Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  “I deserved this job! And you stole it from me! You hear me: you stole it from me and it was all I had left!”

  He fell silent. He leaned in close to Monsieur Lacoste’s ear and, loud enough for all of us to hear, said:

  “So, because you won’t give me what I am due, I have come to take my pound of flesh.”

  Suddenly we heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

  As soon as he realized that Monsieur Cousin had fled down the corridor, Monsieur Delambre swung around and shot at the main entrance, but his aim was too high and he only managed to make a hole in the partition wall. He started running, careered into a chair that Monsieur Cousin had knocked over on his way past, nearly crashing to the floor with his gun, but making it to the corridor. We saw him raise his weapon with both hands, hesitate, then lower his arms. It was too late.

  He now only had two bad solutions to choose between: running after Monsieur Cousin and leaving us unguarded with our telephones, or staying with us and letting Monsieur Cousin go and call for help.

  He was trapped.

  There was still no shortage of possible outcomes, but at that point it ceased to matter what happened, or whether some people came out dead or alive: one way or another, it was over.

  The experience taught me that it only takes a couple of seconds for a man to become a maniac. The basic ingredients (a sense of humiliation or injustice, extreme loneliness, a weapon and nothing to lose) all resulted in Monsieur Delambre’s decision to barricade himself in with us as the police arrived outside.

  When he reentered the room, his gun dangling by his side and his head bowed in defeat, I thought it was Monsieur Delambre’s turn to start crying.

  26

  Monsieur Delambre could have chosen to back down, but I don’t think he had the strength. He had reached a point of no return, and he clearly had no idea how things were going to finish. That’s always the hardest part—finishing.

  He pulled up a chair and just sat there, back to the door, facing the hostages.

  He was no longer the same man. He was beaten, spent. Worse than that, he was crushed. With his elbows resting on his knees, he held his pistol limply in his right hand, gazing at the floor. In his left hand, he was fingering a small piece of orange cloth, which had a sort of miniscule bell that made a sharp ringing sound. It looked like a lucky charm.

  Monsieur Delambre had positioned himself at the opposite end of the room, too far away for anyone to reach him before he could raise his gun.

  What was I thinking at that moment? Well, I was wondering what he had been hoping would happen. He had brought a loaded gun, which suggested he had always been prepared to use it, but what was his objective? No matter how much I turn it over in my head, the vision he presented at that instant confirmed everything: Monsieur Delambre had acted out of desperation. So desperate, so devoid of hope, that he was willing to kill.

  As Monsieur Cousin had predicted prior to his escape, Kader’s bleeding had effectively stopped. As for me, I’d made a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood, and now it was just a matter of patience.

  A calm composure had settled over the group. It felt like a vigil. The tears had stopped, along with the groans, moans, and grievances. The whole thing had lasted well under an hour, but enough had happened to leave everyone traumatized.

  The stage was set for the final act.

  Everyone was apprehensive, retreating within themselves to summon as much strength as they could. If Monsieur Delambre’s will to keep us there appeared to be faltering, then there was some hope, but you only needed to look at him to see that he was in it for the long haul, and there was no telling how long.

  And so when the first police sirens were heard a short while later, everyone was wondering what the next twist in the saga would be. Would Monsieur Delambre surrender or make a stand? Heads or tails? Everyone placed their bets; everyone waited for the outcome.

  When the sirens drew nearer, Monsieur Delambre didn’t look up; he didn’t make even the slightest movement. His spirits had been sapped. I listened closely and discerned at least five police cars and two ambulances. Monsieur Cousin must have been efficient and persuasive, since the authorities had taken him seriously. We could hear the heavy tramping of boots in the parking lot. The police were assessing the scale of the problem. First the building had to be secured. In a few minutes’ time, vanloads of RAID counterterrorist teams would arrive. We would then enter into a negotiation process lasting five minutes or thirty hours, depending on how comprehensive, skillful, and resistant Monsieur Delambre proved to be. As he was still looking at his feet, lost in thought, the hostages stared at one another, communicating silently as their personal uncertainty accumulated to form a collective anxiety. Monsieur Dorfmann, collected as ever, tried to calm everyone down by looking reassuringly at each person in turn. Monsieur Lacoste, however, had been found wanting from the start of the ordeal and still hadn’t managed to get back on track. He looked defeated.

