Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  That’s how I see it, at least.

  Anyway, there was Monsieur Dorfmann holding court at the end of the table. One by one, his colleagues came in and, amid all the backslapping, advanced straight past “Go” and landed on the square marked “Power,” shaking their CEO’s hand before schmoozing with Monsieur Renard and Malik, who Monsieur Dorfmann took a moment to introduce. Then they took their seats.

  Back where we were in the observation room, Monsieur Lacoste named each executive as he or she arrived, pointing out each one in turn to Mademoiselle Rivet and Monsieur Delambre against the list they had been given. For example, he’d say: “Maxime Lussay, PhD in law, thirty-five, legal department”; or “Virginie Tràn, thirty-five, graduate in business, sales executive.”

  Monsieur Delambre had clearly done his homework. He had sheets for each candidate and was taking lots of notes, on their behavior I suppose, but his hand was shaking so much I wondered if he’d manage to read them later on. Mademoiselle Rivet’s approach was less intensive: she was working directly on the document she’d been sent, and was marking the names of the people with a cross as they entered. The overall impression was that she hadn’t taken her preparation very seriously.

  Monsieur Jean-Marc Guéneau and Monsieur Paul Cousin arrived within a few minutes of each other.

  The former is an economist, and the first thing that struck you was how pleased he was with himself. He strutted around with an air of entitlement, puffing out his chest, reeking of self-confidence. His lazy eye was irritating—you couldn’t tell which one was true.

  His neighbor, Monsieur Paul Cousin, was the exact opposite. I remember noticing that Monsieur Cousin had a very large head, at the same time as being frighteningly thin. He had a fanatical look in his eyes, like an overzealous churchgoer. A raft of engineering degrees, a decent part of his career spent in the Persian Gulf, followed by a return to HQ four years ago with considerable levels of responsibility. This guy is Captain Technical, the Emperor of the Oil Well.

  Madame Camberlin is around fifty, a senior project manager. She was sufficiently sure of herself not to mind arriving last.

  Monsieur Dorfmann seemed eager to make a start, so he tapped his fingers on the table before turning to Monsieur Renard and Malik.

  “All right, then. First of all, allow me to wish you a warm welcome on behalf of Exxyal Europe. The introductions were a little swift, so if I may . . .”

  The atmosphere in the observation room had hardly been light in the first place, but at that point it became oppressive.

  The voices we heard through the speakers seemed to come from a faraway and sinister world. I looked over at Monsieur Lacoste, who responded with a small nod of the head.

  I left the room to join my team in the area next door. Out in the corridor, I could hear Monsieur Dorfmann’s voice filtering through from the meeting room.

  (. . . with this highly promising synergy, which we are absolutely thrilled about . . .)

  All three of them were prepared. True professionals. All I had to do was adjust the angle of Yasmine’s submachine gun, a reflex on my part. Then I held my arms out to the side.

  The signal was clear: it is time.

  Kader gave a nod.

  They were on the move immediately. I watched them file down the corridor (. . . and represents a major turning point in global strategy for stakeholders across our sector. This is why . . .). I followed them before making a sharp turn and falling back in behind Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet.

  In under seven seconds, the commandos reached the meeting room and burst through the door.

  “Hands on the table!” Kader screamed, while Mourad headed to his right and stalked around the perimeter of the room.

  Yasmine nimbly circled the table, banging her Uzi barrel loudly on the desk to make sure everyone obeyed the order.

  They were all so shocked that no one moved a muscle. Not a sound was uttered as everyone held their breath. The Exxyal execs looked aghast at the submachine gun barrels a few inches from their faces. They were too hypnotized to register who was holding them.

  In front of his screen, Monsieur Delambre tried to write something on his pad, but his hand was trembling too much. He glanced to his right, where Mademoiselle Rivet was trying to keep a certain distance. Everything happened so suddenly that her face had gone almost as white as her neighbor’s.

  Using the remote control, I activated the camera recording the scene and panned around the table: the five execs were wide eyed with terror, no one attempting even the smallest movement. They were petrified.

  On our screens, we saw Kader approach Monsieur Dorfmann.

  “Monsieur Dorfmann,” he began, with his thick Arabic accent.

  The Exxyal boss slowly looked up. He suddenly seemed smaller, older. His mouth hung open and his eyes looked as if they might burst out of their sockets.

  “You’re going to help me clarify the situation, if you don’t mind,” Kader continued.

  Even if someone had been crazy enough to intervene, he wouldn’t have had time to lift a finger. In less than two seconds, Kader took out his Sig Sauer pistol, extended his arm toward Monsieur Dorfmann, and fired.

  The sound was deafening.

  Monsieur Dorfmann’s body was flung backward, his chair tipping back for a moment into thin air before snapping forward and throwing his upper body onto the table.

  Then the action sped up. Malik stood, his huge djellaba billowing around him, and started yelling at the leader of the commandos in Arabic. There was an urgency to his words as he unleashed a stream of furious, panic-stricken insults, the sentences flooding from his mouth. The torrent dried up when Kader fired a bullet into his chest, striking him near his heart. Malik did a quarter turn that he didn’t have time to complete as the second bullet hit him full in the stomach. He folded under the impact and collapsed to the ground with a thud.

