Authors: Dominique Manotti
Affairs of State (14 page)
Noria gets her breath back. She hears the distorted echo of her own nightmares.
But I got out, I saved my life
. She stretches, massages her face and goes over to the window.
The city, as always
. And sits down to finish reading.
The last entry is very different:
At work, Simone put a phone call through to me: the Dupuis and Martenot law firm. Why did I take the call? I knew exactly what was going to happen. Lack of resolve, of self-confidence, as before. Nicolas greets me very politely, asks after my health, then my mother’s. Ten years since we last saw each other. Then he informs me that Mado is one of his clients. I already know this. That she won’t respond to my summons. As I’ve seen. And kindly warns me that incriminating Mado will upset a lot of people in high places. I hate him with every fibre of my being.
Noria closes the diary. The magistrate hated right to the death. Bonfils, not a word about him in all these pages. He’s somewhere else, a blip. And a mystery man, this Nicolas who played a part in the magistrate’s suicide. He’s protecting Mado who Katryn worked for, and Katryn was trying to blackmail one of Mado’s clients. This guy is somehow linked to the murder.
What do I do with this information
?
Three o’clock in the morning, much too early to wait for sunrise.
To bed now, and we’ll see what tomorrow brings
.
In a little studio flat belonging to Mado in a quiet apartment building in the well-heeled 16th
arrondissement
, Karim sits naked in a low, deep, winged armchair smugly contemplating his bulging paunch, the line of curly black hairs running down from his navel and his flaccid penis resting on the red and white striped velvet. An afternoon and a night spent fucking two of Mado’s girls, perfect as always. And he’d been masterful, he gloats, scratching his testicles. One of the girls brings him a tray which she sets down on the coffee table beside him. She’s wearing a short navy-blue silk pyjama shirt, with nothing underneath it. He slips his hand between her thighs and fondles her crotch, then attacks his breakfast. English-style. His favourite: astringent tea, bitter-tasting, toast and marmalade, freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice. A sigh of contentment. The girls have vanished into the bathroom.
Another reason for his complacency is yesterday’s meeting with Bornand, not half as tough as he’d expected. The lost plane was an excuse to edge him out. He proved to be a real pushover. That was unexpected.
Better watch the time: he mustn’t miss the flight to Beirut.
He gets up and ambles lazily into the bedroom, dragging his feet, calls the other girl, the one wearing a basque revealing her generous breasts, and has her dress him while he buries his face and hands in her bosom. Then he sends her away with a slap on the buttocks.
‘Call me a taxi.’
Alone in the bedroom, he checks the contents of his leather briefcase: the papers he’d been planning to use to put pressure on Bornand. He hadn’t needed them. A few hours’ work in Beirut, and the whole affair will be closed. He checks his appearance in the mirror: impeccable.
‘A white Mercedes will pick you up within a few minutes,’ says the girl.
He says his goodbyes, his hands roaming everywhere, and leaves, feeling elated.
Outside the building, a white Mercedes is waiting, its engine idling. The driver steps out and opens the door for him.
‘Roissy.’
‘Very good, sir.’
He gets in, the door slams, and the taxi pulls away quickly. Karim vaguely notices that there’s a glass partition between him and the driver, which is unusual for a Parisian taxi. He opens his leather briefcase, leafs through some papers, reliving the night he has just spent. Mado’s establishment really is top class.
The taxi doesn’t seem to be taking the most direct route. Usually … He leans over to the glass partition. It’s fixed shut. He raps twice. The driver doesn’t respond. He looks at it more closely. Toughened glass. Sits down again. The rear windows are tinted and appear to be of toughened glass too. He presses the control switch. Nothing moves. Grabs a door handle. Locked. A moment of panic. Bangs the windows and rattles the handles, in vain. Sits back.
What’s going on? The taxi: the girl called it. The girls: work for Mado. Mado: a great friend of Bornand’s. And her pimp, caught sight of him a couple of times, a notorious gangster … Is it possible?
The Mercedes drives fast, there’s little traffic on a Saturday morning, they’re already on the motorway heading south. The driver turns off onto an empty secondary road heading deep into the forest.
Scared out of his wits, Karim pisses himself.
