Point the finger at him for embezzlement at Pondange and the factory fire. With as much concrete evidence as possible, which I’ll have tomorrow. To soften him up, show him that we know all about it. But above all, frighten him by telling him what Quignard and Tomaso are capable of. He left Pondange straight after the fire. We have to tell him in great detail about all three murders. So that he understands that this is no small-time blackmail scenario, that he’s risking his hide. Make him understand that only we can protect and hide him, and that he’s going to need us. If he’s really scared, he’ll be more flexible, the deal will be easier, and the price lower.’

Valentin leans back in his chair, his arms behind his head, and flexes his back. Gives a broad smile.

‘I remember what my father always used to say: “My son, you mustn’t kill, because he who kills ends up stealing, and he who steals ends up lying, and lying is really very bad.” This is a very bad business.’

The bodies of both Aisha and Rolande’s mother have been deposited at the undertaker’s and will be returned to their families late that afternoon. When she’s finished tidying her apartment, Rolande goes up to the fourth floor, closes her eyes, hunches her shoulders as she crosses the landing and walks underneath the fanlight, to ring the Saidani family’s doorbell. The father opens the door, he’s expecting her. He’s not alone; Amrouche is keeping him company. The three of them leave together, without exchanging a word. The old man holds himself erect, his face impassive, and does not walk beside her.

When they reach the undertaker’s, Rolande and Aisha’s father are received in separate rooms by the ‘Authorities’, keen to inform them of the progress of the investigation. The watchwords are ‘transparency’ and ‘concern for the victims’ families’.

Rolande is greeted by two men — a doctor in a white coat and a plainclothes policeman — and a woman in a tailored grey suit with a sympathetic expression. She’s a psychologist specialising in bereavement counselling. Rolande refuses to sit down, and remains standing, stiffly erect, her hands thrust in her coat pockets. The doctor speaks first.

‘The cause of death is absolutely certain. Your mother received a very violent blow to the temple from the crowbar found beside her body. Death was instantaneous. I’m afraid I have to inform you (the psychologist moves closer to Rolande) that your mother was raped (the psychologist puts her arm around Rolande’s shoulders) before she was killed.’

Rolande gently extricates herself.

‘Please leave me alone, my grief is mine alone, and I’m keeping it to myself.’ She turns towards the doctor: ‘What time did my mother die?’

‘Between nine and nine-thirty a.m., I can’t be any more precise than that, the presence of vast amounts of alcohol …’

‘I know. Did Aisha die at the same time?’

‘Around the same time, yes.’

The cop steps in.

‘We are pursuing every line of enquiry, every lead. Samples have been taken. We found fingerprints in the kitchen and in the hall of your apartment. We checked for the same fingerprints on the fourth floor. So far, we haven’t found any. In fact, we didn’t find any significant fingerprints on the fourth-floor landing. In your mother’s case, we think the murder was probably committed by a prowler, a drug addict most likely. We’re going through our records and we’ll carry out all the necessary checks. We will find the murderer.’

‘Did you check whether my mother made any phone calls in the hour before her death?’ The cop stalls, slightly worried.

‘I repeat that we are doing, and will do, everything in our power.’

In the lobby, Aisha’s father is pacing up and down, yelling a string of unintelligible curses, wailing and banging the walls with his fists and his head. Beside him, Amrouche is desperately trying to calm him down. Rolande comes out of the room. Aisha’s father throws himself upon her, grabs her by the coat collar and shakes her, howling, then throws her to the ground and runs off. The psychologist is there like a shot, helping her to her feet. Amrouche also comes over.

‘Ali, can you tell me what’s going on?’

‘Saidani repudiates his daughter and holds you responsible for all his misfortunes.’

‘But why?’

‘The doctor told him that his daughter was pregnant.’ Silence. ‘And that she probably committed suicide because she didn’t dare tell him. The old man is blaming the factory, her girlfriends — you included — for corrupting his daughter. He won’t forgive her, and he won’t forgive you.’

Appalled, Rolande glances around the foyer. There is no one there except Amrouche, the psychologist, and herself. She sees a bench against a wall. Her legs give way, she collapses on to it, breathless and trembling, her hands resting on her knees.

‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. How can anyone have said such terrible things to Aisha’s father?’

‘Rolande, calm down. Aisha could have been pregnant. During the strike she did … you know … what people do to end up pregnant.’

‘That was two weeks ago. How would she have known? And decided to commit suicide because of that?’

‘Women know when they’re pregnant, they know it straight away, that’s all.’

‘What do you know about women, Ali, can you tell me? You always side with management and the cops. You’re a scab, Ali. Go away, it would better for everyone if you cleared off.’ She turns to the psychologist. ‘Where is she, the psychologist who told Aisha’s father all that filth? I want to give her a piece of my mind.’

