I can’t miss this last chance.
Cousin’s patience is wearing thin.
“It’s not like I don’t have better things to be doing!” he snaps at last.
If that were really true, we wouldn’t be here in this stationary car, the rain hammering down, on the day the whole region is rallying against the layoff plan he’s enforcing, in the shadow of a substantial police presence. It doesn’t add up.
I keep quiet because I can tell Paul Cousin is on edge. Despite all my instincts to get moving, and fast, I know that would be the best way to ruin everything.
The last time Cousin saw me was yesterday, in the dock. He testified in my favor on the orders of his boss. And now, twenty-four hours later, he finds me—coming apart at the seams in more ways than one—smacking the guard in the face at his factory, which happens to be on strike. It doesn’t bode well at all. If anything, I’m here to make demands. Yet St. Paul seems intrigued. Ever since I saw him enter the courtroom, I could tell he was furious with me, because he knew full well that he’d been screwed over. Only he doesn’t know to what extent, and that’s what intrigues him—he’s itching to know. The fact is, he’s the one who should be making demands. He did me a favor. He contributed to my freedom. Somehow I’ve become his boss’s protégé, the man he’s gone to extreme lengths to help. But Cousin doesn’t know what demands to make. Seeing me here, destitute, has flipped his world on its head. My patience pays off. Cousin can’t resist:
“During the hostage taking,” he says, “you let me go on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Let’s say I wasn’t opposed to the idea.”
“You could have shot me.”
“That wasn’t in my interests.”
“Because you needed someone to escape and warn the police. Didn’t matter who. Me or any of the others.”
“Yes, but I hoped it would be you.”
I inspect my jacket sleeve: I’m still bleeding, so I press it hard against the top of my head again. This dithering annoys Cousin, since it forces him to wait. I will myself to take my time, which is no mean feat because I can’t help glaring at the clock on the dashboard every other second. Nicole. The minutes drag. I continue distractedly:
“I was so pleased when you became the hero of the day in your boss’s eyes. It was just what you needed to be welcomed back into the company fold after slogging it out free of charge for all those years. I was glad you were the first to stand up and be counted. You were the one I wanted. You were my favorite. Call it solidarity for the unemployed.”
Cousin turns all that over in his enormous head.
“What did you take from Exxyal?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Come on!”
He’s in a huff, old Cousin. He continues:
“Alexandre Dorfmann organizes a press conference to announce loud and clear that Exxyal is dropping all charges, and demands his execs testify in your favor at the trial . . . It’s not hard to tell that you’ve got him cornered. So I’ll ask you again: what did you take?”
The moment of truth. I’ve got fifteen minutes left. I close my eyes. I look at Nicole. All my courage lies with her. I ask the question calmly:
“How pissed off will Dorfmann be when he finds out the two of us are in agreement?”
“Agreement over what? Agreement over nothing!”
Cousin’s outraged, shouting.
“Yes, agreement over nothing . . . But only me and you need to know that. If I tell him that we’ve agreed to screw him over, who’s he going to believe? You or me?”
Cousin concentrates hard. I set out my argument:
“The way I see it, he’s going to let you handle things at Sarqueville because it’s a shitty business. Both hands deep in the shit. CEOs don’t tend to be too excited about that. Then afterward, when you’ve fired everyone, your head will be the next to roll. And this time, you won’t be bailed out by a courageous unemployed person who’s no longer eligible for unemployment benefits.”
His fury seems to fill his entire head, which is saying something.
“And what exactly are we agreeing on?”
I wheel out the big guns.
“I ran off with Dorfmann’s slush fund. My plan is to tell him that we’ve gone halves on it.”
You might expect him to be scandalized, but not a bit of it. Paul Cousin thinks about it. He’s a manager. He assesses the situation, runs through the various strategies, analyzes his objectives. In my mind, he could buy himself some time by considering how fucked he is. I try to jog him:
“You’re pretty fucked, my friend.”
I jog him because I’m in a chronic state of urgency. I hope Fontana hasn’t stuck a clock in front of Nicole. He’s capable of it. He’s capable of counting down the minutes, the seconds. I go for a second volley.
“I’m giving you three minutes.”
“I doubt that.”
He needs to reframe the issue. Eight minutes to go. Nicole.
“How much did you take?” he asks.
“Tut tut tut.”
Nice try, but I’m not going to fall for that.
“What do you want?”
Fine application of the reality principle.
“Some dirt on Exxyal. Something really dirty. I want to blow Dorfmann out of the sky. Give me what I want and I’ll make it worth your while. A seven-figure bribe, a disgraceful kickback, a deal with a terrorist state, a nasty payoff . . . I don’t care.”
“And how would I know about any of that?”
“Because you’ve been here for twenty years. You’ve spent more than fifteen at the top. And you’re the kind of person who laps up the shady stuff. Why else would you be here in Sarqueville? I’m not asking for the whole file—just a few highlights will do. Nothing more. You have two minutes.”
Make or break.
“How can you guarantee me confidentiality?”
