Lorraine Connection

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘So?’

  ‘Your latest delivery. Aren’t you surprised?’

  ‘Delivery, that’s what you say. The photos don’t show any delivery. Guys going in and out of a toilet. In a court of law, a good lawyer will demolish that, right?’

  ‘True.’ He’s a real turn-on, falling into the trap, at my mercy, and he knows it. He’s desperately trying to dig himself out, but he won’t manage it. The lawyer places a fax from Agence France Presse Lorraine in front of Karim. It’ll hit the papers tomorrow.

  MASSIVE CUSTOMS HAUL

  In the course of a routine check at the Nancy toll booth on the A31 motorway, customs officers arrested two Belgian nationals of Moroccan origin, the Hakim brothers, who were driving south to the Riviera.

  The customs officials found thirty kilos of pure heroin and 100,000 ecstasy tablets concealed under the back seat of their luxury BMW. This is the biggest drugs haul in Lorraine for several years.

  At this stage the customs services and the Nancy departmental police are uncertain whether this is a one-off operation or a new drug-trafficking channel.

  The lawyer continues.

  ‘The Hakim brothers are in Metz prison. I am not their defence counsel. In all decency, I couldn’t be. A left-wing human rights lawyer for ten years, then the lawyer for the local bigwigs since my marriage, I’ll have to wait a while before taking on drug traffickers. But I’ve put a very good friend of mine on the case. How do you think the Hakim brothers would react if they found out that you were under police surveillance when they made their delivery to you and that you grassed on them to the cops? There is photographic evidence.’ The lawyer caresses Karim’s face again, almost affectionately. ‘You’re not saying anything?’

  ‘I’m waiting for what you’re going to say next.’

  Smile. ‘Concerning the Daewoo fire, the superintendent had you in his sights. Thanks to my father-in-law, he doesn’t any more. Thank you? No … never mind. The investigators have identified the arsonist. Nourredine Hamidi. You know him …’

  Karim nods. He pictures Nourredine, attentive, serious-minded, controlling comings and goings at the factory gates, then leaning over the boot of the Korean manager’s car. Uncompromising, holier-than-thou, pain in the ass, anything you like, but an arsonist … Poor bastard, he’s stuffed. The lawyer leans towards him, no further hint of a smile as he spells it out, articulating each word with deliberation.

  ‘Tomorrow morning you are summoned to give a witness statement. You were in the cafeteria, before the fire. You saw the guy, he was trying to sleep on a bench in a dark corner. He couldn’t get to sleep, he was too wound up. You saw him get up and leave by the door that leads to the factory just after nine p.m. The cops will help you get the facts right, you know what they’re like. When it suits them, they feed you the answer in the question. Tell me you’ll testify.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Better than that.’

  ‘I’ll testify that I saw Nourredine leave the cafeteria after nine o’clock. I get it, OK?’

  The lawyer grabs Karim’s arm and indicates the back seat with a jerk of his head.

  ‘Get your clothes off. I’ve got one hell of a hard-on.’

  23 October

  An autumn hunting scene on the Lorraine plateau. The beauty of the soft mist over the heavy, dark cornfields, eviscerated by the icy morning and the emerging sun which brings the countryside to life little by little. The beaters’ shouts, the dogs’ barks, the waiting, the tension, sudden shots. Three coveys of partridges flushed out, seven bagged. Often hares, five in the bag. The men are good shots.

  The hunters in their brown jackets and heavy rubber waders make their way back from the hides and converge at the meeting point at the corner of the wood. Quignard and the superintendent walk side by side, their guns snapped in half under their arms, relaxed, content. Quignard walks along the edge of the field, he loves the feel of the slightly clinging soft clay underfoot. This land is mine, I belong here. He takes a glance around at the furrowed fields as far as the eye can see. My land. He can still hear the energetic flapping of wings as the covey of partridges rises, feels his own heart beating deafeningly, then the partridges are windborne and dive down towards his hide at nearly two hundred kilometres an hour. He follows their line of flight, shoots his first round – the dull thud of the bird falling – then he turns around, fires his second shot instinctively, a second bird hit. Almost in heaven. His mind vaguely numbed. Daewoo, sorted. Everything back to normal. Park’s stupidity made up for, poor bastard. Now sole master on board. Efficient. Return to order. No waves in the national press. A glorious future ahead. The world’s my oyster. His feet sink into the clay. You can be proud of yourself. Smile. Pay attention, the superintendent’s talking to you.

