‘I’ve been working in the factory for six years. People who haven’t worked on the production line, like Rolande and me, can’t understand what happened to me. When our shift came out on strike we all started walking around the factory, freely, the bosses had disappeared. I thought I’d go mad with joy. I felt as though I existed. I thought it was easy, and that I was changing my life. I’d already heard people say that, on the radio, on TV: nothing will ever be the same again.’ Still tense and huddled up, she turns towards Rolande. ‘I decided there and then that I’d never return to my father’s house. And then, I met Étienne.’ Montoya glances at Rolande, she seems to know who he is so leave out the questions. He mustn’t interrupt Aisha who’s talking as if under hypnosis. ‘We slept together in the packaging workshop.’ Rolande puts her hand on Aisha’s arm and the girl smiles at her. ‘It wasn’t amazing, but it wasn’t terrible either. I felt as though I was breaking away from my father once and for all. You know what he’s like. It was the worst thing I could do to him. In my own way, I was doing everything I could so my life would be different.’
Aisha sighs, leans back in the armchair, then looks up and grows animated as she describes the arrival of the lorries, her elation, the overturned car, the occupation of the offices, the women becoming increasingly marginalised, wandering around the deserted factory.
‘I bumped into Étienne in the cafeteria and we went back to the packaging workshop.’ A little smile. ‘Much better than the first time. While we’re putting our clothes back on, Étienne hears a noise coming from the direction of the waste ground. He goes out of the back door to see what’s going on. I hear him yell: “What are you doing? Who are you? Stop! Stop!” and he comes back like a madman, grabs my arm and drags me to the cafeteria, running, and he keeps yelling, “Quick, quick, there’s a fire. I saw the guys who started it”.’
Rolande and Montoya look at each other. She’s surprised, he’s alert. He sits back, relaxed. Don’t forget, you’re not a cop. Journalist. Fragile girl. Discretion. Don’t ruin everything, this is the first link in the chain, and you’ve been here less than seven hours. Not bad going. Aisha continues. ‘Then we both ended up on the roundabout in front of the factory. Do you remember? A lot of people were crying. I was crying. I saw my dreams and my newfound freedom going up in smoke. Afterwards Ali Amrouche walked me back here. On the way, he gently talked to me about Étienne, without pressing the point. A married man with two kids and the worst skirt-chaser in the whole factory. I didn’t care, one guy or another, but I didn’t tell him that. Can you imagine how shocked Ali would have been? He came up to see my father, told him about the strike, the occupation, and why I hadn’t come home at the usual time, without a word about Étienne. Very proper. The old man didn’t say anything but I think he understood the whole thing. I left the two of them and went to bed. The next morning, the old man didn’t beat me, but he said I wasn’t to leave the flat until Daewoo went back to work. And I’ve been there until this evening.’ Now, she’s very relaxed, almost smiling.
‘In a way, I felt protected, I was taking time to heal. When I’m ready, I’ll leave this town and this life.’
Leave. The word fills the room as they listen respectfully. From another room in the flat, the groaning has given way to snoring. Montoya turns to Rolande.
‘This Étienne speaks of several arsonists, strangers by the sound of it. Can’t he testify to clear your friend who’s in prison?’
‘No. He’s dead.’
Montoya feels a shudder run up his spine. The violent smell of blood like in the old days. A host of forgotten, repressed sensations suddenly come flooding back. I wouldn’t have believed it was still possible.
‘How did he die?’
‘An accident. The day after the fire, he was walking through the woods from his place, on the housing estate on the plateau, to Pondange. He probably took the wrong path and fell down a rocky slope. He broke his neck.’
‘Was he alone when this accident happened?’
‘Yes. Alone. His wife had taken the car as usual. She works in a supermarket in Briey.’
Hold on a minute. A young man catches arsonists in the act one evening, and has a fatal fall while walking alone in the woods the next morning. Nothing more natural? Aren’t Stakhanova and her friend acting just a bit too naive? Montoya turns back to Aisha, who seems very calm in her armchair.
‘Did you know about this?’
‘Yes.’ She sounds almost indifferent. ‘Ali phoned to tell me before the funeral.’
