Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  Contrary to what people might think, in such circumstances it’s not the women who cry the most or the loudest. Monsieur Guéneau, who was maxed out on the tear front, stared at the ground between his legs, his jacket wrapped firmly around him. Monsieur Lussay, on the other hand, had picked up the baton and was now whimpering like a puppy afraid of being smacked. Madame Camberlin was crying in silence, her makeup a total mess, with black streaks down her cheekbones and only a small bit of rouge left on her lower lip. I always find it a little off-putting when middle-aged women look in such a state. Mademoiselle Tràn was very pale. She looked as if she’d aged ten years in the space of a few minutes, all the volume gone from her hair. I notice this a lot. When people are under duress, the first thing they let go is their appearance—their life is the only thing that matters anymore. And generally speaking, they become quite ugly.

  Most impressive of all was Monsieur Cousin. Normally, his extreme skinniness was extraordinary enough, but sitting there he was as upright as an altar candle, and his hawk-like eyes seemed to be scanning for obstacles. Unlike the others, who were prepared to abandon all dignity if it meant saving their lives, he was glaring at Monsieur Delambre as though he were a mortal enemy: unblinking, unflinching. It was as if they were on an equal footing, and his obedience to Monsieur Delambre’s every order betrayed a silent yet radical opposition, while his shrinking co-hostages moved as little as possible.

  The ones we could hear most clearly were Monsieur Lussay, who was moaning relentlessly, and Monsieur Renard, our actor, who looked as though he wanted to melt into the carpet to escape what was, undoubtedly, the most challenging role of his career.

  There was a thirty-second silence.

  Monsieur Dorfmann had managed to stay poker faced. As I’ve said before, his composure was quite remarkable.

  Monsieur Lacoste was just about regaining his senses. He looked over at me and raised his eyebrows, proof that he was prepared to stage an intervention. But this was my responsibility, not just because I was the organizer of the operation, but also because I had the longest track record in this field. I caught Yasmine’s eye, as I was aware of her experience in the psychological aspects of crisis situations. She responded with an ambiguous look—it was hard to read her opinion. I felt I was able to take the initiative, and so I made the most of this short lull to establish first contact:

  “What do you want, Monsieur Delambre?”

  I did my best to keep my voice serene, composed, but in retrospect I realize this wasn’t the best opening gambit. Monsieur Delambre came hurtling toward me, and we all recoiled, starting with me.

  “What about you—what do you want, you bastard?”

  He struck me with his gun, square in the forehead, near my hairline, and since I’d not seen him apply the safety catch, I’ll admit I was alarmed. I shut my eyes as tight as possible.

  “Nothing, I don’t want anything . . .”

  “That’s why you’re giving me shit, you bastard? For nothing?”

  A bead of cold sweat pricked at me, and I was overcome with nausea. You know, in my line of work, I know what the fear of death feels like, and I can assure you it’s unmistakable . . .

  The best thing was not to answer, to avoid agitating him any further.

  The barrel of his gun was pointed at my brain. The man was verging on pure insanity, and I told myself that at the first opportunity, I’d have no hesitation lodging a bullet in that same spot, right in his brain.

  25

  There was no doubt my intervention had been premature, but it was too late for regrets. I had presented Monsieur Delambre with a breach, and he’d charged right into it.

  “Alright then, big guy!” he said to me. “Where’s all your wonderful organization, now? Where is it now, eh, you prick?”

  I can’t tell you how the others reacted to this, because I kept my eyes closed.

  “It was all going so well . . . such a shame. Your little team, your little cameras, your shitty little machine guns!”

  He drilled the gun into my forehead, as if he wanted the barrel to pierce my skull.

  “But this one . . . this is a real one, my friend. With real bullets, that make real holes. We’re not playing Cowboys and Indians now. In fact, speaking of Indians, where’s the big chief?”

  Monsieur Delambre was standing up again, hand on hip, pretending to search around.

