Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  8

  The BLC Consulting envelope contains a dossier entitled: “Recruiting an HR Assistant.” Inside, a document with the heading: “Role play exercise: hostage taking at the workplace.”

  Page one announces the objective: “Your mission: to assess senior executives subjected to violent and sustained stress.”

  Page two details the broad outline of the scenario. Since the hostage taking will be conducted by candidates for the HR position (my competitors and myself), the document sets out the protocols to ensure each of us has an equal chance.

  The candidates for one position select the candidates for another: how very in line with the times. The system doesn’t even need to exercise authority anymore—the employees take care of that themselves. In this case it’s pretty extreme, since we get to fire the worst-performing execs on the spot before they’ve even secured the job.

  The incoming generate the outgoing. Capitalism has just achieved perpetual motion.

  I scan the dossier as quickly as possible but, as feared, all the documents are stock, anonymous. We are not therefore supposed to have any way of guessing which company is involved and, more important, of identifying the execs that have been put forward for the test, which would have opened the way for all sorts of secret negotiations among the HR candidates charged with assessing them.

  The system does have some moral standing.

  We are to assess five executives. Their ages have been rounded to the nearest five.

  Three men:

  — Thirty-five, PhD in law, legal department

  — Forty-five, top credentials in economics, finance manager

  — Fifty, top degree in civil engineering, senior project manager

  Two women:

  — Thirty-five, business school graduate, sales executive

  — Fifty, top degree in structural engineering, senior project manager

  These are senior executives with serious responsibilities. The cream of the company. Champions of the M&M machine: “Marketing & Management,” the two heaving breasts of modern business. The principles are simple: marketing involves making people buy what they don’t want to buy, while management involves making executives do what they don’t want to do. In short, these people are very active in the running of the company and must adhere passionately to its values (otherwise they’d have been weeded out long ago). I wonder why they are assessing these five ahead of any others. Clarifying that will be crucial.

  The dossier contains details of everything: their studies, their career paths, their responsibilities. I estimate their annual salaries to fall in the 150,000–210,000 euro bracket.

  I go for a walk to think all this through. That’s one of my things. My thoughts have a tendency to simmer away. Walking doesn’t so much calm them down as channel them. And right now I’m boiling over. I stop in my tracks as I consider how fast everything around me is unraveling. Nicole, Romain, Logistics . . . Getting this job is becoming all the more essential. I am reassured by the fact that I’ve worked for more than thirty years, and I can confidently say I’m good at what I do. If I carry on being good at it for ten more days, I’ll be able to eradicate all these threats. This helps me regain my focus. I fall back into my stride, but I’m still struggling to silence the little voice running through my head. Nicole’s voice. Not so much her voice as her words. Acting against her will is unbearable, and I’ve been in doubt ever since she set out her categorical disapproval. I don’t hesitate to do what needs to be done, and that’s something she’ll never comprehend. Life in her job is a cozy one. Nicole, lucky thing, will never know what it takes to survive in a competitive commercial field. What worries me about her reaction is that ultimately she doesn’t believe in my chances; she thinks I’m getting worked up over something that’s more virtual than real. My gut’s telling me to join the fray, right now. But . . .

  I turn all this over and over, unable to think about anything else. My anxiety is like a roly-poly—it always rights itself. I make up my mind.

  It’s the young Polish girl who picks up. I like her slightly husky tone very much. I find it sexy. I introduce myself. No, Bertrand Lacoste cannot take my call, he’s in a meeting. Is it anything she can help me with?

  “It’s somewhat complicated.”

  “Try anyway.”

  Pretty abrupt.

  “I’m just about to get underway with my preparation for the final recruitment test.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “Monsieur Lacoste assured me that each candidate’s chances were the same, but—”

  “But you’re not so sure.”

  The girl’s not cutting me much slack, here. I’m going to trip up, but I go for it anyway.

  “That’s exactly it. I find it odd.”

  Lacoste may well be in a meeting, but she disturbs him nonetheless. My tactic’s turning out all right. An evaluation and recruitment firm’s image must be rooted in its integrity. That justifies disturbing the boss. He comes on the line.

  “How are you?”

  You would swear he’d been expecting my call and that he was overjoyed to hear from me. That said, there’s still a slight edge to his voice.

  “I’m in a meeting right now, but my assistant tells me you have some concerns.”

  “A few, yes. In fact, no—just the one. I am skeptical about the chances of a man my age in a recruitment process at this level.”

  “We’ve been through this already, Alain. And I’ve given you my answer.”

  He’s good, the wily dog. I’m going to have to keep my wits about me. The whole “Alain” thing is a classic ruse, but still it works: he’s playing it all buddy-buddy, even though both of us know full well I can’t call him “Bertrand” in return.

  My silence speaks volumes.

  He knows that I know. At last, we have some sort of understanding.

  “Listen,” he continues, “I was clear with you before and I’ll be clear with you again. There won’t be many of you. Each profile is fairly different from the other. Your age is a handicap, but your experience is a bonus. What more is there to discuss?”