  ‘Your tip-off about the Hakim brothers, terrific. Did you see, we teamed up with Customs. I shan’t hide the fact that it’s helped get me a transfer to Nancy, which is now on the cards. Nothing definite yet, but …

  ‘Good. I told you about that business, which naturally I got wind of purely by chance in Brussels … especially because I hope we can protect the region from traffickers of that kind. But if you benefit from it, between you and me, I’m only too pleased.’ Friendly thump. ‘And I very much hope that after you’ve moved to Nancy, you’ll still join us on the Grande Commune hunt, it’s one of the best in the region.’

  ‘I should hope so, if you carry on inviting me …’

  Laughter. The two men are the last to reach the meeting point, around two big four-wheel drives. The gamekeeper composes the tableau, lining up the kill on the ground. The hunters admire and comment on each other’s shots. The smell of blood and gun grease in the still air. Some thirty metres away the beaters, in white overalls, armed with big sticks, tuck into thick sandwiches and knock back the beer. Beside the vehicles are two small picnic tables covered with white tablecloths. On one are four hollowed-out loaves filled with canapés, and on the other, a selection of chilled red and white Loire valley wines and some glasses. Two drivers, seconded from the 3G company, pour the wine. The hunters jostle each other, laughing. The superintendent helps himself to a glass of red, raises it high, and booms:

  ‘You’re the first to hear the news. Tomorrow it’ll be in the papers. The investigation into the Daewoo factory fire is over and the arsonist was arrested yesterday.’

  Commotion. ‘Bravo … Terrific … That was really fast … Congratulations.’ The superintendent is beaming.

  ‘Yes, I think we can say it was an exemplary investigation, speedy and efficient.’

  A big-shot notary from Nancy goes over to Quignard.

  ‘Congratulations. Tell me, Daewoo’s hit the jackpot with the Thomson privatisation. You’ve been keeping that close to your chest.’

  ‘Business isn’t bad, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Isn’t this fire likely to damage you?’

  ‘No, providing the investigation is closed quickly, as it has been. The arsonist is one of the factory workers who got overexcited. Nothing serious.’

  An entrepreneur from the valley who prefers to hunt down EU subsidies, greatly indebted to Quignard, enquires after Park.

  ‘I thought he’d be here today …’

  ‘He’s gone back to Korea to review things with the parent company.’ Then with a broad smile: ‘I bet the beaters are relieved, he’s a lousy shot, a danger to the rest of us.’ Quignard raises his voice. ‘Come gentlemen, the break’s over. Two more beats before lunch.’

  The beaters have already left. The hunters move off towards another field, other hides. Quignard and Tomaso bring up the rear, side by side. Daniel Tomaso slows down to keep pace with Quignard. On this glorious day, his feet in the clay of the Lorraine plateau, on the Grande Commune hunt, he feels a growing sense of elation. A lot of ground covered in a very short time. A black sheep, the Foreign Legion, a mercenary, Lebanon, Croatia, one training’s as good as another. Five years ago, sickened by the violence and penniless, he dropped e
verything to take over the garage in Nancy run by his father, until his recent death. A respectable business, nothing more. He expanded the garage, set up a limousine hire company with drivers and bodyguards, and then a security company. Next a nightclub, a brilliant idea of Kristina’s, the mistress he’d brought back from Croatia, to grab all those bourgeois provincials by the short and curlies. His business is booming. He knows he owes his success mainly to Quignard, and he knows that his invitation to the hunt is the equivalent of a formal introduction into local society and a reward for the successful conclusion of the Daewoo Pondange factory occupation and fire. He leans towards Quignard.