At the wheel of his metallic grey Porsche, Nicolas Martenot heads for home. He drives slowly in the direction of Paris. An eighteen-hole round of golf at the Saint-Cloud club, a session in the sauna, a quick lunch, then a long game of bridge with plenty of booze which he’d won hands down. And yet, alone in his luxury car, he has a sense of unease triggered by the call from the police yesterday informing him of his ex-wife’s suicide. He says her name out aloud:
Laura Luccioni. She slit her throat. Remorse? … It was her choice. As it had been her choice to be a magistrate. And to believe in it. Good, evil. Frigid. Her icy distance scared me, fascinated me even. The ultimate inaccessible woman, and morally upright into the bargain.
He can still hear Bornand’s voice, in the spacious lounge in his apartment at the foot of the Eiffel Tower: ‘Your wife is an uptight pain in the arse. She’ll make your life a misery.’ He’ll have to cancel all his appointments on Monday and go to the funeral. Half the law courts will be there. Her throat slit. Martenot shudders. And sees Françoise’s face, contorted by something akin to hatred.
Hatred. Why hatred? For me?
Women’s violence, impossible to cope with. The feeling of unease grows more acute. Bornand’s doing. A snatch of a refrain keeps going round and round, like the chorus of a ditty: power, politics, sexual dysfunction.
I don’t think it’s my thing.
Irritated, he turns on the radio. Newsflash: ‘Two fire bombs have exploded in Paris department stores. One went off in the china department of the Galeries Lafayette, at five thirty p.m., and the other, in the leather goods department of Au Printemps, twenty minutes later. Initial reports state that around fifty people have been injured, ten of them seriously. No one appears to have been killed. The bombs were homemade incendiary devices. The police think it was probably the act of a loner or someone mentally unstable, or an act of vengeance.’
Come off it! Disinformation or incompetence? In the heat of the moment it’s guesswork, of course, but after all, it’s barely a week since the plane disappeared. Iran’s at war with France again
. ‘Given that the bombs exploded at peak shopping time on a Saturday afternoon, two weeks before Christmas, it is a miracle that the toll, albeit provisional, is no higher. The police estimate that there were nearly a hundred thousand people in and around the stores, making it difficult for the emergency services to get through. By eight p.m., all the wounded had been evacuated, but the area is still completely sealed off, and the police are currently urging motorists driving through the centre of Paris to avoid the right bank.’
Feeling powerless and bitter, Martenot switches off the radio and bangs the steering wheel with the palm of his hand in rage.
What a mess. That’s it. I’m dropping Bornand. He’s finished. My firm’s interests first. It’ll be a relief.
He smiles: the ritual murder of the father. About time too, at my age.
The New York-Paris night flight. Bornand lands at Roissy without having slept, feeling pretty groggy. He buys the newspapers and repairs to the airport bar, amid the hubbub of comings and goings. A strong double espresso and two pills, just to wake him up.
Paris Turf
, first of all, to read the commentary on Crystal Palace’s triumph yesterday at Longchamp, in the group 3 race. A clear win, by two lengths. The makings of a champion. He closes his eyes, the Aigles track at dawn, smells the horses’ powerful odour after exertion, hears them snorting. A mirage …
And the national press. The headlines are devoted to Saturday’s bomb attacks. It didn’t take the Iranians long to react. Idiotic editorials claiming it to be the work of a deranged loner! The mind boggles. He turns to the financial section. In one column, he finds the article he’s expecting:
Rumours of bankruptcy in Beirut.
The International Bank of Lebanon is the biggest private bank in the Middle East. With a presence in the region’s many arms markets, it is also the biggest investment bank for oil magnates to deposit their private fortunes, and therefore has close ties with the leading banks in the London, New York and Geneva financial markets.
Until now, it had managed to avoid the devastating effects of the Lebanon war, by striking a balance within its board
of directors between the different Lebanese communities and between the Syrians and the Gulf states. That was its real success story.
It seems that this era is over. In the past few days, several of the bank’s major customers, whose investments are highly volatile, have begun to close their accounts. If this trend continues, it is likely to force the bank to sell off some of its property assets, in a highly unfavourable market.
To make matters worse, one of the bank’s main partners, the Franco-Lebanese Walid Karim, vanished three days ago, taking with him certain confidential documents relating to the current crisis … The fate of the IBL should become clear by the end of the week.
Bornand folds the papers, stretches his legs, pulls back his shoulders and his arms. Karim.
A chapter of my life unravelling. Sinister. His choice, not mine. Business will resume with Iran, this time with the Americans. They need the IBL as much as I need them. The hostages … It’s not for want of trying
. And floating guiltily around in his mind is the thought that the longer the embargo lasts, the better it is for business. He contemplates the crowds milling around him.