‘Were you the only person who heard him say: “I saw the guys who started the fire”?’
‘No. Why?’ She seems surprised by the question. ‘When we were all on the roundabout during the fire, he was telling everyone. He went on and on about it but nobody took any notice.’
‘It’s true now you come to mention it. I remember hearing him, but it didn’t sink in at the time.’
Astounding, this Stakhanova, thinks Montoya.
‘We were all in shock. And completely spellbound by the fire … Besides, Étienne was off his head and nobody was taking any notice of what he was saying.’
‘Off his head. In what way?’
Aisha darts Rolande an embarrassed look.
‘When I met him in the cafeteria, in the late afternoon, he’d come back from the offices, which he’d occupied with the others. He was telling everyone that while playing on one of the managers’ computers, he’d come across bank statements from banks in Luxembourg …’ Another glance at Rolande, who still doesn’t move a muscle. ‘Accounts in the names of Nourredine, Amrouche and Maréchal. And you too, Rolande. Accounts into which Daewoo paid huge sums of money.’
Rolande jumps and the colour drains from her cheeks.
‘I’ve never been paid a cent more than my wages. What on earth are you talking about?’
‘What he was saying was all very muddled. He was talking about millions, it wasn’t clear if he was talking about old francs, new francs or some other currency, he didn’t seem to know himself …’
‘And how did people react?’
‘Nobody believed him, and because he kept on and on saying the same thing, everyone thought he was off his head.’ Aisha stops, a smile on her face, the memory of the magic desk, the spliff in the dark. ‘He often smoked dope, everyone knew, so naturally they didn’t take any notice. But he really did see the guys who started the fire.’
‘We’ll have to get to the bottom of this bank account business. I can’t have rumours like that going around.’
Montoya’s no longer listening to the two women. He’s picturing the managers’ offices emptied of all their computer equipment, their files, moved out in a hurry. One thing he’s certain of: This is the second link in the chain.
‘Was there anyone with Étienne in the manager’s office when he was playing on the computer?’
‘I have no idea. There were at least twenty people involved in the occupation but I didn’t stay. I don’t know what went on.’
Montoya remembers security guard Schnerb’s statement: the alarm was raised at 21.43 hours with no mention of who raised it or how.
‘Did Étienne raise the alarm throughout the factory?’
‘Yes, straight away. We went back to the cafeteria together, and he ran to the porter’s lodge to tell the security guards to call the fire brigade.’
The true importance of security guard Schnerb’s statement is beginning to emerge. It is vital to find out more about this company, 3G.
Late afternoon and darkness has already fallen over the valley when Quignard leaves the empty offices. He smokes the one cigar he allows himself during the day. In the big Mercedes, cigar in mouth, he skims the international press. Very favourable reactions to the privatisation of Thomson, praise for Lagardère and Kim, the Daewoo bosses, modern-day heroes. When this business is completely sewn up, he too will be one of the big boys. He’ll see his own name in large print in the financial press. He daydreams. His driver’s mobile phone rings.
‘For you, Mr Quignard. It’s Mr Tomaso. Will you take it?’ Quignard nods and takes the phone.
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know whether this is good news or bad news, but we’ve found your man Park in Warsaw.’ A silence. Quignard does not react. ‘My men photographed him – you’ll have the prints tomorrow morning – but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no room for doubt, it’s him.’
‘So we need to prepare for war?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Don’t lose him, Daniel. We must be able to act under all circumstances.’
‘Understood. You know my rates.’
Montoya gets into his car, drives for some ten kilometres and parks in the middle of the countryside with the lights switched off. A few moments without moving, in the dark, to gather his thoughts. The seat tilts back, he makes himself breathe slowly, deeply. Oxygenate the brain. I’m making progress. Exciting, even in Pondange, even a minor case. To sum up: during the strike, the bosses try to remove some of the computers and fail. While the offices are occupied and the computers are in the hands of the strikers, a fire breaks out. This means immediate evacuation and the next day, or even that same night‚ the computers are taken away and hidden by 3G. Conclusion: those computers contain evidence that there’s something dodgy going on at Daewoo. That’s too vague a conclusion to be much use to me. More specifically: Étienne Neveu had time to play on one of the computers and came across a list of names of employees who hold bank accounts in Luxembourg. Am I certain that these accounts exist? For the time being, I’ve only got one source and an indirect report. Neveu could have invented the story about the arsonists and the Luxembourg accounts. But he didn’t invent his broken neck. That confirms all the rest. So, I’ll work on the hypothesis that these Luxembourg accounts exist. What for? No idea. They are in various names. Apparently Neveu mentioned Nourredine, Amrouche, Rolande Lepetit, Maréchal. There are probably others. Could they be willing front men? Rolande claims not to know anything about it. If we believe her, why use names of company employees? It makes no sense. Further probing needed. Find out whether Neveu was the only one to have seen the lists, and if I can find any trace of them.
Another lead, the dope. I already had the Hakims, the traffickers, and Bouziane, the dealer. Now I’ve got Bouziane the dealer, witness for the prosecution, and Neveu the consumer, the witness who’s both a nuisance and the victim. There’s every likelihood they knew each other well. I’ll keep anything to do with drugs to myself for the time being in case Valentin’s manipulating the Hakim brothers. Can’t be too careful. Montoya brings his seat back to the upright position. Now it’s time to call Valentin.
Over the telephone Valentin sounds relaxed. Montoya takes advantage of this to be a little more forthcoming.
‘Things are moving fast here. You thought it would be quieter than in Tangier. That’s not so sure. A young worker who saw the arsonists was murdered the following morning.’
‘What do the police say?’
‘Accidental death, apparently. No post-mortem. A mixture of incompetence, compromise and autosuggestion. The accident hypothesis seems to suit everyone.’
‘The joys of provincial France. What about you, what do you say?’
‘We already have a deliberate fire and a murder. I’ve also found signs of false accounting. Only signs, no evidence yet. But there’s absolutely no doubt that Daewoo is a real mess. First of all, we have to find out what sort of mess before fabricating one of our own from start to finish.’
‘That sounds reasonable. May I simply remind you that we have barely three weeks at the most. And I need evidence, of course.’
‘I’m very optimistic.’
‘Meanwhile I’ve got some interesting news too. 3G is registered at 2 Avenue des Érables in Nancy and the company is owned by Daniel Tomaso, ex-Foreign Legion, former mercenary, whose last playground was Croatia, in 1991. Officially 3G provides security guards for factories, and its clients include nearly all the factory owners in the valley of Pondange. It also handles security for political meetings, with customers ranging from the regional council to the various local political parties, mainly but not exclusively right-wing, and it has a garage specialising in limo hire whose drivers also double as bodyguards. Its biggest customers in this area are the European Commission and EU circles in Brussels. The firm’s thriving but it also has less official sources of income. Its biggest profits come from the trafficking of stolen cars to Poland and Russia. And probably also from drug trafficking.’ Montoya’s mind goes into overdrive. ‘But my informers can’t be sure of that as yet.’ A lull. ‘You’re very quiet?’ Montoya groans. ‘Even more interesting, 3G recruits local staff but it also acts as a haven for hardcore French and German mercenaries at a loose end between contracts.’
‘Pheeew … An army of potential arsonists and hitmen if need be.’
‘Precisely. And lastly, Tomaso’s official mistress is a Croat he brought back with him. She runs a brothel in Nancy, more or less disguised as a swingers’ club, the Oiseau Bleu. It’s frequented by all the local bigwigs and some of their wives, cheap thrills guaranteed. In short, the whole works.’ A silence. ‘Coming across a character like this Tomaso in the environs of Daewoo Pondange doesn’t make it the centre of the universe, nor does it make your investigation central to my case, but I take back what I said about your mission being a rest cure.’ Another silence. ‘I’m aware that you know your job, Montoya, but watch out with customers like this. Suicides happen so easily.’
‘Don’t worry. Good night.’
Back to the nocturnal quiet. The key thing is to find the man in charge of the dodgy operations at Daewoo. The one in contact with Tomaso. My money’s on Quignard, because I don’t trust his type, but I don’t have a shred of evidence, and I can’t afford to make any mistakes on that score. It’s beginning to get cold in this car, time to move. And it just so happens that the road ahead of me leads to Nancy.
Jean-Louis Robin cruises slowly down the barely lit Avenue des Acacias where vague shapes in the bushes of the Bois de Boulogne beckon him. He can’t help but blush, so looks away. He turns off down a pitch dark, narrow twisting road, opens his window and stops about a hundred metres from the junction without turning the engine off. He’s been in the habit of meeting Alicia here for months. A tall figure in a fur coat and high heels leans in, elbows resting on the door, face heavily made-up, wide mouth with well-defined lips. She caresses the nape of his neck.
‘Hi there, handsome blond, Alicia’s not here. Rounded up by the police.’ He reaches for the gear stick ready to drive off, but she restrains him with a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t panic, things are quiet now, and Alicia asked me to take care of you this evening.’
She straightens up, steps back a couple of paces and opens her coat. She’s naked. He groans. A magnificent slender body with clean hard lines and smooth bronzed skin. Long slim legs, narrow hips, broad shoulders, a pair of generous silicon-enhanced breasts whose erect nipples he can almost feel cupped in his hands, and a man’s cock. Balls and cock displayed invitingly, hairless, in the hollow of her thighs. She walks towards the car without bending, all he can see is the flat stomach, the cock. His hand moves, brushes the cock, the round balls whose skin tautens.
‘Open up, handsome blond.’
The voice is authoritative. He groans again. She walks round the car, gets in and sits beside him, holding her coat open.
‘You can touch a little, to get you in the mood.’ She takes his hand and places it on her hot, throbbing cock, makes him caress it. ‘But I don’t fuck in cars. Especially not tonight with the cops on heat. I’ve got a studio flat near here, Rue du Docteur Blanche.’ She leans towards his ear, and licks it as she murmurs: ‘The lift goes directly up from the underground car park, discretion guaranteed.’ Nibbles his ear. ‘Alicia told me you like it up the arse from behind, dressed as a woman. Can you feel my cock swelling?’ Bites his earlobe. ‘You won’t forget me, I’m stricter than Alicia.’
Hard to miss the Oiseau Bleu on the Nancy ring road, it stands out for miles around. It occupies a small three-storey building and the façade is painted with frescos depicting a tropical forest filled with multicoloured birds and lit up by flashing blue neon lights. No naked girls on display, notes Montoya. No bouncers on the door either. He enters the building. A vast lobby done out in red velvet and dark wood where two gorgeous young women in simple, figure-hugging long black dresses greet and seat the clients. On the ground floor are the bar, with its ambiance of an English private club, and the restaurant specialising in French cuisine. The hostesses hand guests the menu. In the basement is the nightclub with a striptease show, frequented by a clientele that’s into swinging, the hostesses warn. This is reflected in the admission charge, especially for a man on his own. And upstairs? The private lounges are only available on reservation. Montoya realises that he’s starving, but chooses the nightclub where there’s probably more action.
He goes down a big, brightly-lit, white stone spiral staircase to a cloakroom with a heavy, perfectly soundproof padded door. It closes behind him, and he is immediately plunged into a world of deafening, monotonous techno music, flashing golden strobes and a warm darkness filled with cloying smells. A few moments to adjust before he’s able to make out a large rectangular room with pillars supporting the ceiling. In the centre, a dance floor. On two sides, alcoves with cushions, some with curtains drawn. And on the other two sides, a bar, tables where guests can sit, relax and have a drink before re-entering the fray.
To keep things hot there are four pole-dancers in thongs on a podium in the middle of the tables. Nancy, US-style. Montoya takes refuge at the bar and orders a brandy. Sniffs it. Not bad. Warms it. Good even. Whatever happens, his evening won’t be completely wasted. His eyes begin to adjust to the dark. There are a lot of people already on the dance floor, with at least fifty, skimpily-dressed women, not all hookers. Not far from him, seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor is a group of five young – or youngish – men. They’re all tall and well-built, with close-cropped hair, tight-fitting T-shirts and tattoos. They’re joking and drinking among themselves like a sports team playing away. The mercenaries. It was a good idea to come here.
Lorraine Connection Page 13