  “Your client’s intention.”

  “My client is not after looks, he’s after skills. If you feel up to the mark, as your test results indicate, your application will stay live. If not . . .”

  He picks up on my hesitation.

  “I’m going to take this on another line. One minute . . .”

  The switchboard fobs me off with forty seconds of music. Hearing this version of Vivaldi’s “Spring” makes it hard to hold out much hope for the summer.

  “Excuse me,” Bertrand Lacoste picks up again.

  “Not at all.”

  “Listen, Monsieur Delambre.”

  No more Alain. The mask slips.

  “The company for which I am recruiting is one of my most important clients. I cannot allow myself to make an error of judgment.”

  His intimate tone has given way to seriousness. Now he’s playing the sincerity card. When you’re dealing with managers at his level, it’s impossible to know where the lying stops.

  “This position requires a high level of professionalism and I haven’t found a huge number of candidates who are really up to the mark. I can’t prejudice the outcome, but between you and me, you would be wrong not to stay in the running. I’m not sure if I’m being clear . . .”

  Now this . . . this is new. Very new indeed. I barely heard the rest of his speech. I should have recorded it to play to Nicole.

  “That’s all I needed to know.”

  “I’ll see you soon,” he says as he hangs up.

  My heart is pounding. I start walking again to vent my frazzled neurons. And then I get back to work. That has done me a world of good.

  First up, focus on the objective facts.

  I’m guessing we are three or four candidates: any more than that would be unmanageable. I base my calculations on three since it doesn’t alter things dramatically.

  So I must
beat two rivals to land the job. To manage that, I must perform the best when selecting the five executives. I must eliminate the weakest candidates. Whichever of us registers the most scalps will have been the most selective and therefore the most effective. Five to start with, get rid of four, and finish with a bull’s-eye. That’s the objective.

  I’ll have a job if one of them (or preferably several of them) loses theirs.

  As I was thinking all this through I had slipped into autopilot and taken a left, ending up down in the métro. I have no idea where I’m going. My feet have led me here. I look up and focus on the map. From where I live, every train goes via République. I trace the multicolored lines and can’t stop myself smiling: my subconscious is guiding me. I sit down and wait for the connection.

  I have to load all the dice in my favor. That involves choosing the best strategy, the one that will result in the greatest number of losers.

  I leave République behind and push on to Châtelet.

  I’m applying management rule number one: an executive can only be defined as competent when he is capable of anticipation.

  As far as I can see, there are two possible strategies.

  The first is the one prompted by the dossier: read the anonymous files, study the scenario and imagine, in absolute or approximate terms, how to make the execs surrender to the terrorists’ demands, to lose control, to come across as cowards, to betray their company and colleagues—to betray themselves. Classic. Each of them will trust his or her intuition, knowing that in a similar situation, the question is not whether they will betray (with a gun to their head!), but how much they will betray.

  If I were younger, that’s the strategy I would use to prep for the task. However, thanks to Lacoste, I know that all my competitors are younger than me—they will definitely approach it that way, too.

  I have no choice but to opt for the second strategy. I kick my brain into gear.

  Management theory states the following: to attain a goal, set interim objectives. I establish three: it is essential I discover the identity of BLC Consulting’s client and of the five executives; then I will need to investigate each one to find out everything about their lives, hopes, expectations, strengths and—most important—weaknesses; and, finally, I have to work out how to give myself the best chance of bringing them down.

  I have ten days to go—not long at all.

  My subconscious has brought me this far. To the gates of BLC Consulting headquarters.

  The heart of La Défense, that vast space bristling with buildings, riddled with motorway and métro tunnels, and banked up by wind-battered walkways teeming with myriads of panic-stricken ants just like me. The sort of place where, if I’m victorious, I’ll have the opportunity to see out my career. I enter the building’s vast lobby and scope out the lay of the land, before making for a set of armchairs with a good view of the elevators.

  Even though time is of the essence, I settle down for several hours of (fruitless) surveillance dedicated to the arrival of a person who won’t lead me anywhere . . . It’s not the right strategy, but it does allow me some time to think, and it’s in a place where there’s a chance—however slim—of finding something useful. I station myself sideways so that I’m invisible to anyone exiting the elevator, and I take out my notebook. Every twenty seconds I glance over at the elevators. I never thought there’d be so much coming and going at this time of day. People of all shapes and sizes.

  I try to focus on my primary objective. BLC Consulting’s client is a major company (in terms of scale and resources) operating in a strategic industry (if its executives require regular assessment, that means their responsibilities are more important than they are). But then there are any number of strategic industries. They range from the military to the environment, via international organizations or any area linked to the state, which covers trade secrets, defense, pharmaceuticals, security . . . It’s all too wide. I strike them off and retain two key points: a very big company operating in a strategic industry.

