This is a real stroke of luck. His credit card shows that he spends two hours a week on rue Saint-Maur, usually on Thursdays. He’s bound to have some friends among the regulars. That cracks me up. This one’s a done deal—dead man walking.
Paul Cousin, fifty-two, is less classic, and all the more exciting because of it.
A man with a CV like this is untouchable. He’s got nothing that will let him stand out from the rest of the pack. I’ll need to ensure that his interrogation falls to one of my rivals. That’s the plan, at least.
In the photographs, he has a worrying physique: an unbelievably voluminous head with eyes that bulge out of their sockets. He goes to work every day at Exxyal, he has his own underground space in the company parking garage, he’s a senior project manager, he travels, he submits reports, he attends meetings, he visits facilities . . . and yet for more than four years he’s been signed up with an executive recruitment agency and receiving unemployment benefits. I check his employment record and—with the help of an accompanying note with precise details, dates, and facts—I manage to piece together his strange career.
Paul Cousin worked for Exxyal for twenty-two years until he was fired four years ago (the victim of a staff cut in the department he’d been assigned to a few months previously). At that point, he was forty-eight years old. What happened in his head? Was it a mental block or a desperate tactic? He decided to continue coming in to work, as if nothing had happened. His superiors cited him and the case went right to the top, where the powers-that-be ruled in his favor. If he wanted to carry on coming into work, that was fine with them. He doesn’t get a salary, he works, performs well, but there’s no other way of putting it: for four years, he’s been volunteering!
He must be holding out some hope that he can prove himself. He is working to get his job back.
In doing so, Paul Cousin is embodying capitalism’s oldest dream. Even the most imaginative of bosses couldn’t hope for better. He’s sold his apartment because he can’t afford the mortgage, traded in his car for a cheaper model, and receives a minute sum in unemployment benefits, and all the while he’s got loads of responsibility. It’s not hard to see why he’s so interested in the Sarqueville layoff plan: if he does a good job heading up this round of staff cuts, then he’ll be back in the fold once and for all. This is his return ticket to the giddy heights of the Exxyal Group. A man with this level of ambition will give up his life without flinching—he is unstoppable. He will never surrender, not even when he’s staring down the barrel of a submachine gun.
Then there’s Virginie Tràn, the Vietnamese girl. Now she’s a fine customer.
Mestach and his team couldn’t be sure when her affair with Hubert Bonneval began. Judging by her phone records and various hits on her credit card statements, you could hazard a guess that they’ve been together for eighteen months. I have several photographs taken two days ago showing the couple at the food market on rue du Poteau: eying each other up lustfully in front of the cheese; kissing next to the peppers. The final shot shows them entering Mademoiselle Tràn’s apartment arm in arm. Must be less than eighteen months if you ask me—either that or they’re genuinely in love. The notes suggest they met in professional circumstances: a seminar, trade fair, or something. Possible. But even more interesting than Mademoiselle Tràn is her lover. He’s thirty-eight and a senior project manager at Solarem, a subsidiary of Exxyal’s main business rival. She is quite literally in bed with the competition. Excellent.
I get straight online and in no time at all I’ve found the big sites run by Solarem. I have a very clear idea of the situation I’ll put little Virginie in to crack her, to show her what sort of an assessor I am: I will push her to betray her lover for her company, forcing her to reveal technical information pertaining to the offshore rigs installed by Solarem. She will have to call her man and explain that, for work purposes, she must have certain pieces of confidential information about her competitor’s sites. To demonstrate her loyalty to her employer, she’ll have to make him be unfaithful to his. Perfect. Textbook.
As for Évelyne Camberlin, nothing. Odds and ends. Money farted into the breeze.
They saved the best until last.
David Fontana. The pro brought in by BLC Consulting to organize the hostage taking. I recognize him in the photograph: definitely the man I saw with Lacoste.
Six years ago he set up an agency specializing in security. Checks, installations, surveillance. His company is kosher. Nothing wrong with cashing in on the latest wave of collective paranoia. Every year, he and his team install more cameras than you can shake a stick at. His balance sheet is not entirely positive: the investigator’s theory is that a decent amount of his profit is stashed away with the help of some creative accounting before being paid to the boss on the sly. The hidden part of his business activities is more opaque, almost as much as his past. Business intelligence for companies, debt collection, protection in all its forms. His clients only see the agreeable side of his CV. He began his career in the army, the paratroopers, before making a long transition into the intelligence services. As far as his clients are concerned, his official pedigree ends there. He keeps quiet about his “freelance” (read “mercenary”) activities. Scratch below the surface and in the past twenty years we see David Fontana popping up in Burma, Kurdistan, Congo, former Yugoslavia . . . The man likes to travel. After that, he jumps on the modern bandwagon by joining various private military contractors, whose client lists include governments, multinational corporations and organizations, and diamond merchants. His main job is combat training, his skills getting plucked by the most famous agencies: Military Professional Resources Inc., DynCorp, Erinys, and the rest. Seems he’s been more than happy to lend a hand in several different theaters. You get the feeling that this guy is full of goodwill.