The woman in the simple, elegant suit hesitates, clearly ill at ease, before coming over and sitting on the bench beside Rolande. Then she takes the plunge.

‘There was no psychologist present during the interview with Mr Saidani, only the forensic doctor and a police officer. As it is a suicide, you understand, Mr Saidani isn’t strictly speaking the father of a victim …’

Rolande feels giddy, as if she’s spiralling down into a bottomless well.

‘You don’t believe these things, you don’t believe them until they happen to you. The lives of the working class count for nothing. We can be raped, crushed or hanged, and nobody gives a shit.’

The two coffins sit side by side on trestles in the windowless room inside the morgue, which serves as the chapel of rest. Aisha’s coffin is open: her ashen face is very beautiful with her eyes closed and her hair parted down the middle and looped back at the sides. On seeing her, Rolande cries. Rolande’s mother’s coffin is closed. A corpse not fit to be seen. Soft lighting, two big candles burning, and chairs around the coffins. Rolande has decided to spend the night keeping vigil over her two dead, a priest will come and bless them tomorrow morning. Later the coffins will be buried in Pondange’s small cemetery.

The room gradually fills up. Women. Her workmates. Word has got around, they come with bunches of flowers picked from their gardens, sprays of autumnal leaves gathered in the forest. They need vases, the morgue’s supplies are exhausted, and they rush off home to fetch some more. Soon the two coffins disappear beneath a sea of plants. Rolande smiles. Hands over hands, warm kisses on her cheeks, arms around her shoulders, it reminds her of the atmosphere in the factory, women together, understanding, supportive. The women settle down to spend the night there. One has brought a thermos of mulled wine, another a plum tart, still others cakes, chocolates. It’s getting late. The women break up into small groups. The work shifts have more or less re-formed, they chat to keep themselves awake. Sitting on a chair, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, Rolande listens to the hubbub of conversation all around her. Aisha, her beauty, her way of speaking, intense, determined, naive too. Aisha, the virgin without a man, hardly surprising given the father she had, he’d beat her first, ask questions later. ‘You know he left Pondange today?’ ‘Apparently he’s gone to live with his son, not even attending his daughter’s funeral, can you understand that?’ ‘Not a happy person, Aisha. Do you remember the Korean engineer’s accident? Covered in blood, a nightmare, Aisha was so distraught I thought she’d never return to the factory.’ But she did return. ‘Brave woman.’ And then, same thing again, Émilienne’s accident. Unlucky. ‘She never laughed, did she?’ ‘We should have rallied round her, then maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself.’

Killed herself. Aisha. Rolande clamps her mouth shut with both hands to stop herself from screaming. You didn’t commit suicide, I know you didn’t. Flashback: Étienne’s funeral, accidents happen so easily, she hears her own voice, the woods, the dead leaves at this time of year, the grounds slippery … the cops say accident. The cops say suicide. What would be the point of saying to the girls: Étienne and Aisha were murdered? They’d never admit it. Life’s hard enough as it is. Order, justice, you’ve got to believe in something. Otherwise, what would they do from now on? But you, you can’t believe in them any more. You’ve seen it first-hand. It’s a question of dignity. 29 October

The men arrive in the morning. The room is beginning to feel stuffy and smell of wilted flowers. Amrouche is the first, touching with his clumsy kindness and concern. He sits down beside Rolande.

‘If you don’t want to go back to your apartment after all this, I’ll lend you my house for as long as you need to get over it all. I can turn the top floor into a flat for you, it’s not big but it’s comfortable and quiet, you know, you’ll be completely independent. And then there’s the garden …’

Rolande cries for the second time that night, her face buried in her hands. Maréchal has appeared too. Rolande gets up and takes his arm.

‘Come for a walk, I want to talk to you.’

They pace up and down the empty foyer, where Rolande hears Aisha’s father’s helpless rage echoing again. From her coat pocket she takes the list Montoya gave her. Maréchal gives it a cursory glance, then gives it back to her without a word.

‘Naturally, you know about this Mr Maréchal, you’ve already seen this list, you know who produced it and why. You have to explain.’

‘If you’re asking me to …’

Maréchal tells her how he was in Quignard’s office when Park telephoned him during the occupation; about the ‘bonuses’ paid to the Korean managers in guise of payment of phoney invoices; about Quignard, who finds out about the scam when it’s too late to do anything about it. Then he pauses.

‘You didn’t let matters rest there, Mr Maréchal, I know you. I saw quite clearly that you were as upset as I was to see your name on that list. If I managed to get hold of it, then you …’

Maréchal puts his arm around Rolande’s shoulders and they take a few steps in silence.

‘Come and sit down.’

He steers Rolande towards the bench. They sit down side by side. He turns to face her while he speaks.

