‘I took the risk. After all, I’m not exactly out on the street yet. And from what I’ve heard, you lost similar sums at the Beirut casino, in the good old days.’
Laughter.
‘Gambling and business aren’t the same thing at all. Losing at cards is still enjoyable. Losing in business … But seriously, you were reckless, you were too greedy, you’d have done better to work through our usual brokers.’
‘Are you lecturing me?’
‘It’s not a question of lecturing, but of risk management. First of all, by cutting them out, you upset the traditional Middle East arms brokers. They’re powerful people, and our best customers. I hope you’re not forgetting that …’
‘I’m not forgetting it …’
‘And besides, if there’s a scandal in France …’
‘There won’t be a scandal. I’ve identified the people behind the attack and the press dossier. They’re also involved in arms deals with Iran. I went to meet them yesterday in their stronghold.’ He falters. ‘In Côte-d’Ivoire. I can ruin them and they can ruin me. So we came to an understanding. They cut it out and everybody minds their own business. The incident is closed.’
‘I beg to disagree. First of all because you may be wrong as to who’s behind the operation, there are a number of interests at stake. And secondly because French political life is a sack of cats nowadays, and the scandal can be re-ignited from just about any quarter. So, to continue. If there’s a scandal, there’ll be an inquiry. And if there’s an inquiry, you’ll be in the eye of the cyclone. A bank like the IBL needs absolute calm and discretion to function properly.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘It must be made impossible to trace things back to the IBL via you. Close all your accounts. Use cash, that’s always the best way to cut all connections. And I’ll erase all trace of the accounts.’
Bornand holds his tongue, looking down at his boots sinking into the thick, sodden turf. The bitter taste of friendship betrayed. The house surrounded by flowers looking down over Beirut, full of fragrances so much warmer than here in France, the beautiful Syrian woman I gave him, and his first horse which I chose for him. Flashback to the stands at the Beirut racecourse, with its walls riddled with machine-gun rounds, the shooting that stops just long enough for the race to take place, Karim winning, the two men embracing at the finishing post … Karim continues:
‘I’ve already made arrangements with our Geneva correspondent. They’re expecting you.’
Chilled to the bone, Bornand shivers. Think fast. So this is what it’s come to. Business is business. It’s him or me. Time to take advantage of the circumstances to cover my tracks.
‘I’ll send someone next week.’
Before driving back to Paris, Bornand stops for a coffee and brandy at the bar-cum-tobacconist’s in Lamorlaye and reads Paris Turf.
‘Fernandez? Cecchi here.’ Fernandez has recognised him – his master’s voice. ‘I’ve got some news on Chardon. Bornand won’t be disappointed. First of all, he served in the Marines for five years, in Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire, from 1973 to 1979. I’m not sure that’s relevant to our particular business, but just in case … Then he resurfaces on the payroll of the Intelligence Service. You didn’t know that?’
‘No.’ What an arsehole. That record, so bare, of course. I’m losing my touch. ‘You’ll have to do a bit better than this in future. And finally, the cops found around a hundred grams of heroin at his place, Lebanese. He doesn’t seem to be a junkie, so he’s a dealer, small time at any rate. The Crime Squad’s done well, in two days. That’ll give Bornand something to mull over. Remind him that I never do favours for free.’
Cloistered in his Élysée office, Bornand doodles feverishly, drawing acanthus leaves on his notepad. Last night he spent an hour in a tête-à-tête meeting with the President, who as usual didn’t want to hear about arms sales, but noted the fact that the current problem was resolved, and seemed satisfied. He draws another line, rips out the page, crumples it into a ball and bins it. Fernandez, sitting opposite him, waits.
‘So, where are we up to with Tardivel?’
‘Mission accomplished. Raymond, an old friend from Intelligence, and I abducted the little faggot in the middle of the street, not far from here. No one batted an eyelid. As soon as he saw the photo, he caved in. I beat him up a bit, not badly.’ Flashback, squeezing the back of his neck, which yielded, submissive. He smiles. ‘More for pleasure than from necessity, to be totally frank. There won’t be any more talk of the Chardon dossier from that quarter.’
