Now Élodie’s fists were clenched in the pockets of her cardigan. As her child stood trembling in terror high over the water, something she did not recognise was happening to her. She had begun to get very angry.
Frédéric’s voice roared through the damp air. “Jump, damn you!”
“In the name of God! What kind of father are you? Can’t you see it’s too dangerous? You’re not even human!” Élodie shrieked, astonishing him.
There was a thin scream as the tiny body plummeted towards the water and hit the surface hard enough to raise a splash almost as high as the diving board, and then sank to the bottom. Élodie gasped and set off at a run. “My baby, my baby!” Little hands reached out of the still roiling surface, scrabbled at the slippery tiles on the sides of the pool and fell away limply as the little body sank slowly down to the bottom, motionless as swimmers and audience gasped in horror. “You’ve drowned her! Brute!”
One of the attendants turned, saw and made a running dive. With strong strokes he reached the spot and went under, down and down until he reached her. He emerged carrying the limp little form. Depositing her gently on the poolside, he began artificial respiration, trying to revive her. Frédéric, pale and shocked, heard curses issuing from his wife that he had not known she knew. She spat at him and knelt by her cold, still child, tears pouring down her face.
The lifeguard pushed and pounded, to no avail. Finally, on his fourth try, the child stirred, convulsed, turned her head and spewed out a small lake of water. At long last, she opened her eyes and blurrily looked around, confused by the crowd gathered around her, until she saw her father, his face suffused with fury, and whimpered, “I’m sorry, Papa...” Then she saw her mother and reached out to her. Élodie’s tears were now of relief and joy, though little Sévérine perceived only that Mama was crying and joined in.
Élodie spared a contemptuous glance at her fuming husband and gathered her child into her arms. Suddenly she was a mother tiger, shoving people right and left and pushing her way through to the dressing rooms. Murmuring gently, she laid the child on a bench and dried her, stripped off the blue costume and threw it in a bin and dressed her in warm clothes. When she had put on the little coat and wrapped the pink scarf around her daughter’s neck, she glanced up.
Frédéric was standing outside the doorway, watching. His wife threw him a look filled with contempt. The sight of him made her feel quite ill. Without a word, she took her child in her arms and hurried to the exit, ignoring him as though he were not there.
Little Sévérine’s mind was already set. She hated him with all her might. There was no space in her soul for any feeling about him other than revulsion, fear and loathing.
It was the 17th of January and the date would remain forever etched into her childhood memories as the anniversary of the day her father had nearly drowned her in the transparent waters of the new pool. She already knew that from now on, she would never allow her father or anyone else to do her harm or put her down in any way – that she would be strong and invincible forever, that she would do everything in her life to dominate others just as her terrible father had that morning subjugated her, that she would never allow anybody or anything to interfere with her plans and her aspirations.
She was not alone in making decisions that morning. Her mother, Élodie, had decided that she was done with the man. Given their mutual past and the relationship which resembled nothing human, it would not be hard. She no longer feared him. Such support as he offered was a travesty. She would stay with him for business reasons – she needed his capacity for organisation and skill with financial matters to handle their properties. But only that. She was determined to oust him from her life and ignore his existence from now on.
And so it came about: Élodie remained the unspeaking and distant spouse of Frédéric Moret without the slightest attachment to or bond with her soulless husband. Apart from an occasional exchange of necessary words, she never addressed him again.
He drew his last breath twelve years later.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fifth Stop: Montgomery – Sévérine
Sévérine slapped the folder down angrily on her desk. Again, this stupid Irish accountant, MacFarland. He never failed to infuriate her. Once again he had sent a file marked URGENT for final approval and payment at the last minute. How many times did she have to tell him? She must have pointed out a dozen times that last-minute submissions plastered all over with red stickers simply would not do. Incompetent idiot! With glittering eyes, she lifted her phone and dialed an internal extension. It rang several times. No reply. She slammed down the handset and lifted it to dial another number. Her stock of patience was already running dry. After four rings, which seemed like forty-four, someone finally picked up.
“Marilyn Vanderelst here. Good evening, Madame Moret. How can I help you?” The female voice was tremulous. At least she recognised her caller.
“Where is that idiot, MacFarland? Have you all melted down there on the sixth floor? Nobody answers the phone!” snapped Sévérine.
Little Keith of County Kildare had been the chief accountant under her leadership for the past two years. He was, among others, responsible for all the financial transactions and payments of her department, which numbered no less than three hundred and twenty employees.
Sévérine snorted impatiently as she contemplated her own reflection in the window which occupied almost the whole opposite wall of her huge office. Her strong exhalation blew her fringe to one side. Watching herself in the glass, she brushed it back with her hand, then, annoyed, turned her black leather chair towards the office door. Whenever she saw her reflection she was displeased. Tall, slim, forty-something, with cropped blonde hair and thin lips usually stretched tightly in a cool detached smile. Nobody had ever been in a position to guess what lay behind the wolfish faded-blue eyes. Her long neck was permanently stretched and covered with a mass of small veins that swelled grotesquely when something bothered her during a meeting – not a rare occurrence – turning it dark with tension, frequently portending an explosion to come.