In the end, Fontana is forced into early retirement following a slight hiccup: he’s suspected of involvement in the massacre of seventy-four people in South Sudan at a time when the company employing him was propping up the Janjaweed, the government-supported militia.
After that he sensibly decides to settle down and establish his own surveillance and security company.
No doubt Bertrand Lacoste knows nothing of all this. Neither do Exxyal. His company brochure is squeaky clean, his CV meticulously sugarcoated. Not that they’d give two hoots anyway: no matter what domain they’re dealing with, they want skilled people, and there can be no doubt that David Fontana is an expert.
I think back to my fear at being found out by him outside the BLC Consulting building. My intuition wasn’t wrong.
I create a sheet for each of the three execs with my personal notes. As I imagine the questions I’m going to put to them and how I’m going to conduct the interviews, I can’t help feeling apprehensive. My selection process was rigorous, but if the execs who turn up on the day are different from the ones I’ve investigated and invested in, it will be catastrophic—I would be going in empty handed.
This prospect makes me so anxious that I instantly chase it from my mind. In life, you need luck, too. Having had my fair share of bad fortune over the years, it’s reasonable to suppose that I’m due some favorable odds. All the same, I go back over my selection criteria, and I’m relieved to reconfirm my choices. Now that the apartment is empty and I’m all alone, I have to resort to self-congratulation.
Bertrand,
So. After ignoring my message about my internship finishing and the permanent position you promised me, I hear you’ve awarded an unpaid internship to Thomas Jaulin, a friend of mine from college.
I notice that the role he’s been offered is absolutely identical to the one I’ve been carrying out for the past ten months at BLC (you just copy and pasted my contract when you drew up his!).
I’m keeping things “professional” for now, but I seriously hope that I’ve misread the situation.
Call me at home tonight, pls.
I don’t care what time.
Olenka
P.S. I left my little necklace in your bathroom, please keep an eye out for it . . .
From: Bertrand Lacoste
BLC Consulting
To the attention of: Olenka Zbikowski
Date: May 18
Subject: Your internship
Madame,
I have given our various discussions due consideration and can confirm that we cannot foresee a situation whereby you are granted permanent employment.
A number of recent contracts have allowed us to secure the company’s short-term future, but they are not sufficiently longstanding to enable us take on new colleagues on a lasting basis.
With the exception of one or two isolated incidents, your time at BLC Consulting can on the whole be described as satisfactory, and we are glad to have been able to offer you the opportunity of such a worthwhile experience that will strengthen your curriculum vitae as you approach potential employers.
I appreciate your surprise with regard to the approval of Monsieur Thomas Jaulin’s application for a five-month unpaid internship at BLC Consulting. Our acceptance followed your categorical refusal to extend your internship beyond May 30. It goes without saying, however, that, given your intimate understanding of our activities and the seamless manner in which you have engaged with your fellow team members, Monsieur Jaulin’s offer would immediately be withdrawn should you wish to extend your current internship.
I very much look forward to hearing your response.
Kindest regards,
Bertrand Lacoste
18
The situation couldn’t be clearer: the odds are in my favor.
I can’t imagine any of the other candidates being better prepared. I’ll be the best because I’ve worked the hardest.
This thought is running through my head when, at around 7:00 p.m., the telephone rings.
It goes to the answering machine, but it’s not Lucie’s voice on the speaker this time. I know this voice. It’s a woman. A young woman.
“My name is Olenka Zbikowski.”
I approach the speakerphone with a combination of intrigue and suspicion.
“We met at BLC Consulting when you came in for your tests. I was the one who . . .”
When I realize who she is, I rush to the telephone so quickly that I knock it over. I have to run my hand under the sofa to recover the handset.
“Hello!”
I’ve only taken three steps and done one squat but I’m as breathless as if I’d run a marathon. I am terrified by this call—it is not at all in the ordinary running of things.
“Monsieur Delambre?”
I confirm that yes, that’s me: my voice betrays panic, the girl apologizes, and I realize that it’s definitely her, the girl who handed out our test papers.
She wants to meet me. Immediately.
This isn’t normal.
“Why? Tell me why!”
She can hear how shaken I am by this call.
“I’m not very far from where you live. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
These twenty minutes feel like twenty hours, twenty years.
The meeting takes place in the little garden by the square. We’re sitting on a bench. The streetlights illuminate one by one. There aren’t many people around. She’s not as pretty as I remember, perhaps because she’s not wearing any makeup. She composes herself and, in very simple words, informs me that the world has ended.
“Officially, you’re one of four candidates, but three of you are just there to make up the numbers. The position is going to be allocated to a candidate named Juliette Rivet. You don’t stand a chance. You’re just a foil.”
This information whirls around in my brain, but it doesn’t break through the cortex. It carries on its journey before worming its way between my two synapses. The scale of the calamity starts to dawn on me.