  “That’s a very good point . . . where’s the head honcho?”

  He knelt down in front of Monsieur Dorfmann, just as he had with me. He placed the tip of his Beretta in exactly the same position, right in the middle of his forehead. He was fizzing with hatred. He wanted to belittle us, humiliate us. This answered my question about his motives and went a long way to explaining what would happen in the future: deep down, Monsieur Delambre didn’t want anything. He wasn’t after money; he wasn’t demanding a ransom. No, he wanted revenge. Bitterness and resentment had driven him to these lengths. He was craving retribution of the symbolic kind.

  This aging, jobless executive was starting to take a perverse pleasure in brandishing a gun in the face of a major European CEO, so much so that a bloodbath had become a plausible outcome.

  “Well, then . . . ,” he continued. “He’s so discreet, our generalissimo. He seems worried sick. Of course he does—he’s got such mighty responsibilities! Must be tough, eh? Eh? Yes, it is, it’s tough . . .”

  Monsieur Delambre had adopted a theatrical, mocking, sympathetic tone.

  “Mass layoffs . . . Now that really is tough. But wait! That’s not even the toughest part, is it now? No, no, no . . . the toughest part is planning them all. Now that really is complicated. They’re just coming so thick and fast, aren’t they? You’ve hit your stride. It takes some expertise to manage all this firing—some real willpower. Got to bargain with the bastards, don’t you? And for that you need men, good ones at that. Soldiers, boots on the ground for the great capitalist cause. You can’t just pick any old so-and-so, can you, O mighty Caesar? And when it comes to choosing the best, nothing does it quite like a good old-fashioned hostage taking. Well: you’re in luck, dear leader. You’ve got one.”

  He leaned forward, turning his head to the side, as if he were about to kiss him on the lips, and I managed to catch a glimpse of Monsieur Dorfmann’s face. He was keeping his cool, holding his breath and thinking about what to say. But he never got the chance—Monsieur Delambre was on a roll.

  “In fact, your higher-than-highness, tell me about Sarqueville: how many exactly are you firing there?”

  “What . . . what do you want?” Monsieur Dorfmann managed to say.

  “I want to know how many people you’re firing from that plant. I could easily kill everyone here for you, right here, right now. That would make twelve. A decent start. But I’m just a lowly sole trader. You—you work on an industrial scale. How many are you planning to mow down at Sarqueville?”

  Monsieur Dorfmann felt it wise not to venture down that road, and he decided to keep quiet. Good job, too, if you ask me.

  “I remember reading the number 823 somewhere,” Monsieur Delambre continued. “But I don’t know if that last count’s up to date. How many is it, exactly?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Oh, but you do, you do know!” Monsieur Delambre insisted, brimming with confidence. “So come on, enough false modesty . . . How many?”

  “I don’t know, I’m telling you!” Monsieur Dorfmann shouted. “Just tell me what you want!”

  Monsieur Delambre ignored him.

  “It’ll come back to you. You’ll see,” he said.

  He turned, raised his, arm and fired at the water cooler, smashing it to smithereens and sending five gallons of water cascading onto the floor.

  Eight bullets left. And nobody was in any doubt that he was capable of inflicting far more damage with that much ammo.

  Once again he leaned toward Monsieur Dorfmann.

  “Where were we? Oh, yes. Sarqueville. So, how many exactly
?”

  “Eight hundred and twenty-five,” Monsieur Dorfmann whispered.

  “There you go—it did come back. So let me see . . . that’s two more. But, two doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? My guess is that those two people see it rather differently.”

  Up to that point, Monsieur Delambre had been organized and meticulous, but since he’d started addressing Monsieur Dorfmann, his strategy seemed less coherent, as though he had lost track of what he wanted to achieve. This backed up my theory that his sole aim in taking us hostage was to frighten or humiliate us. As hard as it was to believe, this was the most likely explanation, judging by his behavior.