For this reason, some called her ‘The Veins’, only one of her selection of nicknames, such as “Cruella De Vil” and others much more vulgar, which if she overheard caused her to turn red as a tomato with fury. She dressed expensively in the latest fashions, though, as they whispered, at least twenty years too young for her, and moved in an overpowering cloud of Chanel No. 5.
She had entered the European Commission through an open recruitment competition at the lower end of the scale as a low-grade French speaking administrator, and she had risen through the ranks like lightning compared to the rest. In the ten years since she had succeeded by stepping over almost all her colleagues, and thanks to important connections nurtured over the years, she had reached the level of deputy director general in one of the most important departments of the Commission. Her unbridled lust for power was never satisfied and was inversely proportional to her self-confidence. Her achievements were never enough; she must always have more: more status, more power, more money. Perhaps it was the only way she could ameliorate her terrible lack of faith in herself. When something in her department went well, she was the first to appropriate the congratulations of her superiors. But if something went awry, the blame was laid on some unfortunate scapegoat without a trace of shame or guilt. Although related by blood to a most noble Belgian family, she was the daughter of an insignificant teacher who somehow managed to attach himself to the family of the industrialist, d’Ydekem.
She had never forgiven her father for this irregularity, the idea that he had somehow defiled with his marriage the pure blue blood of the d’Ydekem. She had been raised in opulent luxury. Anything money could buy was hers for the asking, and life had taught her that no obstacle, large or small, could be permitted to stand in her way. But her father was autocratic and tyrannical with his family and had made it brutally clear that nothing his weedy little daughter could ever do would make her into the strong son
he had always wanted.
Her unremitting pursuit of power created terror, not only in her department, but in the other services as well for those unlucky enough to come in contact with her. Employees could find themselves transferred, or out of a job, on a trivial pretext without notice. She was of average intelligence and worked not remarkably fast, because it took her a while to understand the work – but she required her subordinates to produce perfection under terrible pressure and suffocating deadlines. She managed to collect around her in key positions a small coterie of pawns and sidekicks whom she used as spies, rewarding them well in exchange for detailed reports of all that was happening in her little ‘kingdom’. To keep them under her thumb, she endowed them with promotions and privileges. The rate of promotion among her followers and close allies was astronomical compared with the normal professional advancement of other workers.
Although she had a family of her own, four children from a marriage of convenience with an upstart French tycoon who commanded operations in France and Belgium from Brussels, she had no time for them. She spent at least ten hours a day in her office and compelled her staff to do the same. She was all airs and graces to her superiors, sticky-sweet like the kind of syrup that glues itself to the teeth and leaves one nauseous. Especially with the staff of the Commissioner and the President of the Commission private offices with whom she had daily contact, she was obsequious beyond belief. Her reputation had spread through the organisation and few trusted her.
“Mr. MacFarland was here just a minute ago! He’s gone somewhere for a moment… perhaps the toilet,” the secretary hurried to answer, anxiety thinning her voice. “I’m sure he’ll be right back. Would you like to leave a message, or shall I tell him to call you?”
“Tell him that I am returning, unsigned, the payment form for the agricultural grants. Tell him to get his ass up to my office and explain why it’s such a rush when I have explained clearly that I do not want emergency payments when there is plenty of time to prepare them. All of you down there are goofing off and always leaving everything to the last minute!” she slammed down the telephone full of rage.
The pitch of Sévérine’s voice had risen shrilly as she hung up, leaving the secretary no chance to answer. This blockhead Irish peacock with the permanently sorrowful grey-green eyes who drove most of her female colleagues crazy always enraged her. What was really maddening was his expression of absolute serenity and balance which Sévérine perceived as apathy on the job. He never lost his patience with anything and kept his temper under the most nerve-wracking circumstances. Worst of all, he never showed fear, of her nor anyone else in the hierarchy. To add insult to injury, he was a stickler at his job, extra careful and efficient. Sévérine had set a million little traps in order to teach him a good lesson about who was the boss here, but they all failed. Which made him still harder to swallow.
“Again, this asshole, MacFarland!” she repeated aloud, just to hear the words, and then, tense as always, reached for her cigarettes and the expensive gold lighter in the desk drawer. The total smoking ban in all the offices was still another insult to her nerves. If she felt the need to smoke she had to take the lift seven floors down to a small balcony where smokers were free to indulge their vice.
Just then her phone rang. She threw a contemptuous glance at the instrument’s little screen where the name of ‘MacFarland’ was flashing. He was trying to call her back, no doubt with some lame excuse. She glared at the phone, ignored it and stamped out of her office, heading for the lift like a raging tornado.
