Lorraine Connection (14 page)

‘But you shouldn’t overstress the importance of Nourredine’s proposal. The managers had just left the factory. We felt less powerful. There were several proposals, including Nourredine’s, which was overwhelmingly rejected, so we moved on to other issues.’

‘It wasn’t an attack. Ali was opposed to Nourredine’s proposal, which was rejected, and Nourredine felt hurt and betrayed. Besides, he was exhausted and overwrought from the day’s events.’

‘Nobody else left the cafeteria after Hafed and his team.’

She falters now, her face tense.

‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to get me to say, or why you’ve got it in for Nourredine. It’s not the workers who set fire
to the damned factory. And Nourredine would be the last person to do a thing like that.’

‘I’m not trying to get you to say anything, I’m taking down your statement, that’s all. I’m simply trying to obtain the facts. One last question.’

Later that afternoon, the lawyer drives Karim off in his big
four-wheel
drive with tinted windows. ‘We’ve got a business
appointment
, the two of us‚’ he tells him. When Karim sits down in the passenger seat, the lawyer caresses his face with his rough hand, following the hollows of his cheeks, brushing his lips until he touches his moist mouth. Surprised and worried, Karim doesn’t recognise the man he took for a constipated Catholic, but he doesn’t flinch. Then the lawyer pulls away sharply. He drives fast, along an almost straight secondary road across the plateau. Rounding sharp bends, the heavy car feels as if it’s about to come off the road, and Karim instinctively checks his seat belt. What on earth’s the guy on? Coke, speed? The lawyer smiles at him, his teeth prominent, ready to bite. (
Coke,
most
likely.
He’d
better
not
touch
me,
the
arsehole
)
.
Then without slowing down, he turns off on to a farm track and pulls up at the edge of a copse. He takes a packet of photos from his pocket and slides it across the
dashboard
to Karim who flicks through them. The Hakim brothers’ most recent delivery, shot from every angle. Hot flush.
Don
’
t
bat
an
eyelid.
Keep
calm.
Playing for time, he looks at the whole set again. Faces, licence plates, very clear. Expensive equipment and the work of a pro.
What
’
s
he
playing
at,
this
arsehole
?
This
isn
’
t
some
sexual
game.
He’s
trying
to
trap
me,
but
how
?
And
who’s
behind
it
?
Have
to
see.
Puts the photos down.

‘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.

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.’

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
mas
ter
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 3
G
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 everything 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.