When he arrives in his office, Bornand finds a number of messages, one of which says: ‘Call Flandin back urgently.’ He wrinkles his nose.
The boss of the SEA, a hysterical panic-monger. What can he want to talk to me about that’s so urgent? A bad omen.
On the phone, Flandin sounds at the end of his tether, his voice cracking uncontrollably.
‘Have you read the
Tribune de Lille
?’
‘No. I’m not interested in that kind of local paper.’
‘Then you’re wrong. I shall therefore have the pleasure of reading you an article from the front page of today’s
Tribune
. Are you listening?’
Bornand pours himself a whisky, sits down and sighs:
‘I’m listening.’
‘It’s entitled:
Mystery plane crash
.’
‘In true provincial press style,’ thinks Bornand.
Flandin continues: ‘This is the article:
On 29 November 1985, Turkey signalled the disappearance of a Boeing 747 cargo plane in its airspace, in the vicinity of Lake Van. So far, no airline company has reported the disappearance of one of its planes, nobody seems bothered about the death of the crew of possibly three, four, five or more people about whom we know nothing, not even their nationality. The owner(s) of the cargo have not come forward either to demand an investigation or to request compensation. And as the explosion took place at the start of winter, over a semi-desert in a perilous mountainous region, no doubt it will take a long time before a team of investigators from the Turkish civil aviation authority completes a report on this incident.
It was tempting to try and find out more about this mysterious plane. When the Ankara air-traffic controllers took charge on 29 November, the flight plan showed that it had taken off from Malta at 09.30, destination Tehran, with a cargo of rice.
Admittedly, operations at Valetta are still disrupted, flights have only just resumed after the tragic ending of the hijacking of the Egypt Air Boeing which left dozens dead,
7
but the information supplied by the control tower at Valetta is categorical: no Boeing 747 cargo had taken off at 09.30.
However
, at that same time, a Boeing 747 cargo from Brussels-Zavantem had flown over Malta and came under the authority of the Valetta air-traffic controllers, who gave it a new flight number and directed it towards Iran. Brussels-Zavantem Airport confirms that the Boeing 747 cargo took off at 06.58, destination Malta-Valetta. According to the customs declarations, it was carrying electronic equipment belonging to the SAPA. Hence of course the interest in finding out more about this equipment. The SAPA is a very recently formed company whose registered office is in the Bahamas. It purchased the cargo of electronic equipment on 28 November, i.e. the day before the Boeing crashed, from the SEA, a French company based in the Paris region and specialising in electronic equipment and arms. The SAPA itself is merely a dummy company for the SEA, to ensure that the name of the SEA does not appear officially in the transaction, so that it is harder to establish the true nature of this ‘electronic equipment’. Earlier this year, the SEA successfully bought up a number of Magic 550 missiles that had been decommissioned by the French army. The reason officially given is to recycle the onboard electronic equipment. Could it be that those same missiles were now en route to Iran? Watch this space.’
A long silence.
‘What do you think about that, Bornand?’
‘It’s very badly written.’
Flandin roars:
‘You guaranteed me absolute confidentiality. You’ve totally fucked up!’ his words are coming out in a jumbled rush. ‘I want to protect my company, that’s the only thing I care about. I’m not going to sacrifice it to bail you out. I’m meeting the journalist from the
Tribune
this afternoon. He’s going to be so
interested in what I’m going to tell him that he won’t bother about the SEA any more. All the bribes paid to the ministerial staff and to the Defence Ministry, the five million francs for them to turn a blind eye to the sale of the Magic 550s. I’ve got names. I don’t know what they did with the money afterwards … I’m going to tell that journalist that the SAPA is you, and only you, something he doesn’t seem to be aware of, and that this operation was to net you thirty million francs …’
Bornand fidgets. He can’t allow this maniac to cramp his style.
I was right.
‘Calm down, Flandin. I assure you the SEA has very little to fear. At worst, a bit of fuss in the press, but the Ministry won’t prosecute, as you well know. You’re meeting your journalist this afternoon, OK. Only let’s have lunch together beforehand to talk things over. And let’s try and avoid the worst. We’ve all got something to lose in this affair. One o’clock at Laurent’s, in one of the private dining rooms on the first floor?’
A long silence.
‘I’ll be there.’
The crisis defused, Bornand hangs up.
That’s the danger of working with beginners, they lack nerve. Contact Beauchamp, that’s why I brought him in
. He calls the SEA security department. Beauchamp hasn’t come in this morning, nor has he called in to leave a message. Bornand phones him at home and gets the answering machine. He hasn’t put in an appearance at his regular bar, a favourite haunt of African mercenaries, for the past three days. Worrying.