“Juliette Rivet is a very close friend of Bertrand Lacoste,” the young woman continues. “She’s the one he will pick. So he has chosen three candidates for show. The first because he has an international profile that will satisfy the client, and another with a vaguely similar CV. But Lacoste is going to make sure they get marked down. As for you—you were chosen on account of your age. According to Lacoste, ‘It looks good to have an old guy in the picture these days.’”
“But Exxyal will choose the candidates, not him!”
She’s taken aback:
“How do you know that it’s Exxyal recruiting?”
“Answer me . . .”
“I have no idea how you know that, but Exxyal won’t contest Lacoste’s verdict. They’re looking for someone with a similar skill set and will be happy to take the candidate favored by the firm they’ve hired for the recruitment. End of story.”
I look around but it’s like a mist has descended. I’m about to faint. My stomach is in knots, my kidneys aching.
“This job is not for you, Monsieur Delambre. You have absolutely no chance.”
I am so disoriented, so bewildered that she wonders if she was right to warn me. I must be a frightening sight.
“But . . . Why are you telling me this?”
“I’ve informed the other two candidates as well.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Lacoste used me, squeezed me, drained me, then discarded me. I’m doing everything in my power to make sure his glorious operation fails because no one is there to take part in it. His candidate will be the only one who turns up. It will be a personal kick in the teeth and, as far as his client is concerned, an absolute disaster. I appreciate it’s a bit childish, but it makes me feel better.”
She stands up.
“The best thing you can do is not go, I guarantee. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your test results were very poor. You are no longer in the running, Monsieur Delambre, you shouldn’t have even been called in for an interview. Lacoste kept you for show, so even if by some small miracle you manage to pull something out of the bag, you don’t stand a chance. I’m sorry . . .”
She makes a vague hand gesture.
“I admit that I’m doing this mainly for selfish reasons, but I’m also telling you so that you don’t have to go through a fruitless and potentially humiliating experience. My father must be roughly the same age as you, and I wouldn’t want . . .”
She’s sufficiently thin skinned to realize that her attempt at demagoguery might be taking it one step too far. She purses her lips. My stricken expression is enough to tell her that she’s found her target.
I feel like I’ve had a lobotomy.
My brain has ceased to react.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you’ve known from the start that it was too good to be true. That’s why you called Bertrand . . . I mean Monsieur Lacoste a few days ago. You wanted to believe it, but it defied all logic. I think you know it . . .”
I wait for my brain to kick back into action.
When I look up, the girl is gone; she’s already at the edge of the square, heading slowly toward the métro.
It’s dark now. The lights are still off in the apartment. The window in the sitting room is wide open and the dim glow of the streetlights is trickling in.
I’m alone in my chaotic apartment. Nicole is gone. I’ve beaten up my son-in-law. He and my daughter are waiting to get their money back. The Logistics trial will be underway in a few weeks.
Suddenly the intercom rings.
Lucie. She’s downstairs.
She has called and called and now she’s worried.
I stand up but I barely make it to the door. I collapse to my knees and start crying.
Lucie’s voice is imploring.
“Open up, Papa.”
She knows I’m there because of the open window. I can’t even move now.
It’s finished. Time to bow out.
Tears come and keep on coming. Crying like this is my first real respite for a long time. The only thing that’s been absolutely true. Tears of disarray. I am devastated, inconsolable.
I have been crying, crying so much.
It must be very late. How long have I stayed here, slumped against the front door, sobbing? Until the tears run dry.
Finally, I summon the strength to get up, despite my exhaustion.
A few thoughts pick their way through my head.
I take a deep breath.
Anger overwhelms me.
I look up a telephone number and dial. I apologize for calling so late.
“Do you know where I can get myself a weapon? A real one . . .”
Kaminski leaves me hanging for a few seconds, unsure how to respond.
“In theory, yes. But . . . What exactly is it you need?”
“Anything . . . No! Not anything. A pistol. An automatic pistol. Can you? With real ammunition.”
Kaminski concentrates for a second.
“When do you need it for?”
DURING
19
An hour before the start of the operation, Monsieur Lacoste came to me and said:
“Monsieur Fontana, there’s been a slight change of plan. There will just be two candidates for the HR post, rather than four.”
His tone suggested that this was a minor detail that had no bearing on proceedings; but the tense expression I’d noted a few minutes earlier when he received his second text message of the morning led me to believe otherwise. His client, Exxyal, had requested four candidates, and it was hard to imagine that reducing this by half would be without consequence. Monsieur Lacoste didn’t give me any indication as to why these two candidates had pulled out at the last minute, and it wasn’t my place to ask.
I kept quiet. Not my problem. My job exclusively involved organizing the technical aspects of the operation: finding the premises, sourcing personnel, and so forth.
The fact is, I’ve run a fair number of operations in my time—many of them a lot more complex than this—and if my experience has taught me one thing, it’s that they are as vulnerable as living organisms. They’re like a chain: all the links must hold. So when little hitches start stacking up in the minutes before liftoff, alarm bells ring. You always have to trust your intuition. Except by the time your intuition tells you something’s wrong, it’s usually too late.
Inhuman Resources Page 13