“It has to be something from the company system, that’s all. I hacked into Exxyal’s servers. I could feasibly have snatched anything from in there. I’m not asking for a top-secret document . . . it doesn’t even need to be confidential. All I want is some key information—I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I see.”
Sly dog, Cousin.
“Three million.”
Even slyer than I thought.
Nothing if not pragmatic. It took him just a few seconds to analyze the situation in front of him and weigh up the pros and cons before deciding to up the ante. Three million euros. I have no idea how he came up with that number. He knows I ran off with the slush fund. He’s made an educated guess. In his mind, what percentage does that represent? I’ll try another round. Got to wrap this up.
“Two,” I say.
“Three.”
“Two and a half.”
“Three.”
“Okay, three million and thirty thousand.”
Cousin looks surprised, but my face is deadpan.
“Deal,” he says.
“Give me a name!”
“Pascal Lombard.”
Holy shit. A former interior minister. I’m blown away. The guy’s face comes to me clearly. Prime example of a slippery politician: no shortage of talent; murky past; relentlessly cynical; a few past misdemeanors that investigators were never quite able to untangle; hounded for fifteen years but still holding forth noisily at the Assemblée, crapping all over public morality. Reelected time and time again. Two or three sons in business or politics. Classic.
“What about him?”
“Insider trading. 1998. The time of the merger with Union Path Corp. Textbook stuff: when he heard the news from Dorfmann, he bought up a whole stack of shares from one of his sons, and three months later, when the merger was announced, he sold them all.”
“Profit?”
“Ninety-six million francs.”
I dial Nicole’s number on the car phone. Fontana picks up after the second ring.
“Let me speak to my wife.”
“I hope you’ve got some good news for me.”
“Oh, I do. Some excellent news!”
“I’m listening.”
“Pascal Lombard. Union Path. 1998. Ninety-six million.”
Silence. I give it time to sink in. You don’t need to be a senior-ranking intelligence agent to realize that this involves something fishy. Pascal Lombard’s name is infamous. He’s a political Pandora’s box. Fontana’s silence confirms I’m right. All the same, he gives it a shot:
“Don’t play with me, Delambre.”
I think I can hear a sound from behind him. I can’t help blurting out:
“I want my wife! Let me speak to her!”
My voice fills the car. Paul Cousin looks at me, finding me increasingly dazed.
“Sorry, Delambre,” Fontana says, “but my client hasn’t received anything, and you’ve missed your deadline.”
“What’s that sound behind you? What is it?”
He doesn’t like failure, Fontana. And right now, things might be bad for me, but they’re bad for him, too. That’s what I’m banking on. His client has enlisted his services, and right now everything’s going down the tubes.
“Call your client,” I say. “Speak to Alexandre Dorfmann in person and simply tell him this from me: ‘Pascal Lombard. Union Path. 1998.’”
I gather my strength and wait a few seconds.
Ready:
“Just say that, and all your problems are over, Fontana. Because that’ll put his mind to rest immediately.”
Aim:
“But if you choose not to call him, he’s going to be very, very, very angry with you.”
Fire:
“And if that happens, think hard about how powerful Dorfmann is: my problems will pale compared with yours.”
Silence.
Good sign. I breathe. Well handled.
“How do I call you back?”
“I’ll call you, but first let me speak to my wife.”
Fontana hesitates. He really doesn’t like having his hand forced like this.
“I said let me speak to my wife!”
“Hello.”
It’s Nicole. No more fear. We’re beyond fear. Her voice is so weary it sounds lifeless.
“Alain? Where are you?”
“I’m here, my love, I’m with you. It’s all over.”
My voice catches a little as I try to reassure her, to give her some grounds for hope.
“Why are they keeping me?” Nicole asks.
“They’re going to let you go, I promise. Have they hurt you?”
“When will they let me go?”
Her voice is thin and shaky, tense and bruised.
“Have they hurt you?”
Nicole doesn’t answer. She asks me question after question with a mix of anguish and despondency. Her mind is stuck on one point:
“What do they want? Where are you?”
No time to reply because the phone changes hands.
“Call me back in ten minutes,” Fontana says.
He hangs up. My stomach lurches so violently that I retch from the nausea. All the while, Cousin’s been drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do, Monsieur Delambre. Perhaps it’s time to formalize our deal, wouldn’t you say?”
Indeed, time for formalities. He suggests we agree on the practical aspects of our transaction without delay. Cousin is shafting his boss in the same methodical manner he serves him. A true professional.
As for me, I’m badly shaken up by Nicole’s words.
“Just one thing to finish with . . .” Cousin says.
“Yes, what?” I say, still in a daze.
“Why the thirty thousand?”
“Three million into your account.”
I pat the dashboard.
“Plus your car. It’s coming with me.”
45
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t received any instructions along those lines.”
“Fuck you, Fontana!”
I’m screaming. Back on the autoroute to Paris and I’m doing well over a hundred, my palm flat against the horn. The car in front is dawdling and refusing to budge, so I honk even harder.