Bornand does not react. Fernandez continues:
‘Chardon was blackmailing him all right, and Tardivel paid up. But that’s not all. I had a call from Cecchi this morning. The investigation is progressing. The cops have established that Chardon is an ex-Marine and was stationed in Gabon, and they found a little stash of Lebanese heroin at his place …’
Bornand’s ears suddenly prick up. Chardon encounters the Djimil brothers while he’s serving in Africa, stays in touch trafficking Lebanese with them, and they use him to take their dossier to Paris. The piece fits into the jigsaw.
‘… Again according to Cecchi, Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’
Bornand is gutted. He leans back in his chair, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short convulsive gasps, his face ashen, his hands clasped. For several minutes. Fernandez starts getting worried. Heart attack? Then Bornand’s muscles gradually relax, his breathing returns to normal, he remains motionless for a while longer, before opening his eyes and sitting up.
‘That changes the whole picture. Pay attention to what I’m saying. The Djimils plan the job with Chardon, who informs the Intelligence Service, his paymaster. Intelligence leap at the opportunity and kill two birds with one stone. They give us a completely abridged dossier on Chardon …’
‘That’s how they always protect their informers.’
Bornand bangs his fist on the desk.
‘Shut up, Fernandez. It’s common knowledge that the police department is at war with the Élysée unit. And the unit is Grossouvre, Ménage and myself. So if Intelligence have been informed of this business by Chardon, they’ll have no hesitation in using it to bring me down and cripple the Socialists in the March elections too while they’re at it.’ In a sudden outburst of rage, his voice quavering, he continues: ‘This just proves they’re a bunch of uncontrollable incompetents. Don’t tell me any different.’
‘I haven’t said a word, sir.’
Bornand gets up and turns to the window. The roofs look bare. He takes two deep breaths and tries to regain his composure. A bad day. The pleasure of the horses ruined this morning, being ditched by a friend, and now the whole business has become more complicated, just when he thought he had things under control. He speaks without looking at Fernandez.
‘Who’s behind Chardon? Your old boss Macquart? We have to seize the initiative. I’m going to warn the unit. We’ll see what blocks to put in place, we’ll find a chink. They’re not invulnerable, these Intelligence cops, are they, Fernandez? They have their little vices, their little weaknesses, like you, like everyone else …’
Fernandez pictures Macquart, forthright, massive, behind his desk, a cop to the very marrow. He lives in the countryside under a false name; nobody knows his family; he always checks that he’s not being followed when he leaves the office; all the more upright because he’s not interested in money. The chink … Bornand’s going to come a cropper, and he knows it, and Fernandez rejoices.
‘… Then I’ll go and see the Interior Minister to have a word with him about the way some of his departments operate.’ He turns around. ‘Disbanding the Intelligence Service was in his electoral manifesto in ’81, wasn’t it, unless I am much mistaken?’
‘It was more or less in the manifesto.’
‘Well I think it’s time to remind him.’
‘Sir, if you see the Minister, you know that Cecchi is waiting for his authorisation to r
eopen the Bois de Boulogne gambling club, which Intelligence is blocking.’
Surprised, Bornand stares at him and thinks for a moment.
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to confuse the two issues.’
‘Cecchi is very useful to you, especially at the moment …’
‘Cecchi seems to me to be rather too compromising an individual under the circumstances. And I’ve got him on-side, in any case. I’ll look into that later, when I have the time and more elbow room.’ A silence. ‘Intelligence must have sent Chardon to a safe house. We’re not likely to see him again.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Back at the police station, a crushing workload has accumulated over the past few days. Noria and Bonfils plod on in silence. Noria looks up from time to time and glances at Bonfils, who doesn’t react, seemingly absorbed in his tasks.
Lunch break. After a dull morning, it’s now a glorious day. Bonfils suggests having a sandwich on a bench out in the sunshine, in the Buttes Chaumont park overlooking the lake. It’s still cold, but it makes a change from the office. He sits there, legs outstretched, silent, half absent. He finishes his sandwich under Noria’s gaze. A clear-cut profile, lips parted, very well defined. His jacket is open. Under his grey polo-neck sweater, she can make out his regular breathing beneath the bulge of his chest. She has a clear image in her mind of the photo and wants to slip her hand under the wool and touch his skin, and let it linger there, with his nipple in the hollow of her palm. It’s fun toying with desire and ambiguity. These are completely new feelings for her. Halt there.