Bornand stands up and gazes out over the rooftops. Silence, which infuses him slowly and turns into a sense of solitude tinged with anxiety.
Must find out what’s going on with the Djimils. Four days ago, I had everything sorted, the affair was
buried
. Who’s stirring things up again? The Intelligence Service, of course. It’s the only possible explanation. They’ve declared outright war on me. I’ll make them sorry. But first of all, I’ve got to deal with Flandin, even if it takes a bit of improvisation
. He looks at his watch. Nine a.m. And Martenot’s wife’s funeral is at twelve. Not a second to lose.
When Fernandez comes into the office he finds Bornand, reclining in his armchair, his face pale and his eyes closed, looking as if he’s asleep. Fernandez falters. Bornand sits up, looks at him and smiles:
‘It’s nothing, tiredness, jet lag. You’re having lunch with me today, young fellow. We’re going to meet Flandin. I’ve booked a private dining room at Laurent’s.’
Fernandez is staggered. In four years, this is the first time that Bornand has taken him to what appears to be a business lunch, and this blurring of roles is baffling.
The two hearses arrive in convoy at the main entrance to Père-Lachaise cemetery. They take the left-hand avenue flanked by tombstones leading up to the funeral parlour. A procession forms and follows behind. Noria Ghozali walks beside Bonfils. All around, there’s little emotion, the gathering appears to be made up of officials, magistrates, lawyers, police officers, and a few strangers. Impressive ‘institutional’ wreaths. Handshakes between cops and magistrates. Walking alone at the head of the procession is a man in his forties, athletic, dark, hair on the long side, good-looking. Towards the back, Noria spots Simone, the clerk, head bowed and tears in her eyes. She slips
in beside her, takes her arm. There’s a moment of uncertainty, then the clerk recognises her and leans on her for support.
‘Alone, completely alone,’ she murmurs.
The magistrate? Her? Both of them?
‘Who’s the man at the front?’ asks Noria quietly.
The clerk looks up for a second, and bows her head again.
‘Nicolas Martenot. They were married. They divorced about ten years ago. Now, he’s one of the top corporate lawyers in Paris. A shark and a regular on the night-club circuit. She ended up hating him.’
‘Did they see much of each other?’
‘No, never.’ They walk in silence. The clerk continues, a slight hesitation in her voice: ‘An out-and-out bastard.’
‘He was involved in having her taken off the case …’ Noria’s words hang in the air, intimating a question.
‘I’m sure he was.’ Then, with a start: ‘What makes you say that?’
Noria dodges the question.
‘And the magistrate thought that Mado had something to do with Fatima Rashed’s murder?’
‘Listen, to be honest, I have absolutely no idea about that. My feeling is that she was going after Mado because of the challenge. Why do you ask me that?’
The procession has reached the open grave. A deep vault, two coffins already at the bottom of the cavity. This is the end of a family history. Simone wipes her eyes. Noria takes advantage of the moment to step back and join Bonfils. An impasse. Not surprisingly.
Martenot throws in the first handfuls of earth, and the flowers, then receives people’s condolences, without putting on a big act of mourning. Nor does anyone else as a matter of fact.
Noria closes her eyes and has a flashback of the blood-soaked body in the bathtub. When she opens them again, the clerk has disappeared.
People gather in small knots at the exit, waiting for their chauffeur-driven cars, exchanging a few words, taking out their engagement diaries. Noria and Bonfils stand to one side. Noria watches Martenot as he goes from group to group, smiling, urbane. He greets a couple, the man in his sixties, tall, very slim, with a long, mobile face and a white moustache, she younger, barely forty, a decorative blonde, sophisticated chignon and make-up, in a rather theatrical black overcoat. On seeing Martenot coming towards them, she starts as if to turn away, possibly to avoid him; the man suddenly freezes, grabs her arm and pins her brutally to his side. The woman sways. Noria feels his fingers digging into her flesh through the fabric. The couple exchange a few sentences with Martenot who moves on to another group. A few metres away, a man is in conversation with the clerk who points at Noria and Bonfils. He makes his way towards them.
‘Inspector Dumont, Police Intelligence, Paris Section. Superintendent Macquart is expecting you in his office at headquarters at two p.m. this afternoon. He’ll inform your superiors.’
Bonfils’ jaw drops in surprise. Noria drags him away.
‘Let’s go and have lunch, we’ve just got time. I need to talk to you.’