The weather was already wintry. The little terrace on the mezzanine level, the last little concession to desperate smokers, was already dark and damp at five o’clock in the afternoon. On the threshold, she raised the collar of her jacket and lit the cigarette already in her hand. From the corner of her left eye she caught sight of her colleague, Luisa Carlatti of the President’s Cabinet, sitting alone in the opposite corner smoking with equal fury. “That’s all I need!” she muttered to herself. But she pasted on the most cordial of smiles as if she recognised her dearest friend and took a few steps towards her. “Cara Luisa!” she called approaching her, in her silkiest voice. “A tad chilly, isn’t it? And it’s not even November!”
Luisa smiled. “Hello, there! I was looking for you! I meant to call your office as soon as I went back upstairs.”
“Perfect timing, darling!” said Sévérine over-sweetly, with some curiosity.
Luisa took a careful look around to see if anyone was within earshot. Although the closest person was several feet away, Luisa leaned towards Sévérine.
“Have you heard anything lately about Lithuania?” she said in a low voice, her head turned away from the nearest smoker.
Sévérine understood immediately but reacted as one dying to hear a morsel of news. Widening her eyes as though surprised, she shook her head.
“It’s about the Commissioner,” hissed Luisa, holding her cigarette close to conceal her lips, and proceeded to disgorge some disturbing gossip.
Sévérine had already taken care to inform one of the responsible press representatives of the Lithuanian commissioner, who was directly connected to the PR department of the General Directorate of Agriculture. According to the press rep, who was a compatriot and a person of absolute trustworthiness, political opponents back in Lithuania had already tried, and would try again, to entrap Paulauskas in a vicious plot to destroy him politically in the upcoming elections.
He enjoyed the country’s high approval with a ten per cent advantage in the polls over his adversaries; his popularity had surpassed that of his main opponent, current President Zlatistas, who was known for pro-Russian attitudes and suspected of links with the Kremlin.
Of course, Sévérine expressed all the shock and horror that her colleague expected of her, in hopes of trawling further details about just what was known to the private office of the President of the Commission. “Oh, my dear, that’s not good at all. What do you suppose…?” and Luisa was off and running.
“We’re terrified that from moment to moment there’s a chance of some rumour leaking out, and a scandal in the press could sabotage the reputation of the Commission. The President is worried about the impact that could have on the whole organisation. You know how the press is! He means to renew his term for another five years in the European Commission election next year and that kind of mess would be catastrophic. He’s not about to allow a repeat of ’99 when President Santer was forced to resign, and all the other commissioners with him, over a fraud scandal,” Luisa continued. “We have to keep our eyes open! We have to be ready to discover and immediately scotch any such attempt completely. We must be prepared to produce foolproof evidence, not only about the Commissioner, but about the whole College of Commissioners, including the President himself.”
Sévérine nodded seriously as Luisa went on, “We heard that the Commissioner’s office and some staff of the Secretariat General are frantically racing to get control of anything that could be wrong with old contracts, new ones, grants, subsidies – anything to do with economic management and transparency. Some are saying that the Lithuanian Secret Service is behind these attempts, and it could be even worse!” Luisa’s agitated murmur was barely audible.
“But this is unheard of!” protested Sévérine, with feigned alarm. “I will speak at once with them as soon as I’m back in my office. We’ll be ready for anything. Don’t worry, cara Luisa!” she said in the same low tone, taking a deep pull of her cigarette which had almost reached its filter, and half closing her hawk’s eyes with satisfaction. “Something had reached me and Paulauska’s press officer, but I hadn’t realised it was so serious. We’ll be on the alert. I’ll see to it myself,” she reassured the other. “There won’t be a single stain on the Commissioners - or the President.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Sévérine! The President relies on you and your department to handle it,” sighed Luisa. “You know a thing like this could not only bring down the whole Col
lege of Commissioners, but the pressure could be enough to drag the whole European Commission into it, and the consequences - well, you remember the disaster that hit us before. Not to mention we could all be on the dole in two shakes!”
“I do indeed, I’m well aware of how crucial it is,” said Sévérine and emphatically stubbed out her cigarette in the bowl of sand provided as an ashtray. “Duty calls, I must go now,” she said with an effort at humour, which failed to conceal the frost in her voice. “See you later, darling!” She departed as fast as she could, almost running towards the lift up to her office.
Seconds later, she’d shut the door of her office and grabbed her mobile phone. “It’s me…”
The male voice at the other end said, “What’s going on over there? Paulauskas is moving Heaven and Earth to dig up and squelch any traces of potential scandal. At any cost. We have to act right away, immediately if not sooner, before they catch us! Tomorrow, or the day after, may be too late,” he went on coolly. Something in his voice seemed to reassure her.
“Okay, we’ll talk later, call me from home, around nine,” she said briskly and closed the mobile with a jerk. She turned to her computer screen and lifted her chin, raising her eyes upward. “It’s all under control! And if that old bugger of a president gets the boot, so much the better. I could never stand him!” Her lips twisted in a perverse but triumphant smile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Second Stop: Tomberg – Feridé
The Next Stop Page 10