  ‘The case is closed, apparently.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘What about my security guards?’

  ‘Fine in every respect. During the investigation they changed direction as obediently as on the parade ground.’

  A few steps in silence. Quignard greets the chairman of the regional council with a smile. They go a long way back: having both been in the OAS in Algeria when young, with a shared past they have tacitly agreed to keep quiet about, they had created a staunch closeness and complicity neither had ever betrayed. The chairman is in hide number one. Not a good position. So much the better. A mediocre shot. Tomaso resumes.

  ‘Do you really believe Park’s gone back to Korea?’

  Surprised. ‘Yes. I asked for him and all the Korean managers to be recalled to the parent company. I felt they’d done enough harm as it was. Why?’

  ‘Park is a man who’s never suffered from scruples, if I’m not mistaken. He knows there’s a lot of money to be made, and fast. He has inside information, and he’s getting out?’

  ‘And where do you think he might be?’

  ‘Think, Maurice. Put yourself in his position. Where would you go to make your next move?’ Quignard walks on in silence for a few moments. Not for long.

  ‘Warsaw.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking.’

  ‘Now you’ve got me worried.’ A silence, an exchange of pleasantries as they walk past a magistrate newly appointed to the Briey courts.

  ‘Do you have any way of finding out if he’s over there?’

  ‘Perhaps. I have a car dealership network in Poland. Give me some photos, a description, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Then Tomaso stops at hide number three, an excellent position for an excellent marksman, and Quignard continues. He has number fifteen, at the very end of the line, a shitty number. Nothing ever happens that far out. Sigh.

  At number six, a Luxembourg banker is sitting on a folding hunting stool, his eyes half shut. Don’t be taken in, he’s quick off the mark, despite his corpulence. He’s CEO of Daewoo Pondange’s lead bank. The day after the fire, he agreed to defer all the firm’s payment dates. On condition that Quignard was put in sole charge. On condition that you return the favour sometime, dear friend. The two men exchange smiles.

  At hide number ten, his son-in-law watches him arrive accompanied by Tomaso. First time this fellow’s invited to the Grande Commune hunt. I don’t know how wise that is. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his past, his nightclub, the Oiseau Bleu, his loud mistress and all the rumours about him in town. I’ll have to have a word with my father-in-law about it. Quignard stops and taps his son-in-law on the shoulder.

  ‘Bravo the lawyer. I don’t know how you wangled it with Karim Bouziane, and I don’t want to know. His testimony was decisive. The superintendent is delighted, and I owe you a big thank you.’

  ‘You’re most welcome. My pleasure.’

  PART THREE

  24 October

  Quignard has maintained the habit of rising at dawn from his years of working in a factory. Breakfast is served on the ground floor, in the vast dining room which opens on to a terrace with a view over the entire valley. The Quignard residence is a small château, the former mansion of the owner of the ironworks, in the days when there were ironworks. He lives there alone with his wife since their only daughter got married and went to live in Nancy with her husband. He and his wife now live separate lives. She’s asleep somewhere upstairs while he eats breakfast alone in the monumental room, and that suits him fine. Less time wasted.

  A chauffeur-driven black Mercedes waits at the foot of the white stone steps. Car and driver come courtesy of 3G. Tomaso is not unappreciative. Impeccable, as always. On the fawn leather back seat, Quignard finds the national dailies, which the driver brings him from Nancy. He flicks through them. Libération’s financial section is entirely taken up by a big article entitled: ‘Thomson Multimedia turns down Korean marriage offer.’ With a subheading: ‘The Daewoo affair: emotions run high.’ The opening lines read: ‘The unions are fighting to stop their factory and its technology from being sold to the Korean group.’ Half-smile. As long as there’s nothing more serious … He turns the page and moves on to the sports section.