‘Given where this list of bank accounts was found by Neveu, one of the company accountants was clearly involved. There are only two. I plumped for Germont. A sad character, married to a harridan who’s pathologically jealous and keeps an eye on him the minute he sets foot outside the factory, but he can afford to bet heavily on the horses. So he’s making money on the side. I went to see him and he spilled the beans. I shan’t explain the entire scheme to you, because I didn’t understand it completely. It was a complicated set-up that Daewoo negotiated directly with the Luxembourg bank. The main thing, Ms Lepetit, is how the accounts operate. We are supposed to have signed proxies for Germont and Park. With our names and code numbers, Germont can make transfers from one account to another on his own. But it needs both Germont and Park’s signatures to withdraw money. Or the signature of one of the account holders, you or me for example, as long as they know the code. As this eventuality had never been envisaged, it hadn’t been ruled out either. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘Weren’t you tempted, Mr Maréchal?’

‘I thought about it. It would mean going away. I can’t leave this place. I belong to this land with every fibre of my body. I know it by heart. I was young here, and happy. I’ve worked hard here. I can’t see myself living anywhere else.’ A long silence. Maréchal has an absent look. ‘In any case, I’m probably worn out. Too many memories.’ Then: ‘Germont lives in the Rue Saint-Louis, just above the bar-cum-tobacconists-cum-betting-shop.’ A silence.

‘Watch out for his wife.’ Another silence. ‘I have a lot of respect for you, Ms Lepetit. I wish you the best of luck.’

The room is packed when Montoya arrives at the funeral. Small groups are hanging around in the foyer, but Rolande isn’t there. She’s gone off to wash and get changed. ‘We’re waiting for her before we begin,’ her friends tell him. She arrives, bareheaded, in a very simple, black woollen dress under her overcoat and high black leather boots. Her face is composed, no trace of the strain of the last forty-eight hours, a radiant presence in this gloomy place. Montoya is surprised. Rolande smiles at him, takes his arm and, side by side, they lead the procession which makes its way slowly uphill to the cemetery behind the two hearses. Halfway there, she leans towards him.

‘A system of bogus invoices set up by Park to pay the Koreans’ bonuses, directly negotiated with the bank. Quignard kept in the dark until the strike, a call from Park himself, panic-stricken, when the occupation of the offices began. Is that enough for you?’

‘That’s enough. You’re a magnificent woman.’

Rolande clings to Montoya’s arm until the two coffins are lowered into the ground. No condolences. They leave the cemetery together. On reaching the road, Rolande stops, looks intently at Montoya’s face, one finger carefully traces the shape of his eyebrows, cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, as if to try and memorise them. She leans forward, places a chaste, affectionate kiss on his lips, and walks off quickly. Twenty metres away, a car is waiting, a man at the wheel, whose features Montoya can’t make out. Rolande gets into the passenger seat, the car starts up and drives off. It takes the stunned Montoya a few moments to recover his wits. Let her leave, that’s understandable, but with another man, in front of my eyes … I’ll think about it tomorrow. Then he moves away from the stream of people leaving the cemetery to phone Valentin.

Two hours later, Rolande emerges from the Parillaud-Luxembourg bank on the arm of Germont, Daewoo’s accountant. He’s just transferred the contents of the ten accounts he was managing into one opened in the name of Rolande Lepetit, and she’s just emptied it, using her signature and the secret code. A tidy sum, nearly a million francs, in crisp new notes. Now carefully stashed in a black plastic briefcase, which she holds at arm’s length, flabbergasted that such a huge sum can fit into such a small space. They’ve agreed to go fifty-fifty, as soon as they’re safely back in France.

Rolande pauses on the steps outside the bank. She blinks, dazzled by the sunshine, spots the taxi rank further down the street and turns to the accountant. He’s a small, very ordinary man in a cheap suit, his hair plastered down, glasses, flabby features. She gives him a radiant smile, strokes his cheek, takes his arm and pulls him into the street. They take a few steps, leaning against each other, then Rolande stops in front of the first taxi in the line, closes in on the short accountant and kisses him on the mouth. He puts his arms around her, surprised at first, then delighted at his good luck. Just as he embraces her, a woman rushes across the street, screaming insults: his wife, the harridan Maréchal had mentioned, alerted that same morning by an anonymous phone call, a slightly husky woman’s voice telling her the time and the place where her husband would be meeting his blonde mistress. A native of Luxembourg and a top executive at the Parillaud bank, the anonymous voice had explained. The harridan slaps Rolande, and clutches her man. Rolande doesn’t hang around, she simply leans over to open the taxi door and climbs in hugging the black plastic briefcase to her chest.

‘Go, quick. Straight ahead, anywhere.’ The taxi starts up. ‘I hate domestic fights. She wants her man, she can keep him. Did you see the guy? I’ll get over it.’

