Rosy and John

by Pierre Lemaitre

  Release them. The hostility is palpable. Not very far, what does that mean? Nine civil servants exchange sceptical glances; they cannot work out where Camille is going with this, what he is thinking. Camille has been waiting for this moment to plant the final nail.

  “With the last shell, Garnier is planning to cause carnage. Maybe one of you here has some idea how we’re going to explain the first two explosions to the press and the public, not to mention his grand finale, if not, you better start racking your brains, because it won’t be easy.”

  “Commandant,” the prime minister gives him a sincere smile, “Could you give us a minute?”

  Camille goes and sits in a vestibule four times the size of his whole apartment. He turns on his mobile phone. Message from Anne:

  So??? Am I getting my rent-controlled apartment?

  Too early to tell. He’s in the bathroom freshening up . . .

  And you’re sure it’ll be in the seventh arrondissement???

  He says that will depend on my performance.

  I hope you’re on form!

  Do you know what time it is???

  Same time as it is here, and I’m VERY up for it.

  I’ll do my best and . . .

  “Commandant?”

  Camille looks up.

  “Monsieur le premier ministre is ready for you . . .”

  4.00 a.m.

  “It’s the best I could do, Jean. You give us the location of the bombs just before take-off. We can’t wait until you land in Australia. That’s the deal. If you don’t like it, it will be out of my hands, you will have to talk to someone else.”

  Jean thinks for a long time, then says:

  “No, three hours after take-off.”

  “That’s not possible, Jean. You’ve got what you asked for, but you can’t lay down all the conditions.”

  It takes them almost twenty minutes to come to an agreement. Jean will send the details just after the plane takes off.

  “If we don’t get the message, the plane will turn around and drop you back on the runway with your darling maman, is that clear?”

  It is insane that Jean would agree to such conditions. That someone who has planned this mission with the skill of a master should fall into such an obvious trap. He puts up only a half-hearted protest.

  “How do I know the plane won’t turn back the moment I’ve sent the details?”

  Since the beginning of this conversation, Camille’s voice has grown hoarse. Though it sounds like weariness, in fact it is wretchedness. Just imagine. You are talking to a man doomed to die very soon, and you are expected to sound as though he has his whole life ahead of him . . .

  “It’s in no-one’s interest for you to stay here . . .” Camille patiently explains. “If you do, we would have to arrest you, charge you and send you for trial. Which would mean explaining that we lied to the public and hushed up two explosions, that we did a deal with a piece of scum like you, handed over two million in cash, two tickets to Australia and false passports issued by the French government itself. We’d look like complete fucking idiots!”

  Jean seems happy with this explanation. It is mind-boggling.

  Everyone in the observation room is thinking “Dumb fuck!” It is an impression that experts often have of amateurs. They take them for fools.

  It takes another hour to pretend to iron out numerous details which are of no importance and serve only to make the agreement seem credible.

  In fact, as Pelletier tells Camille:

  “Jean sends his message via the crew, details of the locations etc., we check them out . . . and we arrest him.”

  It is depressing in its simplicity.

  Camille longs to ask Pelletier whether he is taking him for a fool, too. Because this is not how it is going to play out. The counter-terrorist squad is not going to trouble with minor details, it is in no-one’s interest for Jean Garnier to become a shitty stick with which to beat the government.

  To say nothing of that fact that, if Jean were to hold off on sending the message for an hour after take-off, it would mean arresting him while in another country’s airspace, and that would be complicated.

  The experts claim they will have no trouble discreetly arresting Jean as soon as they get the green light. They have taken every precaution. Camille thinks it is more likely that a hit squad will be occupying the two seats behind Jean and his mother, and the two seats in front, with two or three others posing as cabin crew. If Jean keeps his end of the bargain, he will be quietly garrotted before the plane reaches the end of the runway. That, or something like it. Something discreet and deadly, something that acts within seconds. The same will happen to Rosie. And then the plane will brake as it taxies, and an ambulance will appear. So as not to create panic, the captain will make an announcement that the delay is due not to a mechanical fault, but to the sudden illness of two passengers. The cabin doors will be opened, the bodies will be deplaned and the plane will depart as though nothing had happened. None of the other passengers will know the truth, not that this matters; the authorities simply need a way to get the bodies off the plane and onto the immaculate stretchers that have been previously prepared to the occasion.

  At worst, if Jean does defer sending his message, they will revert to plan B. The plane will turn back; the air traffic lanes will have been reserved for the purpose.

  We’ll see, Camille thinks.

  From the outset, nothing in this affair has gone according to the rules, he does not imagine for a second that it will end as expected.

  In the meantime, he plans, organises, negotiates and, since the crisis team is made up of officers from various agencies, he fields advice from colleagues and takes orders from his superiors.

  Jean did not inspect the suitcases, nor the clothes officers have fetched from his house.

  “Do you want to check them?” Camille asks.