  Waves of people roll in and out of the interminable elevators. An hour passes. I carry on taking notes.

  Administering a hostage-taking role play is no simple task. You need actors, fake weapons . . . what else? A few vague images come to me from the movies: people burst into a bank, police sirens wailing outside; they barricade the doors, yelling to one another as they run behind the counter, employees and customers looking on in terror. Everyone’s on the floor. What then?

  Another hour later, the intern arrives. She really is very pretty. Her blonde hair is unbelievable. She exits the elevator with an assured step, her eyes focused straight ahead. The sort of girl who wants to show that she never deviates from her path. She’s wearing a light-gray suit and very high heels. Half a dozen sets of men’s eyes follow her as she crosses the lobby toward the revolving doors. Mine not included. A few seconds later I start tailing her, then watch from the pavement as she strides into the métro. I’m left feeling rather frightened by her. I have no way of knowing whether she’ll be present on the day of the hostage taking or which bit she’ll be overseeing, but I just hope I don’t come up against an adversary of her caliber, because this girl is razor-sharp: too young to have done the damage she’s capable of, but her time cannot be far off.

  At the precise moment I come through the revolving door back into the lobby, I see Bertrand Lacoste leaving the elevator directly opposite me.

  Struck by panic, I lower my head and do a complete circuit in the door, then cross the street. My heart is pounding and my legs turn to cotton wool. If he saw me and recognized me I can kiss my hopes good-bye. But I get away with it. In my haste, I had failed to take stock of the details. In fact, Lacoste had gotten out of the elevator alongside a man of about fifty, not very tall but with a muscular, athletic build. His walk is so fluid that he has an almost liquid quality to him.

  The two men talk as they make their way across the lobby.

  I check that my observation post shelters me from their line of sight. A few seconds later and they are on the pavement shaking hands. Lacoste reenters the building and heads back to the elevators, while the other man stands outside.

  He scans left and right, perfectly upright, his legs slightly apart.

  I look him up and down. Rectangular face, thin mouth, crew cut. I stop in the middle, armpit-level, where his pecs are. I could swear he’s wearing a gun. All I know about this stuff is what I’ve seen in the movies, but I think I can make out the bulge of a weapon. His hand goes to his right pocket and he takes out a piece of chewing gum that he unwraps as he looks around.

  He feels he’s being watched. His eyes comb the area and settle on me for a microsecond. Then he stuffs the wrapper in his pocket and makes his way to the métro.

  That short moment has left me petrified.

  This guy might have been anybody, but that one fraction of a second is enough to convince me—beyond any doubt—that he isn’t.

  I flick through my professional memory in search of a match for a man like that. The spectral face, the economical movements, the very short gray hair . . . the walk.

  A type comes to the surface from the depths of my mind: ex-military. What else, though? The answer smacks me in the face: mercenary.

  If I’m not mistaken, Lacoste has enlisted a specialist to organize this hostage-taking situation.

  Time to leave.

  I need to call the lawyer.

  On my notepad I have written down the gist of what I’m going to say. My watch indicates that it is 3:30 p.m. when a girl answers with a firm voice:

  “Monsieur Delambre? Maître Christelle Gilson. What can I do for you?”

  She’s young. It feels like I’m talking to the intern at BLC Consulting. For a moment, I picture my daughter Lucie, in her lawyer’s outfit, answering the telephone to an unemployed guy like me, with the same peremptory tone, the same air of disdain. Why do all these young people seem so similar? Maybe because wimps like me are so similar, too.

&nb
sp; In a few seconds she confirms that I’ve been dismissed for misconduct.

  “What misconduct?”

  “Striking your superior, Monsieur Delambre. You would be fired for that at any company.”

  “And at any company would a superior have the right to kick a subordinate in the backside?”

  “Oh, yes, I read that in your statement. But that’s not how it happened.”

  “How can you say that?” I snap. “I was kicked in the backside at 5:00 a.m. What were you doing at 5:00 a.m. that morning?”

  The short silence that follows establishes that the interview will be over very soon. I have to iron this out, I absolutely have to find a way in. I glance at my notes.

  “Maître Gilson, excuse me for asking, but . . . can I ask how old you are?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “That’s what bothers me. You see, I’m fifty-seven years old. I’ve been unemployed for more than four years and . . .”

  “Monsieur Delambre, this is not the time for pleas.”

  “. . . I lose the only job I have. You summon me to court . . .”

  My voice has risen very high again.

  “It’s not me you should be telling this,” she says.

  “. . . and you demand damages that amount to four years of my salary! Are you trying to kill me?”

  I’m not sure if the girl is listening to me, but I think she is. I switch to Plan B.

  “I am prepared to make a formal apology.”

  “In writing?” she says after a pause. I have piqued her interest—we’re on track.

  “Absolutely. Here’s what I propose. Your version isn’t right at all, but that’s fine. I apologize. I won’t even ask for my job back. All I want is for this to stop here. Do you understand? No trial, that’s all.”