‘You didn’t come in to work yesterday?’ she said.
‘I took a day off. I was feeling down.’
‘I’ve got news of Chardon.’
Bonfils suddenly sits up.
‘You never give up …’
She wants to tell him about running away, the loneliness. But the words simply won’t come out.
‘Should I?’ she queries.
‘To be honest, I don’t know.’
And now she’s aggressive:
‘Well I don’t have a choice.’
He gazes at her for a moment in silence, then says:
‘If you say so. Shoot.’
‘Chardon went home after leaving the Brasserie des Sports. He went out again alone at around four thirty, and a man driving Fatima Rashed’s Mini came and picked him up outside his house. He got into the car and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘How do you know that?’
She tells him about the house, the day it snowed, the kids in the street and their snowball fight … Bonfils looks pensive.
‘By that time, it’s likely that Rashed was already dead.’
‘The driver is almost certainly the man who followed him to the restaurant. Perhaps he and Chardon are accomplices.’
‘This is exciting. We should go back to the brasserie and try to find out more about this guy, and file an additional report. We’ll take it to the investigating magistrate.’
‘To the magistrate? Why not to the Crime Squad?’
He has dimples when he smiles.
‘Because the magistrate is a lot more attractive than the section boss at the Crime Squad.’
The irony is not lost on Noria: If you find him, be a darling and let us know …
‘OK, we’ll give it to the magistrate.’
Friday 6 December
At nine a.m. Bonfils and Noria turn up at the law courts. There’s no time to lose, at the station the pressure’s on. The clerk is alone in the office, sitting at her typewriter, and clearly surprised to see them.
‘Haven’t you heard? Proceedings have begun to remove the magistrate from the case.’ They are open-mouthed. ‘On Wednesday morning she went to search Madeleine Prévost’s premises, and I went with her, naturally. She didn’t call in the Crime Squad because she was afraid there might be a leak. So she asked the chief of the 8th arrondissement to provide her with police backup. And on Wednesday evening, the public prosecutor informed her that he was referring the case to the Court of Criminal Appeal because she had overstepped her prerogative.’
Bonfils has difficulty in maintaining his composure. Flashback: ‘If she goes for Mado, she won’t survive.’ She hadn’t survived. The clerk continues:
‘On Wednesday evening, she left feeling very shaken, and there’s been no sign of life since. I phone, no answer. It’s odd, because her mother lives with her and she never leaves the apartment these days.’
As they leave the courts, Bonfils takes Noria’s arm.
‘We’re going to the magistrate’s place to make sure nothing’s happened to her. It’s not far, only about fifteen minutes’ walk.’
Noria pulls up her anorak collar. Utterly disconcerting, this guy. He finds the magistrate attractive. He knows where she lives. Is he sleeping with her? What’s he dragging me into? But curiosity gets the better of her.
They walk up to the jardin du Luxembourg and turn into rue d’Assas, Bonfils tense and slightly distant. A grey light over the gardens, a flat prospect with a few rare visitors strolling up and down. On reaching rue d’Assas, Bonfils heads for a modern apartment block, built entirely of glass, enters the lobby and walks over to the lift – with the assurance of someone who is familiar with the building. Noria follows him. On the eighth floor, he rings the bell insistently. There’s no response. Bonfils goes to fetch the concierge, who follows him up with a set of keys and opens the door. Three locks, one after the other. They go in, call out, silence. To the left is a vast living room with two huge French windows that open onto a veranda protected by a metal grille. Empty. To the right, a kitchen, empty. Facing them, a corridor. First bedroom on the right, empty. Second bedroom, an elderly woman lying peacefully on a bed, her arms by her sides, wearing a well-tailored navy-blue suit. They approach the bed. Bonfils touches the emaciated, deeply jaundiced face with the back of his hand. It is stone cold: of course, she’s dead. The concierge invokes God almighty and groans. Noria stops breathing, her breath trapped in her chest, knowing the worst is certain. At the end of the corridor is the bathroom door. Bonfils opens it, reels and rushes into the kitchen. Noria leans forward and peers through the open door. In the bathtub is a naked woman, her head slumped onto her chest, her face concealed by a mop of short, thick hair. Her torso is drenched with blood, her wrists slashed and her throat slit. There’s blood everywhere, rivulets running down the bathtub, splattering the tiles, the walls, the sink, the mirror, the towels, dried blood, dark brown, a stale cloying smell. One arm is hanging over the edge of the bath, and beneath the dangling hand, lying in a pool of brown blood on the floor, is a wide open razor. The concierge shrieks. Noria grabs her by the shoulders and steers her into the living room, sits her down in an armchair facing the windows, where she stays sobbing. She hears Bonfils vomiting his guts out in the kitchen. For only his second corpse, this occasion was hardly an anti-climax.