Rolande does not look back. Behind her she leaves the accountant who’s beside himself with fury, and his astounded wife. After a few minutes, the driver asks his customer: ‘Where to, madam?’

First of all, pick up my son, then get out of here.

‘How much will you charge to drive me to Metz?’ 30 October

Montoya’s off to scout around Warsaw. Comfortably installed in first class, he’s put his seat into the reclining position and is lying back and dozing. Valentin had entered into brisk negotiations with Park. You’re going to find a little guy scared shitless, completely out of his depth in this game. Positive in one way, dangerous in another. Fear is not a wise counsel. We return the lists of Korean managers to him. We have a copy. We give him a payment in dollars. Comfortable, no more. Rossellini will have the money on him. We promise the Korean that we will ensure his extradition and his transfer elsewhere. We could do it that way, but I really don’t see how. In any case, that side of things doesn’t concern you. You’re going to be operating on foreign soil with no preparation, no support, and without any real fallback position. And I’m saddling you with Rossellini, who will be of no help to you and might even embark on some ill-advised course of action, but you have to guarantee his safety, and that of the cash. That’s life, my friend. Montoya, half asleep. That’s life.

Warsaw. Taxi to Daewoo’s head office on the main avenue from the airport to the city centre. A four-storey glass and steel building with a plaza paved in white stone, set back from the avenue and surrounded by landscaped gardens, shrubs, trimmed hedges, lawns and clumps of trees. Here and there, other luxury office blocks. During working hours, the place is fairly deserted. Montoya hangs around in the vicinity, locates a possible way into the building through the unlocked dustbin room at the back.

A little scout around town. Montoya hides near the apartment block where Park lives and eventually spots his man, at around eight p.m., encased in a voluminous grey wool coat with a fur collar and a dark grey trilby, his moon face reduced by huge tortoiseshell spectacles. He’s alone, stops for a drink at the local cafe and, still alone, enters his apartment block, followed by Montoya. Fourth floor, nothing to report. A very brief recce, but I don’t see what more I could have done. Montoya heads back to the vicinity of the airport to sleep in an anonymous hotel. 31 October

Rossellini’s sitting by the window gazing out at the shifting layer of luminous white cloud thousands of metres below, stretching as far as the eye can see. We’ve reached the denouement. An electric tingle. Each day he handles tens of millions by simply clicking his mouse, shifting huge sums around, transferring them across borders, hiding and making them reappear without the slightest emotion, sometimes even with a faint sense of boredom. Today he has a much smaller sum inside the lining of his jacket, but it’s in cash, which he feels rub against his chest when he turns to look out of the window. He’s got to physically transport it across the border, walking calmly, looking preoccupied and absent, right under the noses of the customs officers. Thrilling in a different way. He fishes a pillbox from his pocket, takes out a little blue tablet which he swallows, and continues gazing at the hypnotic clouds. The odd chuckle escapes him from time to time, like a schoolboy raiding a condom machine in a supermarket.

He clears customs without any difficulty. Montoya’s waiting for him at the exit. Handshake. Rossellini swings between a sense of complicity with a fellow fighter, and aloof disdain.

A taxi drops them in the midst of the lawns and copses. The weather is fine and cool — ‘Just perfect for a little stroll,’ says Montoya with a half-smile — and he leads Rossellini through the gardens to the edge of the empty plaza in front of Daewoo’s head office. Montoya telephones.

‘Park hasn’t arrived yet. He shouldn’t be long. We’ll wait for him under this pine tree. Once he’s inside the building, we’ll sneak in behind him.’

Rossellini feels an irrepressible urge to laugh again. He chuckles. Is this a game? He decides to be patient.

‘You’re a walking safe, and Park may not be the only person who knows it. We’re dealing with a bunch of crooks about whom we know nothing, except that they’re already involved in more than one murder. Valentin asked me to bring you back alive, if possible, so I’m trying to minimise the risks. This empty plaza surrounded by trees looks to me like the perfect place to practise shooting at a moving target. OK? You might find it amusing, but you’ll do as I say, and don’t lose control.’

Rossellini, shaken, takes his pillbox out of his pocket and swallows a small blue tablet.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ snaps Montoya.

Just then, he catches sight of Park at the entrance to the plaza, muffled in his coat. He’s alone, walking briskly, swinging a black leather briefcase at arm’s length. Montoya grabs Rossellini by the shoulder.

‘There he is. Don’t move.’

The words are barely out of his mouth when two sharp shots ring out in quick succession. The figure stumbles, as if pushed from behind, spreads his arms, jerks and crumples to the ground, his arms outspread, without a sound. Indubitably dead. Montoya is still squeezing Rossellini’s shoulder, which he can feel shaking, while keeping an eye all around them. The shots must have been fired from the other side of the avenue. He locates a clump of trees, the killer probably has a gun with a telescopic sight trained on the path across the plaza to the main door of the building. It must have a super-efficient firing mechanism. He just catches a glimpse of two men walking calmly away from the trees, across the gardens.