  A megaphone crackled to life, and a voice was heard:

  “The building is surrounded . . .”

  Still slumped in his chair and his head still lowered, Monsieur Delambre held his arm aloft and—without a second’s hesitation—fired a bullet into the window. The glass behind the blind shattered with an almighty crash, and all the hostages instantly rolled into a ball to protect their heads from the falling shards.

  Then Monsieur Delambre stood up, went over to his briefcase, and opened it, taking no precautions whatsoever with regard to us, as if we were no longer an issue. He removed two Beretta magazines—enough for a siege—and returned to his seat, laying the fresh ammunition at his feet. This didn’t bode well at all for the final phase.

  After their first announcement on the megaphone, the police didn’t push it. A few minutes later, more sirens. RAID had just arrived. They would need about twenty minutes to consult the building’s architectural plans, establish eyes and ears where possible to observe what was happening in our room, and assemble teams at the key access points with a view to sealing the premises. At the same time, elite RAID snipers would be positioned opposite the windows, each one of them capable of slamming two bullets into Monsieur Delambre’s head should he make the smallest slip.

  I estimated first contact from the negotiator to come after about ten minutes, and I figure I wasn’t far off. He called on an inside line that was located on the floor near the wall to Monsieur Delambre’s right.

  All eyes converged on the device, but it took a good twelve rings before Monsieur Delambre decided to react. He seemed exhausted. The handset was a standard-issue thing with buttons and a digital screen.

  “Hello,” Monsieur Delambre said, picking it up, but without initial success. Then he pushed a button, then a second, before getting very angry very quickly and pushing almost all of them, following which all of us could hear the person speaking at the other end—he’d pressed the loudspeaker button by mistake, not that this seemed to bother him.

  “Monsieur Delambre, this is Captain Prungnaud.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know how the hostages are doing.”

  Monsieur Delambre looked around the room.

  “Everyone’s fine.”

  “You’ve wounded two of them.”

  The conversation adhered to normal protocol and advanced as predicted. It didn’t take long at all for Monsieur Delambre to declare that he wouldn’t let anyone go, and that they would have to “come and fetch him.” To punctuate this announcement, he took aim and shattered two more windows. The laminated blinds he’d pierced now had large holes burned out of them, which gave a solid impression of what might happen if Monsieur Delambre decided to start firing at us instead of the windows. At that moment, the RAID snipers would no doubt be squirming in the hope of catching a glimpse of Monsieur Delambre through the gaping holes in the blinds, but he was too far from the windows for them to risk anything.

  Neither Kader nor I could wait any longer to intervene. Whi
le we were waiting for the police, I had stolen a glance at Yasmine, who until now had been keeping a low profile, which was quite out of character for her. Throughout the long wait, she had—moving by fractions of an inch—managed to change position, stealthily bringing a foot beneath her backside, shifting her opposite arm: on her mark, set, and ready to pounce. A true pro. She was sitting about twenty feet from Monsieur Delambre, and I knew that she was ready to take him out at the first sign of weakness. A little earlier, when Monsieur Delambre had gone to get his extra ammunition, I signaled to her that it wasn’t the right moment. The perfect window would be just after he fired his final bullet. In the few seconds it would take him to realize his magazine was empty, get a new one, and replace it, Yasmine would have all the time in the world. I wouldn’t have given Monsieur Delambre a one-in-a-hundred chance against that perfectly trained live wire. For the moment, he had three bullets left and seemed primed to fire at anything that moved; paradoxically, this was good news for us, since it meant our opportune moment would arrive sooner. We therefore had an unexpected chance to take action before RAID.