She swings into action. A call to the cops at the High Court. Everyone will be there within fifteen minutes. Bonfils is splashing water on his face in the kitchen. I’ve still a few minutes to myself here. Time to check out the apartment. The first bedroom, the magistrate’s, no doubt. Impeccably tidy, and fairly spartan. A narrow bed, two huge wardrobes, a bookcase, not many books, and a magnificent mahogany English writing desk that’s out of keeping with the rest of the furniture. Lying on the desk is a fat notebook bound in yellow leather. Noria opens it using the tip of her nail and flicks through the pages. Neat, close handwriting, in felt-tip pen, stilted phrases, jumbled, no points of reference, it looks like a disjointed personal diary. Bonfils joins the concierge in the living room. They can hear the lift operating, the cops arriving. Without thinking, Noria takes the diary and secretes it in the inside pocket of her anorak.
The black BMW saloon with tinted windows leaves the underground car park in avenue Foch and heads towards Mado’s building. Sitting in the back, side by side, are Cecchi, in a navy-blue suit and a diagonally striped tie, and Mado, in a grey t
rouser suit, chatting about this and that. In front are the driver and the bodyguard, paying attention to the road.
‘Bornand dropped by last night to try out Katryn’s replacement. He agrees with me, she’s not up to the job. Too heavily into fucking and not enough class,’ is Mado’s opinion.
‘Well, send her to Amédée, and find another girl. There’s no shortage, as far as I know. Did you talk about Katryn’s murder?’
‘Briefly. He doesn’t know that Fernandez shot her.’
‘He can’t keep his men in line.’ He leans over to her with a smile. ‘I know you find him charming, elegant …’
‘He’s a loyal customer.’
Cecchi looks doubtful:
‘Was. Right now, he’s pushing his luck. According to Fernandez, only yesterday he refused to use his influence on behalf of the gambling club. As he’s having problems with this Chardon dossier … Didn’t I tell you? I got hold of the dossier, through that faggot at Combat Présent, very accommodating, the poofter … I’ll find a way of putting pressure on Bornand … You, in the meantime, keep away from him. I don’t want to see him in your lounge any more.’
The BMW pulls up in front of Mado’s place.
‘Wait here for me. I’ll see Madame upstairs and I’ll be back down.’
In Mado’s office is an answering machine, connected to a line whose number is strictly private and which changes monthly. Cecchi presses the button to play back the message. A man’s voice, muffled by a handkerchief, you can’t be too careful, speaks in a flat voice. He must be reading from notes.
‘The investigation into Chardon continues to progress. He still hasn’t been located, and the Intelligence Service states that it has had no contact from him these past few days. But he has been identified as the purchaser, two years ago, of the pearl worn by Fatima Rashed at the time of her murder, which confirms that they had a regular relationship going back some time.’ Cecchi groans. Regular relationship going back some time, and I wasn’t aware of it. High time to review my organisation. ‘What’s more, the Crime Squad found Fatima Rashed’s diary and keys at his place. Which makes it all the more vital to find Chardon, prime witness and perhaps more. The Crime Squad is systematically going through all the papers confiscated from his house. They’ve already identified one of his friends, a certain Beauchamp, and currently the head of security for an arms manufacturer, the SEA.’ Cecchi’s heart starts racing. The SEA, the Chardon affair. The man clears his throat and continues. ‘Beauchamp is not unknown to the Drugs Squad. His name has come up several times in connection with the smuggling of Lebanese heroin into Europe via Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire, the same as that found at Chardon’s house, without anything specific ever being pinned on him. He was questioned during the investigation, but he had a cast-iron alibi: the day the prostitute was killed, he worked at the SEA until late into the evening, alibi confirmed by a number of employees. Cleared for the time being. That’s the latest.’
Affairs of State Page 11