  Jean is perfectly aware that tracking devices will have been planted among the clothing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says, snapping the lid shut.

  Nor does he take any interest in the money. Final negotiations settled on two million euros. A suitcase full of high-denomination banknotes should be enough to animate even the most jaded soul.

  Lastly, he is given the passports. He flicks through them, nods his head.

  He has become Pierre Mouton. Rosie’s new name is Françoise Lemercier. Jean is not at all happy.

  “Mouton is a ridiculous name.”

  Even Camille finds the idea of naming someone after a sheep before leading them to the slaughter pitiful.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Jean takes it.

  Then he looks at the plane tickets.

  “Can I check the reservations?”

  He is ushered to a computer terminal. Camille expected him to be a computer whiz, but he is anything but, he types slowly and carefully.

  He checks the flight number, confirms the reservations.

  He looks relieved.

  4.30 a.m.

  Finally, Rosie arrives.

  Her face is radiant, rested; she is a different woman.

  As soon as she sees Jean, she throws herself into his arms, but the young man is like marble. Arms dangling limply by his sides, he stares into the middle distance. Rosie does not even notice, probably because she and Jean have finally been reunited.

  When she steps back, he barely looks at her. They are left alone so that they can change for the flight. The C.C.T.V. camera shows them standing three metres apart, as though in different rooms. Jean frowns, intensely focussed on changing his clothes. Rosie shoots him admiring glances.

  When the officers come back into the room, Rosie looks at them like schoolboys who still have much to learn.

  Camille hands Jean a mobile phone.

  “You need to write the message before take-off,” Camille reminds him, one last time. “It needs to be detailed, we need precise locations. All the remaining bombs are in Paris?”

  “Yes.”
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  “Good. The only number in the contacts list is mine. You can call me at any time before take-off for any reason, if you need to. I am your only contact, that’s how you wanted it.”

  “Alright.”

  “O.K. The flight leaves for Sydney at 5.45 a.m. Is everything clear.”

  Jean nods. Everything is clear.

  In fact, it is pitiful.

  He may have planted bombs, may have gambled with the lives of hundreds of innocent victims, but this young man playing a third-rate secret agent, his every move borrowed from a B-movie, is somehow touching. Perhaps it is his innocence. They all play out their roles, but everyone feels apprehensive; ever since Jean compromised on his demands, it has all felt too easy.

  Camille, for his part, is still prepared for any eventuality.

  While Jean and Rosie were dressing, he even made a bet with Louis.

  “What do you mean?” Louis asked. “What else could possibly happen?”

  Camille has no idea. Yet he is certain. It will play out differently.

  “There will be something that we’ve overlooked . . .”

  In mid-May, dawn has already begun to break by 4.30a.m. Through the open window, Camille takes in a lungful of Paris air not yet poisoned with exhaust fumes.

  Down below, he watches as Jean and Rosie leave, each carrying a suitcase.

  Jean refuses to get into the waiting car, an officer rushes over, there is a heated discussion, but Jean will not be swayed, he hails a taxi. The officer stands there, helpless.

  Camille closes his eyes, feeling overcome.

  The taxi is one that the police laid on, the driver looks convincing.

  Jean does not allow the driver to get out, he puts the cases in the boot, waves at Rosie to get in, the taxi pulls off.

  Time to go.

  Camille pulls on his jacket, goes downstairs and climbs into the back seat of car No. 1.

  5.00 a.m.

  Already the car is cracking with the voices from the pursuit vehicles.

  “Target at eleven o’ clock. Car 34, over to you . . .”

  “Car 34 receiving. Target spotted at one o’clock.”

  The taxi carrying Jean and his mother moves through Paris followed by an invisible throng of some fifteen people in cars, vans, motorcycles . . .

  It looks like a ghostly funeral cortège.

  The microphone in the taxi picks up nothing but the silence of the passengers. Camille pictures Rosie snuggled against her son, feverishly clutching his hand and Jean, indifferent, staring out the window as Paris flashes past . . .

  On the G.P.S. monitor, Camille is studying the route taken by the taxi when he hears Jean’s voice:

  “Take a right here.”

  The driver pretends not to understand. A seasoned professional, he plays for time and misses the turning.

  “That’s not the way to the airport, Monsieur . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jean says. “Take the next right.”

  His voice is clear and resolute. The driver puts on the indicator and turns onto the boulevard.

  “Car 34, target heading west.”

  “Received. Over.”

  The voices of the pursuers are not yet flustered, but something is amiss.

  Camille feels a brief shudder down his spine and realises: the time has come.

  Almost.

  Not yet, but almost.

  Evidently, this is not the way to the airport. Has Jean got one last ace up his sleeve? It is perfectly possible.

  “Target sighted bearing north, north east.”

  “Target turning onto rue Plantagenet.”

  Target here, there and everywhere, Camille thinks. We’re about to find out just how well the experts’ scenario plays out.

  5.15 a.m.