  Montoya reaches Pondange via the plateau road, around mid-morning. He stops before heading down into the valley and gazes at the town spread out in front of him. Thirty-five years since he left. Thirty-five years, a lifetime, my whole life, hold your breath, vertigo. On the edge of the plateau, high up, the old town with its ramparts and ancient houses, nothing’s changed. All around, descending down the valley, the workers’ houses and housing estates. A little further away, high up on the flanks of the valley and surrounded by greenery are the residences of the ironworks owners, and on the plateau, outside the town, two social housing estates. It’s all still there, but the street of factories along the river with its blast furnaces, the continuous fires hammering and puffing, the smoke and the smells, the men’s activity, their all-consuming passions, the powerful, violent town, its heart beating day and night, has all been swallowed up, wiped out. He knew it, but to see it … He didn’t want to come here. Liar. You had to come back sooner or later. Valentin simply gave you an excuse. Now look what’s become of Pondange, that monster you were so afraid of‚ amputated of its factory satellites, a little provincial town that’s had a facelift, repainted, neat and tidy, dozing deep in its green valley.

  Unhesitatingly, he finds his way to the police station: it sits behind the local school where his father had been head teacher. He parks his car. A quick glance at the playground. To the left, the head teacher’s house, his own bedroom window. A flood of painful memories. A motherless childhood. He’d never known whether she’d died or simply run off and abandoned him. A strict, tyrannical father who showed no affection, whose image superimposed itself, in his memory, on that of the blast furnaces gobbling up men. He’d run away from Pondange at the age of fourteen and his father had never tried to find him, accepting his disappearance as he had his mother’s. They had never seen each other again. What must he look like now, my father, since apparently he’s still alive? A broken old man of tidy appearance? Is it his shadow that I’ve come to track down here, in this sleepy town? He falters for a moment in the muffled mid-morning silence, his equilibrium perturbed, then walks into the police station.

  ‘The superintendent’s expecting you. First floor on the right.’

  In the vast office, the superintendent rises to greet him. Good-looking, athletic, very elegant, he invites Montoya to take a seat in an armchair and sits down facing him.

  ‘Let me introduce myself. Charles Montoya. I work for the Thomson group’s security department …’

  ‘I know. I got your entire pedigree from Sébastiani, the Nancy police chief, who obtained it from a deputy director of the judicial police, no less.’ Smile. ‘That is sufficient for me to consider you as a man who can be trusted.’

  Efficient, Valentin’s network. Rayssac, superintendent at Pondange. What can he hope for in this dump? Promotion to the rank of chief at Nancy. Who can help him to achieve that? Sébastiani in Nancy and Renaud at the judicial police department. All Valentin had to do was pick up the phone. Montoya is conscious of the gulf between a former top security services cop, and a poor bastard from the drug squad who left under a cloud
. My pedigree. If only you knew … He too smiles.

  ‘I’ll put my cards on the table. I’m here to investigate Daewoo, on behalf of my employers. I glean what I can here and there, to help Thomson in the negotiations that are about to begin with the group’s future buyer. Of course, I’m also seeking further information on last week’s fire. My employer is a real stickler for security.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to assist you, especially as the investigation is now closed. We’ve just experienced a very unfortunate series of events, the questionable sacking of a woman worker, then one thing led to another and it all got out of hand, culminating in the fire. Fortunately we did a good job fast and effectively. A textbook investigation.’ He enunciates every syllable. ‘Textbook …’

  Textbook, that brought back memories. Made-to-measure witnesses, hand-sewn, prefabricated evidence that comes in a kit. Textbook. A frightening word.

  ‘… I’ve had a press file compiled for you on Daewoo and on our town, which you’ll find in room 23, on the third floor. You can use the office for two hours, no one will disturb you. No point looking for a photocopier, there isn’t one in the office or upstairs. Another thing, I request that you do not contact Karim Bouziane, the key prosecution witness, and that you inform me of anything you find out that may be useful to the investigation.’

  ‘Naturally, and I’m grateful for your help. You will understand that I have to be very discreet. It is not desirable for Daewoo to know the precise nature of my visit. I plan to introduce myself as an Agence France Press journalist and if possible, without taking advantage of your kindness, I’d like to have a look around the factory, just to get an idea of what we’re talking about.’