‘We’re not the target. The killers probably don’t even know we’re here.’ He turns to Rossellini for a rapid check. He’s pale, after all it’s the first time he’s witnessed a murder at close hand, but still calm. He’s reliable and bearing up better than expected. ‘Now you’re going to leave the gardens without hurrying, and stay out of sight until you reach the avenue. Take a taxi or a bus, go back to the airport and wait for me there. See you at the cafe in departures. No pills before I get back. Go.’

Rossellini disappears without a word. As yet nobody on the plaza, or near the prone form. Montoya runs over to the body and turns it on to its back. Mind the spreading pool of blood. He searches Park’s inside pockets and his jacket and coat pockets. Nothing. The briefcase is locked. Forces the lock: blank paper, two pens, a packet of Kleenex. He straightens up and runs to the entrance of the Daewoo building, calling for help and waving his arms around. In reception, a stunning young blonde is standing on tiptoe behind the desk, trying to see what’s going on outside and discover the reason for this unusual commotion without leaving her post. Montoya talks very fast, in rapid, stilted English.

‘A man shot, there, on the plaza, murder, two bullets in the back. A Korean, one of your employees, call the police, your manager. Mr Park’s office?’

The receptionist, overwhelmed, has her hand on the telephone: ‘Office 23, sixth floor.’ Montoya rushes to the lift. But he’s not there yet. The lift door closes. A helpless shrug then she gets busy raising the alarm throughout the building.

Montoya takes the lift up to the sixth floor where the executive offices are. By the time he steps out, news of the murder of ‘one of us’ on the plaza is beginning to spread and people are pouring out of the offices. He takes refuge in the toilets and emerges when he reckons the coast is clear. He finds door 23, picks the lock and goes inside. Luckily the office is small and uncluttered. Not exactly overworked in Warsaw, Park. Move fast. Go for the most obvious: two files on the desk, not what I’m looking for. Three drawers, not locked, magazines, an English novel, a bottle of Scotch. A metal filing cabinet, ten or so files that look more like stage props than work tools, like the empty briefcase earlier. Still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Perhaps I’d better stop and think instead of being quite so busy. Montoya sits at the desk in Park’s chair and breathes deeply. Calm. It all comes back to the same question: Do the lists exist? Doubt enters in: It’s too good to be true. Apparently Quignard believed it, because he had Park killed. And he knows the outfit well. Supposing they do exist. Valentin told us he’d realised the seriousness of his situation, he was scared and he really wanted to negotiate with us so he could disappear. He turned up for our appointment. So either he must have had the lists on him or else they’re here. Second point: if he was really scared, to the point of agreeing to do business with us, it was because here he was working alone. Blackmailing Quignard was his own idea. He stole the lists. He knows the Koreans here are crooks and he’s afraid of them, as afraid as he is of Quignard. He’s afraid of everyone. So the lists have to be hidden. In an unusual place, on his person or here. I didn’t search him thoroughly enough, but it’s too late for that now. Either I find them at once or I tear the office apart. Montoya stands up again, looks on and under the furniture, checks the backs of the drawers, inspects the desk top, still nothing. The white moulded plastic desk chair has a round, padded cushion with a brown cover. He picks up the cushion. Nothing. Feels it. The cover has a zip. Opens it. Inside the cover, a plastic sleeve as brown as the cushion cover, and inside that, twenty or so sheets of paper, which he flicks through very quickly. The first few are summaries, purchases, sales and delivery orders, Pondange-Warsaw, no time to read them, this must be the scheme mentioned in the phone conversation between Park and Quignard. On the next sheets, names of banks, account numbers and code numbers, a few dates and sums paid in. Finally, on the very last sheet, the names of the numbered account holders. A few names leap out — all senior French state figures. This is dynamite.

Montoya closes the file straight away. If anyone asks me, I’ve never seen that piece of paper, I’ve not read anything. Runs his fingertips over the brown sleeve. In the eye of the storm. Real life. And a hint of curiosity: How is Valentin going to get rid of a bombshell like this? What if it’s too sensational to be of any use? Not my problem. He folds the sleeve lengthways, slips it into the innermost pocket of his coat, which he buttons up, suddenly calm, pleased and sure of himself. I’ve won, this affair is over. Affair … Rolande. Free. Gone. All I have of her is the delightful memory of her smooth wet skin, her wacky vamp look, and the ambiguous gentleness of her fluttering hands. What bliss. He puts the cushion back on the chair and leaves the office without hurrying. Corridor, lift, basement, find the back exit at the rear of the building, still no one around, this is easy.

Rossellini’s waiting for him at the airport bar, where he’s downing coffee after coffee, leafing through the English language newspapers. Montoya sits down at his table, stretches out his legs, and smiles.