  And to be perfectly honest, that was my sole objective.

  I felt thwarted, and I’d vowed to resolve the situation myself before the security forces arrived. It was a matter of honor. I was all the more determined since Monsieur Delambre was armed: I could kill him in cold blood without any fear of the consequences and claim self-defense. In front of the other hostages, I would let off a quick burst, pretending I didn’t have time to take aim, even though in truth I’d need just a few tenths of a second to lodge a bullet right in the middle of his forehead. Which was precisely my intention.

  But things didn’t quite pan out like that, you might say.

  Monsieur Delambre seemed more confused than ever, and was trying to remember all the advice he’d been given. He was back on his chair, facing the group, but as we waited for him to fire his last round, he ejected his current magazine and replaced it with a fresh one. The whole thing took him less than four seconds, and before we knew it Monsieur Delambre was holding a newly loaded pistol with thirteen good bullets, ready for action.

  Yasmine kept her cool, but inside I could tell she was devastated. We were heading for a RAID assault, with all the consequences that entailed.

  Our room was on the fourth floor of the building. Three of the four windows had been shattered by gunshots, and the wind was blowing in through the gaps. At first the air had been rather pleasant, but now it was making things extremely uncomfortable. Would the RAID team opt for this entry point? Not impossible . . . My money was on a simultaneous double offensive targeting the corridor and the exterior: a two-pronged attack that Monsieur Delambre would be incapable of resisting by himself. And after seeing him blast out three windows without warning and with real bullets, the security forces would never give a man holding twelve people hostage (including two injured) any chance of escaping with his life.

  From an investigation point of view, the police and RAID had moved very quickly: Monsieur Delambre had been identified, allowing the negotiator to call him by his name from first contact. In fact, from the information supplied by Monsieur Cousin, it must have been easy for them to pull up Monsieur Dorfmann and Monsieur Lacoste, and maybe even collar Mademoiselle Zbikowski, who surely held the keys to this mystery.

  The first round of negotiations had been over and done with very quickly—the three gunshots made sure of that. It wouldn’t be long until RAID turned up the heat again. Only ten minutes, as it happened.

  Monsieur Delambre stood up at the second ring. Yasmine watched his every movement. So did I. Would he look away while he was talking? Where would he leave his weapon during the conversation? Would he move as far as the telephone cord let him? He jabbed at the buttons again, one undoubtedly canceling out the other, and the loudspeaker stayed activated.

  “Monsieur Delambre, what do you want?”

  Captain Prungnaud again, whose clear, calm voice oozed professionalism.

  “I don’t know . . . Can you find me a job?”

  “Yes, I had a feeling the problem might have been along those lines.”

  “That’s correct, just a small problem. ‘Along those lines.’ I have a proposal for you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The people here with me all have jobs. If I kill one of them—any of them—and free the rest, can I have their job?”

  “We can talk about anything, Monsieur Delambre, and I mean anything, including your job hunt, but before that we’ll need you to release some hostages.”

  “Talk about money, for example?”

  The negotiator let that one lie for a second, just to size up the problem.

  “You want money? How m—?”

  But before he could finish his sentence, Monsieur Delambre had fired at the last window, sending more glass crashing onto the crouched hostages.

  We’d barely opened our eyes before Monsieur Delambre had hung up and resumed his position. A huge commotion could be heard downstairs in the parking lot. The fact they were dealing with someone hell-bent on exterminating windows at random intervals was not making the security forces’ job any easier.

  The telephone rang again about five minutes later.

  “Alain . . .”

  “That’s Monsieur Delambre to you! It’s not like we’re old pals from the job center!”

  “Okay, Monsieur Delambre, as you wish. I’m calling because I have someone next to me who wants to speak to you. I’ll pass her over.”

  “NO!”

  Monsieur Delambre shouted and smashed the receiver down. But he stayed put, paralyzed in front of the phone, mute and motionless.