  At Jean’s instructions, the taxi takes another right and is now heading due south, directly away from Charles de Gaulle airport.

  Over the crackle of the speakers, voices are raised, what the fuck is he doing, this arsehole. Camille’s mobile rings every twenty seconds. He turns it off. Shit.

  He is as tense as everyone else.

  Are they being taken for a ride?

  Through his driver’s earpiece, the various teams ask Camille for instructions.

  “Maintain pursuit, hold back, wait and see.”

  Still the taxi keeps turning this way and that. They can hear Jean’s voice giving the orders.

  The driver pretends to be irritated:

  “Where the devil are we going? You’re going to miss your plane, Monsieur . . .”

  This is the designated code for requesting instructions. Camille does not even profess to have the situation under control, the reality is that they are going along for the ride, what else can they do?

  Jean clearly knows where he is going, which is what has everyone worried.

  He knows, and we don’t.

  Finally, the taxi pulls up outside the gates of the square Dupeyroux, a small park enclosed by elegant Haussmann buildings. The streetlights on the roads that ring the square give off a soft blue-yellow glow. The car carrying Camille drives straight past the taxi, takes a right and screeches to a halt. Everyone is waiting for instructions. All units are on stand-by. Their timing is shot to fuck.

  Jean’s voice:

  “Wait for us here,” he tells the driver.

  The bodycam of one of the outriders captures Rosie and Jean as they get out of the taxi. On the monitor, they can be seen standing in front of the gates, a radio microphone hidden in the folds of Rosie’s coat picks up her tremulous voice.

  “Why did we come here, Jean?”

  His response is inaudible, if indeed he does respond.

  Jean pulls the gate, which slides open noiselessly. Marcel’s wedge of cardboard falls to the ground. Jean does not bother to pick it up, though he has done so many times in the past.

  Camille leaps from his car and begins to run.

  In seconds, he has reached the gate, shouting to all units to stand down, the die is cast, how many bombs are going to explode? Where and when?

  Already, Rosie and Jean are moving through the shadowy park, bathed in an orange glimmer. Just as Camille enters the square, they stop near the children’s playground. Jean drops Rosie’s hand, takes a few steps and disappears for a moment.

  Seconds pass with the glacial slowness of a ticking time bomb. Camille considers making a lunge, but does not have a chance before Jean re-emerges from a thicket holding a mobile phone. He turns to look at Camille.

  It is a strange, suspended scene.

  In the faint glow of the square, Rosie stands, gripping her old lady’s handbag; next to her, her son Jean, holding his phone, and lastly there is Camille, rooted to the spot, wondering what is about to happen.

  Jean looks down at the phone and almost immediately tinny music begins to play. He turns up the sound.

  Camille strains to hear, he watches as Jean holds out his hand, palm up, as though he is inviting Rosie to dance; and that is what it is, a dance, Jean and Rosie in each other’s arms.

  They are waltzing. She is gazing at him like a lover, he is still staring into space, but hugs her to him hard, very hard . . . Hardly have they whirled three times when Jean, still keeping time, slips a hand into the his jacket pocket.

  Suddenly, Camille recognises the song, “Rosy and John”, a golden oldie from the sixties by Gilbert Bécaud.

  We loved each other like no-one ever

  Rosy and John, we were good together,

  But life, is life, oh, but life . . .

  As he twirls her, Jean stands facing Camille. He stands head and shoulders over his mother, who looks as slight and frail as a little girl. He looks steadily at Camille, who feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket.

  He whips it out quickly.

  It is a text message from Jean.

  There are no more bombs. Thank you for everything.

  Camille looks up. Something Basin said comes back to him.

  “. . . anything capab
le of producing an electrical pulse could be used as a detonator: a doorbell, a mobile phone . . .”

  Camille is about to throw himself to the ground when the bomb explodes beneath the dancers’ feet.

  The force of the blast catches him right in the stomach, propelling him backwards, where he rolls over and over on the dirt path.

  The boom is loud enough to make your eyes start from your head. Windows around the square are shattered, and there comes an ear-splitting crash of broken glass. The playground has disappeared, all that remains is a crater three metres wide and one metre deep.

  Louis comes running and rushes over to Camille.

  Sprawled on the path, his face covered in blood, one cheek pressed against the dirt, he has the bewildered expression of a little boy.

  A few metres from Camille and Louis, the trees in the square have begun to blaze.

  PIERRE LEMAITRE was born in Paris in 1951. He worked for many years as a teacher of literature before becoming a novelist. He was awarded the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger, alongside Fred Vargas, for Alex, and was sole winner for Camille, The Great Swindle and Blood Wedding. In 2013, The Great Swindle won the Prix Goncourt, France’s leading literary award.

  FRANK WYNNE is an award-winning translator from French and Spanish. His previous translations include works by Virginie Despentes, Patrick Modiano, Javier Cercas and Michel Houellebecq.

  1 Alex, MacLehose Press, 2013