  Hostage behavior falls into three categories: physical resistance, verbal resistance, and nonresistance. As a matter of course, we favor nonresistance, since it helps the remainder of the operation run more smoothly. During the preparations, I had selected a hostage to “symbolize” a losing strategy (Malik had just achieved this task perfectly) in order to demonstrate that nonresistance represented the group’s best chance of survival. Our client had asked us to test their employees’ shock resistance, which requires—as Monsieur Lacoste had reminded me on several occasions—assessing their level of cooperation with the enemy on a scale that runs from total resistance on one end, to barefaced collaboration on the other. For this to happen, it was essential that they agreed to negotiate, and the best way to do this was effectively to show that it was the only option available to them.

  But let me return to the action.

  With the first bullet, everyone let out a muffled cry. Try to imagine . . . by that point the room was shuddering with the sound of the three explosions, which completely dominated the room, and two men were lying on the ground, each of them with a bloodstain spreading around their bodies.

  Madame Camberlin clasped her hands to her ears, while Monsieur Lussay—eyes screwed shut, palms flat on the table, completely disoriented—thrashed his head from left to right as though he was trying to bounce his brain from one side of his skull to the other.

  “I think the rules have been made clear. My name is Kader. But we have plenty of time to get to know one another.”

  His voice seemed muffled to them.

  Kader looked down at Monsieur Guéneau and frowned with mild disdain.

  There was a clear sound of dripping liquid; a large, dark puddle was forming beneath Monsieur Guéneau’s chair.

  Despite the fact that all people have distinct characters and temperaments, hostages always respond in more or less the same way. The brain reacts to suddenness, terror, and threat in a fairly narrow way. It is common for hostages—as seemed to be the case with Monsieur Cousin, who was clasping his head and gazing directly ahead of him—to remain in a state of incredulity
because of the suddenness of the attack, as though refusing to believe it, preferring to think they’ve fallen victim to some sick practical joke. But it doesn’t take long for them to come around to a more rational state, especially when you kill one or two people in front of them. That was why I’d chosen to “take out” Monsieur Dorfmann immediately, since he represented a figure of authority in their eyes. This maneuver served to flip the pyramid on its head, and consequently the commando’s message was clear: we’re in charge. The fact that Monsieur Dorfmann had played his role to perfection, bursting the pouch of blood I had provided him with and falling just the way I had shown him, only added to the effect. I’d reassured him beforehand: at the end of the day, no one would notice if he didn’t pull it off perfectly, since people’s brains are so frazzled by the unexpected nature of the situation.

  Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet froze. A hostage taking on television and a hostage taking in real life are not at all the same thing. I know, I know, this wasn’t exactly “real life” but, without wanting to blow my own trumpet, it was quite realistic. The two candidates experienced the action as though they were in the meeting room themselves. The reason I say that? Their reactions. Going back to what I was saying about the different behaviors exhibited by victims in this sort of situation, they encompass nine key emotions: shock, astonishment, anxiety, terror, frustration, vulnerability, powerlessness, humiliation, and isolation. Monsieur Delambre’s reaction corresponded with anxiety and isolation, while Mademoiselle Rivet was displaying shock and terror.

  In the event that the murder of the Arab client didn’t have the desired deterrent effect, my plan was to cut short any attempt at physical resistance by the hostages.

  “Everyone over here!” Mourad shouted, gesturing toward the wall opposite the windows.

  Struck dumb with fear, they all stood up and started shuffling around uncertainly, as though they were afraid they might knock over a valuable object, keeping their heads down to avoid any missile that might come their way.

  “Hands against the wall, legs apart!” Mourad shouted.

  Monsieur Lussay, who had no doubt seen this done before on television, spread his arms and legs wide, his buttocks tensed as he waited to be frisked. Next to him, Mademoiselle Tràn’s tight skirt was inhibiting her legs. Yasmine approached her from behind and yanked up the material with the tip of her gun, before kicking her feet apart harshly. Mademoiselle Tràn placed her hands against the wall, too, fingers splayed. Having her skirt hitched up like that was degrading, especially with men around: another effective technique to emphasize a hostage’s vulnerability. As for Monsieur Guéneau, his trousers were sodden down to his knees and his whole body was shaking, while Monsieur Cousin’s eyes were screwed shut as though he were expecting a bullet to shatter his skull at any second. Wedged between the Exxyal execs, Monsieur Renard, our actor, was murmuring away softly and incomprehensibly. Madame Camberlin, at the end of the line, seemed all the more unnerved when she realized he was reciting a prayer (just as I’d instructed him). The sound of someone praying for their life is another good way of guaranteeing cooperation in hostage situations.

  A few seconds later, their backs still turned, everyone heard footsteps, then a door opening and closing again. Each of them must have sensed a figure moving back and forth behind them. They could make out the sound of tables being dragged, and then some panting. The commandos were busy removing the two bodies.

  After two or three minutes, Kader ordered them to turn around. The tables had been lined up along the partition wall, and the bloodstains on the carpet were glistening black. The center of the room was entirely empty; in situations like this, nothing is more unsettling than emptiness.