  Yasmine stared intently at me, asking whether now was the moment, but I was sure the negotiator wouldn’t pass up a response like that. Indeed, a few seconds later the telephone rang again, but this time it wasn’t the RAID negotiator at the other end. It was a woman. Young, no more than thirty, I don’t think.

  “Papa . . . ?”

  Her voice was trembling with emotion and Monsieur Delambre was squirming uneasily.

  “Papa, answer me, please . . .”

  But Monsieur Delambre couldn’t speak. He held the phone in his left hand, the gun in his right, and it seemed nothing could pull him out of the turmoil the woman’s voice had just plunged him into. Hearing that voice was harder for him than firing a bullet into Monsieur Dorfmann’s head, but maybe it boiled down to the same thing: unambiguous proof of the desperate stalemate he was in. For a second—just a second—I felt sorry for him.

  There was confusion on the line. No one knew where to go from there.

  Another woman’s voice on the line, older this time.

  “Alain?” she said. “It’s Nicole.”

  Monsieur Delambre was absolutely rooted to the spot.

  The woman was crying uncontrollably, choking and unable to speak. We could barely hear anything over her sobbing. And it was upsetting to us, because she wasn’t just crying for our sake, but for the sake of her husband, the man who’d taken us prisoner and been threatening to kill us for over an hour.

  “Alain,” she said. “I’m begging you . . . answer me.”

  That voice, those words had a devastating effect on Monsieur Delambre.

  “Nicole . . . Please forgive me,” he said in a very low voice. That was it. Nothing else.

  After this, he replaced the telephone and grabbed the drawer with all our cell phones and watches. Then he went up to the window, lifted the blind, and flung the contents out of it. One motion, everything at once. I have no idea why he did that—I’m telling you, it was very odd. In any event, I didn’t have long to speculate.

  The first bullet whisked past his left shoulder, and the second went right through the space where his head had been half a second earlier. He fell to the ground and turned toward us, holding his gun in his outstretched hand. Which was just as well, because Yasmine was already on her feet, ready to spring on him.

  “Get down!” he cried
at her.

  Yasmine did as she was told. Monsieur Delambre crawled on his belly and stood up a few yards away. He went to the door, opened it, and turned to us.

  “You can go,” he said. “It’s over.”

  Astonishment all around.

  Did he just say it was over? No one could believe it.

  Monsieur Delambre stayed like that for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open. He was right—it was over. I think he wanted to say something to us, but it didn’t come, the words catching in his head. The telephone carried on ringing, but he didn’t even flinch at it.

  He turned and left.

  The last sound we heard was the key turning in the lock from outside in the corridor.

  We were locked in, but we were free.

  It’s hard to describe what happened next. All the hostages leapt to their feet and rushed to the windows. Once the blinds had been torn open, it took a good amount of persuasion and effort from me and my team to stop them from clambering onto the ledges and throwing themselves out. It was pure panic.

  On seeing the hostages congregated at the windows, the police officers in the parking lot were not immediately sure what had happened. The negotiator called on the inside line. Yasmine answered and informed the police of the apparent situation, because we still weren’t sure whether Monsieur Delambre would change his mind or not. It was deeply uncertain, and I shared the officers’ concern. We didn’t know, for example, where he was with his loaded gun and all that spare ammunition. Had he genuinely stood down? Or was he waiting in ambush somewhere else in the building?

  Kader was struggling to calm Monsieur Lussay, Madame Camberlin, and Monsieur Guéneau. Monsieur Renard was the most agitated. He kept yelling: “Come and get us! Come and get us!” Yasmine had no other choice but to let off two deafening whistles that quieted him down in an instant.

  Limping as best I could, I took hold of the phone and introduced myself before having a brief conversation with the RAID captain.

  Ten or so minutes later, ladders were placed against the outside wall of the building. Two RAID teams wearing bulletproof vests and helmets and armed with assault rifles scaled them in seconds flat. The first made sure we were protected, while the second went down to open the inside doors to make way for the other teams, which immediately scoured the building for Monsieur Delambre.