‘I’ve got the documents. Do you still have the money?’

Smile. ‘Of course. What would I spend it on here?’ He takes the plane tickets out of his pocket. ‘Let’s go. The next plane for Paris takes off in less than an hour. I was worried you’d miss it.’ 1 November

All Saints’ Day and a public holiday. Alcatel’s head office is silent, empty. Just an occasional security guard doing the rounds. In Valentin’s little office on the top floor the soundproofed door is carefully locked, there’s quite a crush. Valentin has placed photocopies of the documents Montoya brought back the day before on the table. Fayolle, personal lawyer and right-hand man of the big boss of Alcatel, Rossellini and Benoît-Rey, all three casually dressed in fine wool sweaters and corduroy jackets, as if to emphasise the completely informal nature of the meeting, are reading the documents avidly, page by page. Suppressed sighs and sidelong glances. Valentin makes coffee, and Montoya remains on his feet to one side, leaning against the desk with a vacant air.

Rossellini and Benoît-Rey look up at the same time. Their sentiments are the same: it’s a knockout victory. A job well done. But no one speaks, waiting to hear what Fayolle has to say. He takes his time, reading and rereading the last page before opening his mouth, his face a stiff mask.

‘We have enough to bring down the government, which was not our original intention. Everyone would lose out massively.’ He pushes the documents back to the centre of the table. ‘This is so big, I don’t see how we could use it.’

Valentin serves coffee. Fayolle drinks his standing in front of the window, absorbed in contemplation of the Eiffel Tower, the top of which is lost in the haze of an autumn mist. Benoît-Rey clenches his teeth in exasperation. What did the big boss expect, sending us off to rummage around in dustbins? So we could bring him a bunch of dead flowers? All that for nothing? As for this Fayolle, what credibility does he have? Rossellini, elbows on the table, clutching his head, repeats to himself: Fayolle’s going to back down. If he backs down, what happens to me? How do we force him to act? Anonymous phone call to the Prime Minister? No. Leaks to the press … Names are already coming to mind … Fayolle puts down his empty cup and turns round.

‘What do you think, Valentin?’

Valentin gathers up the files, makes a neat pile of them, then folds and rests his hands on the top.

‘I share your point of view, dear sir. We can’t make any public use whatsoever of this information. The situation would run out of control. But nor can we pretend this file doesn’t exist and simply drop the matter. If Daewoo takes over Thomson Multimedia we now know for certain that with its management methods the company will go belly up, and probably very soon. How do you know that this list of backhanders won’t surface again then? If we were able to dig it up, others can do the same. On the other hand, if Daewoo loses the bid, nobody will have the least interest in it any more and a scandal will have been averted.’

Montoya turns back to the coffee machine with a smile. Alcatel, the white knight, to the rescue of the Republic. Great cops and the Jesuits definitely have a number of things in common. He pours himself another cup.

Sitting down again, Benoît-Rey carefully weighs his words.

‘Let’s take things one at a time. The choice of Daewoo was the result of bribery, we have the documents to prove it. Although there’s no point in us making this public, those who are implicated have a lot more to lose than we do.’ Fayolle makes a gesture. ‘Or at least, they’ll think they do. We make it discreetly known that we have these papers, the decision is quashed. On that point, I share the view that Valentin has held from the start, it doesn’t matter how. And all these documents we have here disappear.’

‘The whole problem, Pierre, rests on the word “discreetly”. It is out of question for us to go and see the senior politicians to tell them, and I don’t see who’d agree to act as our spokesperson. These days, as in the past, they shoot the messenger.’

Valentin speaks up again.

‘We shouldn’t look for an individual, but rather an influential association or body that has moral authority, with contacts in each camp. Haven’t you got someone suitable among your alumni networks? What else is the old school tie for?’

‘Yes, we do. The École Polytechnique Engineers association which I belong to.’

Silence. Everyone thinking. Then Fayolle, slightly more relaxed:

‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Pierre. In any case, I can’t come up with anything better. Among the association’s staff, Dubernard is very involved with Matra; Meynial with Alcatel, in the nuclear sector; and the chairman, Leroy, is on the Matra supervisory board. The Association’s clout will probably shield them from any potential ill feeling. But will they agree to do it?’

‘Shall I set up a meeting?’

Fayolle nods and ends up smiling.

‘I feel as though I’m bungee jumping. And that’s not something I usually do.’

‘You get used to it,’ mutters Rossellini. ‘Worse still, you come to enjoy it.’

Montoya is left alone with Valentin, who collects up the dirty coffee cups.

‘You led them exactly where you wanted them to go. Did you know about this Association?’