  Stress. It’s sort of like a thread that each of us carries inside, a thread whose resistance we can never really predict. Everyone has their own threshold. Madame Camberlin must have reached her breaking point, because she’d started moaning, quietly at first, then louder and louder. As though this were a signal or a form of consent, all the others started wailing, too. The collective effect reminded me of a pressure valve being released. With this cry, everyone gave free rein to their fear and anguish, and as it drew out, the voices of the men and women melded into a single bestial lowing that filled the room, and I thought it would never stop.

  In the midst of this astonishing cacophony, Monsieur Delambre couldn’t meet anyone’s eye, since they all had their chins pressed into their chests, their eyes screwed tight shut. He staggered back into the center of the room and started yelling himself, and his shriek was so powerful, so harrowing, that his pain seemed to stem from somewhere far deeper . . . The others fell silent, cut off in their stride, and looked up at him. It was a curious scene, you know: this man standing in the middle of a meeting room, pistol in hand, his eyes raised to the heavens as he howled like a wolf, as though he were on the brink of death. In a split second, Kader and I reached an agreement. We flung ourselves at him, Kader at his legs, me at his waist. But Monsieur Delambre dropped to the floor, like a house of cards, the best possible way to check our attack. His bullet struck me in my right leg, and Kader held up his hands in surrender after Monsieur Delambre had cracked him over the head with the butt of his pistol.

  “Nobody move! Stay where you are!” I shouted though the pain. I was afraid someone else might try to attack and make him start spraying bullets all over the place.

  Kader and I crept back toward the wall, me clutching my leg, him his head. The sight of blood marked a new stage in events, and everyone was aware of the escalation. Until this point, there had been noise and fear, but the blood made things more physical, more visceral. It took us one step closer to death and drew another collective whine from the hostages.

  I’ve thought long and hard about whether I did the right thing. Kader assures me I did. He figures we couldn’t have let the situation unravel without trying something, and that had been the most opportune moment. The way I see it, a course of action is only correct if it’s successful. This episode heightened my frustration and made me all the more determined to show Monsieur Delambre that he wouldn’t escape so lightly forever.

  Back against the wall, Kader and I established that neither of us was seriously injured. He only had a slight gash on his scalp, but it was still bleeding freely, quite spectacularly, in fact. As for me, I was clasping my leg and grimacing, but as soon as I ripped open my trouser leg, I realized that the bullet had grazed me without causing much damage. But Monsieur Delambre was oblivious of this, and so without exchanging a word, Kader and I exaggerated our pain.

  Monsieur Delambre had come around and was back in the middle of the room. He retreated within himself, not knowing what to do.

  “You need to call an ambulance,” I murmured.

  He was disoriented, lost, unhinged. It fell to us to provide him with solutions.

  He didn’t answer, so I pressed on, trying hard to keep my voice level.

  “Things aren’t too bad for now, Monsieur Delambre. You can still come out of this okay. It’s fine, we’re only wounded. But you see, I’m losing a lot of blood. Kader, too . . . You need to call an ambulance.”

  I didn’t have my watch anymore, but I knew that the real hostage taking had only been going on for about twenty minutes so far. Monsieur Delambre had fired five shots, but the building was in a business park, and on a public holiday like this, there was little chance that anyone had raised the alarm. There was only one remaining solution: for Monsieur Delambre to give himself up. Our wounds provided good leverage for this outcome, but Monsieur Delambre was showing no sign of going down without a fight. He shook his head over and over, as if hoping the problem would take care of itself.

  “Wounds . . . Anyone here know first aid?” he said after a brief silence.

  No one answered. Everyone knew instinctively that a new power struggle was about to unfold.

  “So? Anyone? Okay, let’s try this another way!” Monsieur Delambre said. “Fuck, if we’re going to cause irreparable damage, we might as well do it properly!”

  Two strides and he was in front of Monsieur Dorfmann, crouching down and resting the barrel of his gun on the CEO’s knee.