“Things have changed, you piece of shit!”
Even if I wanted to, I’d struggle to remember the terror Fontana inspired in me not long ago. I know I’ll win, I can feel it all the way to the tips of my fingers, but more than anything in the world I want Nicole.
I keep going:
“I’m the one giving the orders now, you hear me, dickhead?”
The dickhead stays quiet. The mere mention of the names Pascal Lombard and Union Path made Alexandre Dorfmann instruct him to suspend the operation until he has met me in person. He’s expecting me at his office in less than two hours. Even if I allow myself the luxury of being forty minutes late, I figure he’ll change his appointments to see me. I’ve turned the speakerphone up to full volume, and I carry on shouting as I weave in and out of the traffic, a hundred and twenty on the dial:
“And I can even tell you how this is going to end up, you bulldog. In one hour, you’re going to release my wife and go running back to your kennel. And let me assure you, if there’s so much as a hair missing from her head, your antics in Sudan will feel like the fucking Rescuers!”
Words fail me for a moment.
“So listen to these instructions, you prick, and follow them. I want three photos of my wife immediately. The first of her face, the second of her hands, and lastly I want one full-length. All of her. Do it on your cell phone. And on each one I want today’s date and time. Send them to . . .”
I scrabble around for the number in the car telephone. I take one hand off the wheel and lean toward the screen, pressing one button, then another. How does this bastard thing work? A deafening horn blares out and I look up immediately. The car has swerved dangerously left into the oncoming traffic lane and is heading at full speed toward a Dutch semi that is honking its foghorn as loud as it’ll go. I barely have time to register the situation, flinging the wheel to the right to avoid the truck I’m bearing down on at the speed of light. It doesn’t even occur to me to brake. The dial says I’m going 114 mph.
I yell out the car phone number to Fontana.
“I’m giving you five minutes! Don’t make me call back, or I swear, every last cent I extort from your boss will go toward ripping off your balls!”
I continue slaloming across the four lanes. I have to calm down. No big deal if I’m flashed by a radar gun, but getting myself stopped by the police is not a good move. I stick to the fast lane and ease off the accelerator. Ninety-three—that’s reasonable. Every ten seconds, I glare at the screen. I’m desperate to see the photos of Nicole. I picture Fontana rushing to get me what I want. There are a few minutes to go.
To try and relax, I look around the inside of Cousin’s car. It’s a luxurious one. A real gem of French engineering, which seems pretty damn cynical when you consider his job is to close down industrial sites. I fiddle with the controls and find a radio station. I end up on France Info. . . . last year John Arnold, a thirty-three-year-old trader, earned between 2 and 2.5 billion dollars. Then came . . . I switch it off. The planet never stops spinning in the same direction and at the same speed.
I make sure the call waiting option is activated and dial Charles’s number. One ring, two, three, four.
“Hello!”
Good old Charles. Sure, his voice doesn’t exude freshness, but the tone is there, buoyant and bighearted.
“Hi, Charles!”
“Whoa it’s you damn yeah I was expecting you where are you calling from?”
All that in the same stride. Charles is delighted. He’s relieved, thrilled that the effort he put in to answering the phone has paid off.
“I’m on the autoroute to Paris.”
The information swirls around the remaining brain cells bobbing up and down in his kirsch-soaked head. I don’t wait for the next question before explaining everything: Cousin, Fo
ntana, Dorfmann.
“Ah but damn!” Charles says over and over once I’ve finished my account.
He is flabbergasted by my performance. I keep on the lookout for Fontana’s call—the time seems to be dragging horrendously. I ask Charles where he is.
“Like you, on the autoroute.”
Good god, Charles is behind the wheel!
“Massive stroke of luck,” he continues. “I call my pal and guess what his brother-in-law has a little place two shakes from the service station where we broke down and he filled me up didn’t I tell you it was lucky?”
“Charles . . . are you driving?”
“Weeell doing my best.”
It knocks the breath out of me.
“I’m being sensible you know,” Charles assures me. “I’m staying in the slow lane and not going above forty.”
The best way to get hit from behind and stopped by the police.
“Hold on . . . how far along the autoroute are you?”
“That I cannot really tell you because the signs are all written so small you see.”
I can imagine. But just as I start answering, I make out his scarlet car with its immense chrome bars in the distance, hogging the right-hand lane, with a thick cloud of white smoke stretching behind him like the train of a wedding dress. I slow down slightly, and once I’m alongside him, I honk my horn. He seems so small, as though he’s been compacted, his eyes barely higher than the steering wheel.
It takes him a couple of seconds to take stock of the situation.
“It’s you! Ah well damn!” he screams when he recognizes me.
He’s giddy with joy. He gives me his little salute, beaming from ear to ear.
“I can’t hang around, Charles, they’re expecting me.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he answers.
There are so many things I’d like to say to him. I owe him so much. I owe him an enormous amount. If everything works out okay, I’m going to change Charles’s life. I’m going to give him a house with a cellar full of kirsch. There are so many things I want to say to him.
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