‘Of course. In a slightly old company like ours, which has its own ways of working, if you want to be effective, you have to know where the real power networks are. The Association is one of them, and its members are at the helm of half the French economy. As the esprit de corps isn’t as strong within their organisation as it is among us cops … Their Association won’t be able to resist the pleasure of flexing its muscle, and people will listen, believe you me.’

‘Bravo.’

‘Compliments are always nice when they come from a connoisseur.’ Valentin brings out a bottle of brandy. ‘I believe you’re a brandy drinker? Let’s drink to our past and future collaboration.’

For Montoya, the brandy has the flavour of a journey’s end.

All Saints’ Day and a well-earned rest. Yesterday, the Warsaw contact telephoned. Mission accomplished. Tomaso dreams of acquiring holdings in Quignard’s businesses, big international deals that are being struck at this very moment. I don’t see how he can say no. Even if I don’t know exactly what they’re about yet, I’m not going to be short of cash to invest if I can take over the Hakim brothers’ business. Which shouldn’t be too difficult Quignard’s major operations can launder the money and provide a seal of respectability. Respectability. Perhaps it’ll be my turn to buy a hunt. That would be funny, ending up as a patriarch, a landowner. The builders start work on the Oiseau Bleu tomorrow. Make the place a bit less steamy while we’re at it? Kristina wont agree. Talk to her about it, but not today. Today’s a holiday. He’s taken the morning in bed with Kristina, his Croatian mistress, luxuriant flesh and feisty attitude, even in love. His hands and his mind wander. It’s more than just physical attraction, a genuine affection for a woman who’s lived on the edge. When he met her, she was wearing fatigues, the black beret of the Croatian militia, a Kalashnikov slung over her shoulder. To avenge her father killed by the Serbs, she said. He hadn’t delved any further. Everyone has their own reasons for fighting. It seemed to him as if she enjoyed it. Just like him. My wife. A desire to get married. A church wedding. After all, you’re a Catholic, like me. In white. She laughs. ‘Our customers wouldn’t like it.’Fuck the lot of them.

Plans for the day: a makeshift brunch, then a long slow walk to Place Stanislas, arms entwined. ‘This evening I’ll take you to eat frogs’ legs in the country.’

Around eight p.m., the two of them get into the magnificent shiny black Mercedes that a driver had left in front of the Oiseau Bleu that morning, Tomaso at the wheel. He switches on the ignition, starts up the engine, and the car explodes. Demolished, twisted like an iron straw. Tomaso’s body is ripped apart, his head blown off, and his passenger is rushed to hospital by ambulance. She’s badly wounded but may perhaps survive.

All Saints’ Day and the hunting was superb. Quignard, on excellent form, shot like a god. All the guests except the superintendent have left after the evening meal. The two men are in the small lounge of the hunting lodge, reclining in vast leather armchairs before a log fire, nursing glasses of brandy. A day spent walking in the countryside in the cold, their boots heavy with mud. There’s the thrill as they approach their prey, gun in hand or on their shoulder, the shots, the smell of powder, of blood. A copious dinner, the alcohol, the tiredness, the warmth of the fire, moments of bliss.

The superintendent speaks first.

‘My transfer to Nancy is going through. It’ll be official in a week. You’re the first to know.’ Quignard raises his glass to his guest.

‘Congratulations. I’m delighted for you.’ A pause. ‘You’re going to have a big case as soon as you arrive. Do you remember Tomaso? You met him here, on the hunt a couple of weeks ago. My son-in-law, the lawyer Lavaudant, phoned me during dinner to tell me that Tomaso was killed when his car blew up today, outside his joint in Nancy.’

‘He had a nightclub in Nancy, the Oiseau Bleu, didn’t he?’ Quignard nods. ‘A club with a dubious reputation, from what my colleagues say. And where one explosion already took place a few days ago.’

‘True. I met Tomaso in Brussels, where he had some big car hire contracts with the European Commission. I had his security company working in quite a few of the factories down the valley. I found him rather a pleasant man. But my son-in-law gave me a warning when he met Tomaso here, at the Grande Commune hunt. According to him, Tomaso was a rather disreputable character, a former mercenary in the pay of Croatia. His legitimate business was allegedly a front for trafficking stolen cars to Eastern Europe. His death must have been a gangland killing.’

‘Perhaps. The chosen method of operation could lead one to suppose something of that nature. The investigation will establish that.’

‘By the way. I must introduce you to my son-in-law. He has a big legal practice in Nancy. He’s just taken on the defence of the Hakim brothers. And do you know what? About a decade ago, the Hakims were working with the French police in Tangier. According to my son-in-law, they wouldn’t be averse to doing so again.’

‘Interesting. But I’m the new boy in Nancy. I don’t know the ropes, the way I do here. I’m going to start by seeing how things work.’

‘Of course. Well, you know of my son-in-law’s existence, and that he can always act as a go-between if need be.’

‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’ Two days later

Robert Leroy, an elderly man with white hair, very erect, with a great deal of style and dressed in indoor wear, velvet trousers and a silk and wool jacket, pours drinks for his two guests, Dubernard and Meynial. They are in his cosy little smoking room whose wide picture window overlooks the treetops of the Bois de Boulogne and the Auteuil racecourse, invisible in the dark at this hour and time of year.

‘Yesterday, Benoît-Rey called me for a meeting, it sounded urgent, and he suggested that you should also be present. He’ll be coming alone.’

‘We’re here on behalf of the École Polytechnique Alumni Association.’

‘Absolutely. Myself as chairman, you two as members of the board. Benoît-Rey is a graduate of course, and a member of the Association.’

‘Of course.’

‘We were at school at the same time. He graduated in ’71 and I in ’70.’

‘What does he want to discuss?’

‘He hasn’t breathed a word to me.’

‘Certainly not the Thomson privatisation. He’s head of the Alcatel steering group for the bid.’ The three men look at each other.

‘That’s likely to be tricky. You’re at Alcatel, and Robert and I are with Matra …’

‘Should the Association allow itself to get involved in this business?’

‘Benoît-Rey is no joker, and he doesn’t take risks for nothing. If he’s referring a matter to the Association, then I’m sure he has excellent reasons for doing so.’

‘That’s what worries me.’

‘Let’s wait and see what Benoît-Rey has to say before we discuss it.’

The three men drink in silence. The doorbell rings. A few moments later, Benoît-Rey is shown into the smoking room. The three men rise and Leroy makes the introductions. Complicit smiles all round, everyone knows each other.

‘What would you like to drink?’

A glance at the drinks trolley laden with a variety of bottles.

‘A Suze for a change, thank you.’

They sit down, all eyes on Leroy, who nods his impeccably brushed white head towards Benoît-Rey with an encouraging smile.

‘You asked for a meeting with the board of the Association, and most of us are here. Over to you.’

Benoît-Rey takes out twenty or so sheets of paper folded in half, puts them on the coffee table in front of him, leans forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped, then looks from one to the other.

‘I received these documents in my office at Alcatel from a more or less anonymous source. I’ve carried out a whole battery of checks, as discreetly as possible, which reveal: one, that the Daewoo factory in Lorraine, opened two years ago in a European priority development area, has benefited from a large number of subsidies; two, that it has transferred these subsidies to Daewoo Poland, with which it does eighty per cent of its business, by simply falsifying the purchase and sales ledgers; and three, that the super-profits thus earned were paid into personal accounts (he taps the documents sitting on the table in front of him) on arrival in Poland. Here you have their numbers and code names and the amounts and payment dates.’ Silence. They are paying close attention. ‘There’s one more sheet, which bears the names of the account holders. ‘I’ve decided not to show this sheet to anyone.’ A pause. ‘For the time being. Not even to my chairman or my colleagues. We have discussed this case in the Alcatel working party which I head up, and we think that the European Development funding misappropriated for the past two years by Daewoo has been used as bribes to garner support for their Thomson Multimedia bid. Not just any old support. That of the key decision-makers. At the top of the political ladder.’

A break to allow the idea to sink in. The chairman speaks up:

‘Why come and tell the Association about this?’

‘We want the Matra-Daewoo takeover of Thomson to be halted, which will save us having to publish the information we have. The world of politics and the business community have a lot to gain from complying, no need to go into detail. You’re well aware of the disastrous consequences such a scandal would have. For this to be achieved without doing any damage, this information must be placed in the hands of the proper people, through neutral, credible and reliable channels. Channels that everyone knows would not orchestrate the leaks themselves. We’ve thought long and hard, and we think the board of the Association is the best placed — perhaps even the only possible — option.’

Meynial sits up, shakes his head, taps the file with his fingertips.

‘Difficult if we don’t have all the information, especially that last page you mention.’

‘I don’t think so. The people whose names are on that document will never forgive those who have read it. On the other hand, if you tell them it exists, but that you haven’t seen it, they will know who they are, and will be grateful to you for having preserved a degree of anonymity. The information simply has to reach the right people, those who were genuinely in a position to make a decision on this bid, and who are therefore likely to have received bribes. There’s no point naming names. We all know who they are.’

A few moments’ silence, then Leroy rises.

‘I agree with your line of reasoning, which seems wise to me. Give us a few days to examine the documents, discuss the matter and arrange the rest.’ 15 November

Headlines in the financial press:

THOMSON BACK TO SQUARE ONE

Press release from the Finance Ministry:

The Privatisation Commission has informed the Finance Minister that it is not in a position to endorse the government’s choice in the Thomson SA takeover bid, given Daewoo’s methods of acquiring Thomson Multimedia. The government will shortly give a ruling on the conditions governing the pursuit of the privatisation process.