  “Come on then, The Great Helmsman. Time for some heroics!”

  Judging by the speed with which he’d made his decision, there was no doubt whatsoever that he was going to shoot, but a loud voice stopped him short.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Monsieur Cousin was on his feet. He looked like a ghost, there’s no other way to describe it. He had a milky-white complexion, almost translucent, and a wild look in his eyes. Even Monsieur Delambre was thrown.

  “I know a bit of first aid. I’ll have a look.”

  And Monsieur Cousin was on the move. It was so surprising that he seemed to be walking in slow motion. First he approached Kader.

  “Look down,” he said, leaning down next to him and fiddling with his hair for a second.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, “just an abrasion to the scalp. It’s superficial. The bleeding will stop on its own.”

  He spoke with immense authority, as if he himself had become the hostage taker. His assurance and gravitas meant that he had switched roles with Monsieur Delambre, who stayed kneeling in front of the Exxyal chairman, unsure what to do.

  Then Monsieur Cousin stooped down to inspect my leg. He lifted it from underneath the tibia like paramedics do, and moved the fabric to one side.

  “Same—this one’s not serious either. It’ll be just fine,” he said.

  He stood up and turned toward Monsieur Delambre.

  “Okay, so . . . What do you want exactly? Let’s get this over with! Who are you, anyway?”

  Monsieur Cousin was holding his captor to account.

  In the space of a few seconds, this hostage taking had become a battle of two wills. The hostages were still sitting around the room, forming a sort of ring around the two men glaring at each other in the middle. Monsieur Delambre was at a major advantage: he had a gun. He had used it six times, making several holes in the wall, injuring two people and annihilating a water cooler. And he had seven bullets left. Monsieur Cousin, however, was not about to feel intimidated by his opponent. His hackles were up, and he looked ready for a fight.

  “Aaaaaah!” sighed Monsieur Delambre. “The model exec swoops in to rescue his boss—how touching!”

  He had taken a backward step, so that he was pressed against the door, his pistol still held in both hands. He swung toward Monsieur Dorfmann again.

  “Congratulations, your Excellency, for what you’ve achieved with this man. He’s almost the prototype! You fire him, but he carries on working for free, hoping you’ll take him back on. Isn’t that just wonderful?!”

  As he spoke he pointed his gun skyward as if he might fire at the ceiling, or as though calling everyone to witness. Then he thrust it toward Monsieur Cousin, nodding his head in admiration.

  “And you, you want to defend your company, is that it? Risk your life for it, if need be? It’s your family, your gang! They’ve been running y
ou into the ground for months . . . no qualms whatsoever about giving you the boot. But that doesn’t mean a thing to you: you’re willing to die for them! That’s not just submission—that’s martyrdom.”

  Monsieur Cousin looked him square in the eyes, not in the least bit shaken:

  “I repeat,” he said. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  He didn’t seem at all fazed by Monsieur Delambre’s performance, nor by the weapon training at him.

  Monsieur Delambre brought his arms to his sides with a false air of remorse:

  “But, the same thing as you, old boy. All I want is a job.”

  He then stalked up to Monsieur Lacoste, whose face contorted with fear. This time, instead of resting the barrel on his forehead, he aimed it directly at his heart.

  “I did everything to get this job.”

  “Listen . . .” Monsieur Lacoste stammered. “I think you have . . .”

  But Monsieur Delambre silenced him by pressing the weapon farther into his chest. His voice was calm now, and that’s what was so frightening—how measured his tone was:

  “I worked harder than anyone to get this job. You led me to believe I had every chance. You lied to me, because in your mind, I’m not even human.”

  He started tapping Monsieur Lacoste’s chest again with the barrel of the gun.

  “The truth is, I’m better than her! Miles better!” he yelled, jerking his head toward Mademoiselle Rivet, whose presence only seemed to add to his fury, because suddenly he shouted: