While there could be wives in the room, the girls hanging around the bar are all hookers hanging out for punters. Another brandy. Montoya leans towards the barman and says loudly enough to make himself heard above the techno beat: ‘Do you know if Mr Quignard is here tonight? I’m looking for him and I can’t see him.’ The barman glances distractedly around the room.
‘I can’t see him either, sir.’
‘He told me he’d be here. I was hoping to meet him …’
The barman lets the conversation die. Montoya turns back to face the room. A buxom blonde in pastel pink and blue, skirt slit to the waist and a tight top with a plunging neckline, comes over to him and lays a hand on his arm.
‘I’m Deborah. Anyone who’s a friend of my friend Quignard is a friend of mine. He’s not here tonight. If he were, I’d know. But you can take his place.’
‘I can try.’
‘He usually starts with a bottle of champagne.’
Montoya signals to the barman, picks up the bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, and they go and sit at a vacant table on the edge of the dance floor. The barman gazes after them. A few metres away one of the mercenaries is dancing with a couple. He’s removed his T-shirt and is showing off his scars, a star-shaped hole in his left shoulder and a long, straight, clean line on his chest, near the heart. The evidence of his mistakes, of his professional errors, thinks Montoya. The woman dancer, a somewhat insipid dark-haired woman in her forties, runs her finger over them, as if tracing a new map of Love. The handsome mercenary is wearing a very long white silk scarf around his neck which he uses to lasso the woman, moving her between the husband and himself.
‘Pour a drink my friend, and don’t forget about me.’
Montoya slides a hand inside her top, pops out a nipple and bites it playfully.
‘How could I forget you, madam?’
She laughs. ‘Quignard isn’t so imaginative.’ She loosens Montoya’s tie and unbuttons his shirt. ‘Let’s go and dance.’
A chore. Montoya moves as little as possible and in the darkness concentrates on trying not to lose contact with Quignard’s friend who goes wild to the beat of the music, both breasts now bouncing free. Montoya has to raise his voice loudly to make himself heard.
‘Quignard told me he’s very friendly with the owner of the Oiseau Bleu.’
A wink. ‘That’s true.’
‘Have they known each other long?’
‘I’ve been here for six months and I always see them together.’
A man has slipped between the girl and him, Montoya is yanked violently back and tripped up. He falls on to some cushions to find the man with the white scarf leaning over him. He looks more intimidating from this angle. The Incredible Hulk personified grabs his shirt collar with one hand and plants him back on his feet with no apparent effort. Another mercenary draws the curtains around the alcove, frisks him, finds his ID, reads it and tells the Hulk, with a grimace: ‘Journalist.’ Montoya tries to keep both men in his field of vision. The ringleader shakes him.
‘Why are you asking about Quignard? What do you want of Quignard, eh?’
Think fast. A suicide can happen so easily. Maximum concentration.
‘I don’t want anything. Just to have a bit of fun with a girl, like everyone else here, right?’ The second man has come to stand beside his chief, blocking the entrance to the alcove. My back’s clear, now’s my chance. Fuck you.
The chief swings back his arm and delivers a blow fit to stun an ox. Montoya ducks it by rotating his body slightly around the hand gripping his collar, then follows through his attacker’s movement with both arms, knocking him off balance. As he topples forward Montoya lunges and knees him in the groin. A howl. Then an explosion. Pitch darkness. The world quakes. Montoya is lifted in the air as his opponent seems to have disintegrated, and lands flat on his back under a hail of rubble. His chest crushed, he pants in shallow breaths, the thick air feels like burning dust in his lungs. A bloody face, sticky at the corners of his mouth, under his hand. Total blackout. Blind? A plane engine roars in his head. Deaf? A reflex: get away. Crawl. A wall. Stands up. Stays upright. Feels like laughing, one thought: Get out of here. Follow the wall. Stumbles. Obstacles. Go round them, push them away. Soft moving masses, bodies? Step over. Legs feeling stronger and stronger. Taste of blood in his mouth. The staircase. Still in the dark. Several people trying to get out. A crush. At last, the street, fresh air, breathe, breathe, hiccup, spit, choke. No, he’s not blind, he can make out, behind a haze, the illuminated street, the façade of the Oiseau Bleu with its tropical forest intact. He makes a rapid inventory of his wounds. He can walk, he can breathe, blood on his face, running down his neck, superficial wounds to his head. Vaguely hears the sirens of the fire engines getting closer. Not deaf either. For now, don’t try and understand, grab your chance and get the hell out. Things were turning nasty down there.
25 October
Quignard finds the usual pile of national dailies on the back seat of his waiting Mercedes. They are folded over twice, and inside them is a set of clearly contrasted black-and-white photos. Without the least shade of doubt they show Park walking into the head office of Daewoo Poland; Park emerging and walking down the street; Park seated at a table in a cafe opposite a stranger; then Park coming out of a residential apartment block. There’s even a photo of him in pyjamas, standing at a bedroom window, opening the shutters. You can see the unmade bed. A calm man, always alone, going freely about his business, not in any way trying to hide. Worrying or reassuring? That remains to be seen: no choice. Tomaso the indispensable. The man of the moment.
He glances quickly at the headlines. One on page six of Libération catches his eye: “The law hits Lagardère in the wallet.” He skims the article: “The holding company’s payment system … a shareholder filed a complaint four years ago … legal proceedings have just concluded with Jean-Luc Lagardère being charged with the misuse of company money.”
Quignard settles back in his seat, torn between relief and anxiety. Lagardère’s tough enough to weather this kind of attack. Proceedings that dragged on for four years now reaching their climax … the competition is pulling out all the stops. When will it be our turn? With a loose cannon like Park roaming around just to make things worse … Yes, definitely, Tomaso is indispensable.
Mid-morning Quignard’s driver comes into his office.
‘Mr Tomaso’s just called me. He asked me to inform you that there was an explosion at the Oiseau Bleu last night.’ Quignard freezes. ‘As yet nobody knows what type of explosion or how it occurred. The boss is at the scene this morning, with the police.’
Which means he mustn’t try and get hold of him. Explosion, some kind of a racket? Dodgy customers. Will it affect me? Not sure. No connection between me and Tomaso for the moment. Invitation to the hunt, maybe not a good idea, won’t repeat it. Be very careful.
‘Was anybody hurt?’
‘A few people were slightly wounded. No one killed.’
So it’ll be all right. Daniel will sort it out. We’ve all got our problems. Just then, his secretary rings through.
‘Mr Maréchal is asking to see you.’
A pause. Tomaso’s shadow behind the driver. Maréchal, Tomaso, two worlds that must not meet. Awkward. To the driver: ‘Wait here, would you, while I get rid of my visitor?’
Quignard closes the door of his office behind him and walks over to Maréchal with a smile. A warm handshake before he leads him over to the coffee machine, an affable moment in an increasingly oppressive atmosphere. There follows a brief silence. Maréchal is tense and gets straight to the point.
‘I’ve come to find out what’s happening to my workers? When they ask me how long they’re going to be laid off, what do I reply? When is the factory scheduled to reopen? After all, the machines were unscathed.’
Quignard looks at Maréchal, offers him a cup of coffee. Hardly the moment to tell him that my main worry is the Thomson takeover. He’d be up for punching me i
n the face. Better not rub him up the wrong way, a valuable man.
‘I’m not sitting here twiddling my thumbs you know. I’m having to negotiate with the banks to review the company’s financial situation. It’s not brilliant. I’m trying to obtain deferments and extensions. Daewoo wasn’t insured against fire …’ Astonishment from Maréchal who spills coffee on his sleeve. ‘So I’m having the losses assessed, to get an overview. I’m applying for subsidies to rebuild and start up again, and I’m talking to the local council to find out how they see our future. All that takes time. We should have a clearer picture within a couple of weeks.’
Maréchal chews his plastic cup.
‘That’s a long time when you haven’t got a cent to live on.’
‘Amrouche has been asked to look at the workers’ records and put together proposals for retraining courses in the event that …’
‘Oh right. Who could ask for more?’
‘You know that there’s a departmental manager’s job waiting for you at Thomson, when we’re the bosses, in a month or two.’
The tension increases palpably.
‘I’m not talking to you about myself right now, Maurice. I’m talking to you about my people, the ones in my sector, more than a hundred workers. What are you doing for them? You’re the boss of this factory now, aren’t you?’
The door opens. Rolande Lepetit is standing on the threshold, spectacular in her black overcoat buttoned up to the chin, a hard, set expression. She has come on foot from the Cité des Jonquilles, going over and over two or three phrases in her mind, to the point of exasperation. A bank account in Luxembourg. Me. Me, who supports my mother and my son. Never asked anyone for anything. Always earned every cent I spend. A bank account in Luxembourg. Their world, not mine. No respect. That’s what it is, they lack respect. We have to talk. You’re not afraid of him. Talk. Have to. Leave Aisha out of it, whatever happens. She takes a step forward, closes the door and thrusts her hands deeper in her pockets.
‘Mr Quignard, I’ve come to talk to you about something …’
She casts around for the right word, can’t find it, and clenches her hands deep in her pockets. Maréchal makes as if to leave the room.
‘Stay, Mr Maréchal. Just wait, this matter concerns you too.’ The two men exchange a glance. ‘Daewoo’s accounts list a bank account in Luxembourg in my name with a very large sum of money in it.’ The two men stand stock still. She leans forward, tense. ‘Obviously I don’t have a bank account in Luxembourg, and I want an explanation.’
She presents a solid wall of hostility and persistence.
‘Ms Lepetit, please …’
She turns to Maréchal, punctuating each phrase with a jerk of her head and shoulders.
‘And you too, Mr Maréchal, you’re on the list, in case you weren’t aware of it. One of these famous accounts is in your name.’
Maréchal’s reaction is dramatic. His face turns ashen, he opens his mouth and closes it again with a gulp, but not a sound comes out. Quignard is finding the situation increasingly awkward, he needs to act fast. He walks over to Rolande, takes her by the arm and sits her down in an armchair. He sits down beside her and talks to her in a confidential tone.
‘Ms Lepetit, I know nothing about any of this, I’ve just taken over the reins of Daewoo. Tell me first of all where you got your information.’
‘During the occupation of the offices Étienne Neveu was playing around on one of the computers.’ Rolande hears Maréchal exhale suddenly behind her, as if he’d just received a punch in the stomach. ‘On it he found a list of bank accounts in Luxembourg. One is in my name and there are more in the names of Maréchal, Amrouche and Nourredine, and probably others too, but those names are for definite.’
‘When did he tell you this?’
‘He didn’t. But he told a lot of people on the night of the occupation and the rumour found its way back to me yesterday. I find it completely unacceptable, and I want an explanation.’
‘Ms Lepetit, I’m not taking this matter lightly. But please understand, the company’s entire accounts were removed from the premises on the day after the fire. We couldn’t leave them in a gutted factory. It will probably take several weeks before we get ourselves sorted out.’ He gets to his feet, helps Rolande up and sees her to the door. ‘I give you my word that I’ll do everything I can to clarify this matter.’ He opens the door for her and pushes her into the corridor. ‘And you’ll be informed the minute we find out anything.’
She’s in the corridor as he closes the door again. Quignard leans against the wall for a moment, eyes closed as he blots his upper lip and the roots of his hair with a handkerchief.
‘She’s a pain in the arse, your protégée‚’ he says to Maréchal.
‘I disagree.’ Frostily: ‘And don’t forget you can’t tell me you know nothing of all this. Are you sure this isn’t to do with your friend Park’s system of bogus invoices?’
‘Yes, it probably is.’
‘Park was embezzling company money, that’s his business and yours. But I won’t stand for him mixing up our names in it all. Your dumping ground for the unemployed can burn down for all I care, but for you to fail to lift a little finger to help the workers who were inside, that’s a disgrace. What’s more it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least if Bouziane had taken the rap for the fire, with everything else he’s got on his conscience. But finger Nourredine, one of the few reliable workers out of the whole bunch, simply because he led the strike – no way will you get me to swallow that. And don’t, whatever you do, tell me the tale of what happened to Étienne Neveu. You scare me. Your story’s full of holes. I only ask one thing of you: make sure you leave me out of your master cock-up. Understood?’
The door slams.
When Quignard returns to his office, the driver is standing before the bay window contemplating the trees in the valley rippling in the wind.
Montoya had fallen asleep fully dressed on his bed. He awakens fairly late in the morning, body aching and mind numb. The first thing he does is to switch on the bedside radio and tune into a local station to try and find out what happened to him last night at the Oiseau Bleu. Schmaltzy music as he glances at his watch: the news will be on soon. First of all, have a wash. His reflection in the bathroom mirror is not a pretty sight. Jacket and shirt ripped. Flashback, the mercenary’s burly frame above him as he lay on the floor, cornered in the alcove. Allowing himself to be caught out like that, black mark, lack of vigilance. I knew what I was getting myself into. Won’t happen again. Then, the blow, dodging it, neat, nice move, nothing to say about that. Kneeing him in the balls: bullseye. Certainly effective. Smile. I bet the Hulk’s finding it hard to walk today. And the explosion … Full inventory: only minor damage. Three nasty cuts to his scalp which he washes and disinfects, that’ll do. Scratches on his face, hands, a wound in the neck, he applies an antiseptic cream. He steps under the shower. On the radio, the news. Metz football team is the main item. I don’t give a shit. And then immediately afterwards:
Last nighty‚ around three a.m., a mysterious explosion caused major damage to the premises of the Oiseau Bleu, the well-known Nancy nightclub. Was it accidental or deliberate? The state prosecutor, who has opened an investigation, is keeping an open mind. Some fifty casualties were treated at Nancy hospital, around thirty people have been kept in, but nobody is in a critical condition and there were no deaths. The Oiseau Bleu remains closed for the time being.
He turns off the radio and meticulously puts on a beige silk and cotton mix shirt. He does the buttons up slowly, one by one. Quignard is embroiled in this for sure. He had numerous opportunities to meet Tomaso in Brussels or in the valley. His car and driver? Check them out No tie, no appointments that require one. What about Tomaso? He remembers Valentin’s words: It’s a case that requires intelligence, skill and imagination, lots of imagination. Black trousers, checks the crease, impeccable, black leather belt with a polished steel buckle. Give your imagination free rein. Tomaso i
s probably involved in the drug business, the secret services reckon, but it’s not proven. So, it’s recent, otherwise they’d know for sure. He has access to the ideal network of dealers through his drivers and bodyguards. They know the consumers who are loaded and have dealings with the concierges in the big hotels. Woollen cardigan in a slightly darker beige than the shirt. And the factory security guards in another sector of the market. Black lace-up shoes, English leather. If he wants to get involved in drugs, either he goes into business with those who are already there, or he ousts them and takes their place. Initially, he teams up with the Hakims. Then he takes advantage of his connection with Quignard and the local big shots to have them arrested. They take their revenge by blowing up the Oiseau Bleu. A moderate explosion: they’re still in the negotiation phase. It all stacks up. A final touch of the comb to disguise the gashes as best he can. There’s still Bouziane. He fits into this somehow, but I don’t know how. He looks at himself in the mirror. That’ll do. I’d better move fast. It won’t take Tomaso and Quignard more than twenty-four hours to exchange notes and identify me. Keep on thinking. Bouziane isn’t one of the security guard mafia. What emerges from the initial evidence against him is that he’s been a small-time dealer for years, and everyone knows it. So Bouziane works with the Hakims. Tomaso and Quignard both used him, one to bring down the Hakims, the other to finger him as the arsonist. It still holds up. Montoya slips on his black leather jacket. He feels on top form.
Montoya’s having a couscous in a little restaurant in Pondange, sitting at the table next to Amrouche, with whom he’s quickly struck up a conversation. A journalist looking for first-hand accounts of the Daewoo strike. Amrouche could have gone on for ever. Particularly on the subject of the occupation of the offices, in which he claims to have played a leading role. Sentimental, lost, hurt, with a profound hatred of Nourredine. Extraordinary how readily people talk. They need to tell someone about their traumatic experience, and not many people around here seem prepared to listen. But Montoya’s a good listener. Chuffed, Amrouche invites him to drop into his new office to see him whenever he likes. The next conversation, scheduled later that afternoon, will probably be much more difficult.
Lorraine Connection Page 14