  When Mourad came back into the room, his submachine gun hanging limply in his hands, it was clear he had wiped his bloodied chest with the back of his sleeve. Like a carefully choreographed routine, each member of the commandos assumed a position in front of the line of hostages: Kader in the middle, Yasmine to the right, Mourad to the left.

  A few seconds went by, during which the only sound was Monsieur Guéneau’s sobbing as he stared at the floor.

  “Okay,” Kader said. “Everyone empty their pockets!”

  Wallets, bunches of keys, music players, and cell phones were collected into the two women’s handbags on the big conference table.

  Yasmine walked down the ranks and began searching them with her expert hands. She left nothing to chance: pockets, belts . . . everything. Mademoiselle Tràn felt the young woman’s hands skim dexterously over her breasts and between her thighs. Madame Camberlin wasn’t paying attention to anything; she was simply trying to keep herself upright, even though it was obvious that all she wanted was to collapse in a heap. Yasmine then frisked the men, running her skillful hands over their buttocks and the inside of their legs. Even Monsieur Guéneau’s drenched trouser legs were patted down without any compromise before she took a few steps back and signaled to the leader that all was in order.

  The hostages were lined up again, still on their feet, with the commandos fanned out in front of them.

  “We are here for a sacred cause,” Kader said calmly, “a cause worthy of every sacrifice. We require your cooperation, and we are prepared to lay down our lives to get it. Yours, too, should that be necessary. We will leave you to reflect on this for a moment. Allahu akbar!”

  The other two commandos repeated “Allahu akbar” after him in unison. Then the leader walked out, followed by Yasmine, leaving big Mourad to guard them on his own.

  No one knew what to do.

  No one moved.

  Monsieur Guéneau fell to his knees and huddled on the floor, sobbing.

  21

  Malik had changed out of his costume into jeans and a pullover, and his sports bag was sitting next to him on the floor. I gave him his envelope, we shook hands, and he disappeared off to the elevator while I went back to Monsieur Delambre and Mademoiselle Rivet.

  After putting on a fresh shirt and suit in the rest area, Monsieur Dorfmann poked his head in. I gave him a thumbs-up to confirm that he had played his part wonderfully. He smiled at me, and I realized at that moment that I’d never seen him smile before.

  He slipped away and, along with Monsieur Lacoste, went back to the rest area, where the monitors were showing footage from both the meeting room where the hostages were being held and the interrogation chamber where his executives would soon be taking it in turns to sit down across the table from Kader.

  From then on, Monsieur Dorfmann and Monsieur Lacoste worked away in their room. They were the sleeping partners: it was their job to discuss the test and comment on the executives’ performance. I was alone with the other two candidates to oversee the technical developments of the hostage taking. It’s funny, but despite the extensive (and, as it would emerge, memorable) operation I’d put together for Monsieur Dorfmann, I don’t think I’d exchanged more than twenty sentences with him. I had no idea what state of mind the man was in. He must have been certain that it was necessary and in the best interests of his company. He was the god of his world. But who was his god? What did he worship? His board of directors? His shareholders? Money? I was still pondering this when Monsieur Delambre started fidgeting in his chair. I assumed he needed to use the bathroom. Mademoiselle Rivet was deathly pale, jotting down the odd word on her pad, clicking her ballpoint pen, and pulling her suit jacket around her as though she were suddenly cold.

  “We’ll get them into position. Then it’s up to you how you play it,” I said. My voice made them jump. They both turned toward me, which meant I could see them face-on. They were no longer the same. I’ve seen it so many times: strong emotions contort people’s appearances, as though their true faces, their true selves, come to the surface in extreme circumstances. Monsieur Delambre was the worst—his grimace looked like a death mask.

  “Mourad, arrange them in a circle as planned, please,” I said into the microphone.

  As I was speaking to him, Moura
d cupped his hand around his ear like a singer. He nodded, standing in the middle of the room, but as he moved away the earpiece fell out.

  “Alright,” he said.

  Six pairs of frantic eyes turned on him, then on the earpiece dangling comically on the end of its wire.

  “We’re going to, uh . . .” Mourad said. “We’re going to change. Position. We’re going to change it.”

  The message didn’t register. Right from the start, I’d never been a hundred percent sure about him: even in the practice runs, he hadn’t covered himself in glory. I’d brought him on board because of his physical presence, but frankly the guy’s as thick as a board, which ensured I kept his involvement to a minimum. He’s Kader’s cousin, and I agreed to have him on the basis that this was a role play—I wouldn’t have given his CV more than three seconds if this had been a real operation. In fact, if you want the truth, he kind of cracked me up. But I have to admit he’d surpassed himself with the earpiece gaffe. If the situation hadn’t been so fraught, I would have burst out laughing, but in the circumstances, all I could do was join the others in watching the scene anxiously.

  The hostages were aware that they had to act, but the “position” instruction had baffled everyone. Madame Camberlin looked at Mademoiselle Tràn, who was examining Monsieur Cousin. Monsieur Renard had stopped praying, while the sniveling Monsieur Lussay stared at Monsieur Guéneau. Nobody knew what was going on.