Lorraine Connection (9 page)

Rossellini speaks frostily, with a disdainful smile:

‘Basically, your theory doesn’t make much difference, Valentin.’ He whistles the sibilants. ‘Whether Matra was chosen before the bidding process opened or at the end, the fact is they were chosen because they’re close to the Prime Minister.’

Going round and round in his head, the same old nagging doubt:
What
am
I
doing
here?
Talking
to
a
cop.
A
police
view
of
History.
That
fat
Valentin,
coarse
and
probably
incompetent.
I’m
a
fish
out
of
water
here.
I’d
do
better
to
try
and
cover
my
arse
rather
than
get
deeper
into
this
mess,
in
bad
company.

‘Yes, it makes a lot of difference. The Prime Minister keeps his decision secret for months on end, not sharing it with his
ministers
, and lets the governmental departments carry on as if the whole process were being conducted under normal conditions. The natural suspicion is that if this decision is secret, it’s because the plans to restructure the industry are covering up some highly compromising flaws. If I manage to uncover those flaws, then I don’t need to worry about deadlines or authorities, I have the power to get the Prime Minister to change his mind. It’ll be up to him to worry about how to save face. Finding motives, gathering evidence … In other words, this will turn into nothing more than an ordinary police investigation.’

Benoît-Rey, tense, listens attentively, is almost calm.

‘Why didn’t we think of that sooner?’

‘I spoke to the chairman about it quite early on. He didn’t agree. He believed in the integrity of the process and the viability of his industrial proposal, and was confident of winning the bid. He was probably alluding to our conversation when he told you to come up with something new.’

‘I find that assumption and the implied method of working rather exciting. And of course, you already have a few concrete leads …’

‘There are two avenues to pursue, although one is more
interesting
than the other. The first and most obvious is the Taiwanese arms market which Thomson and Matra have been involved in for five or six years. We don’t know much about what’s behind these deals, other than that billions of commission handled by Thomson have vanished. There’s talk of a sum of five billion. When that sort of money’s involved, nobody plays by the rules. Matra and Thomson have both benefited and could have a
common
interest in eliminating all those not in the know in order to protect their secret. Alcatel is a newcomer. Its intrusion could increase the risk of a leak and will be perceived as dangerous by many insiders.’

A breather. Valentin sips his beer. A bubble surfaces in Bentadj’s memory, a few snatches of conversation overheard in the corridors of the Defence Ministry.

‘A captain in the Taiwanese army who was
investigating
the terms of a sale of frigates to Taiwan by France, was assassinated …’

‘Correct. Unsolved murder.’ Valentin allows the corpse of the Taiwanese captain to haunt the meeting room for a few moments, the blood, the death so far away, so close to the world of big business. He sighs. That case is a tough one. Too big, too heavily protected, too dangerous. Disappointment, relief among his audience. Even if I’m convinced it played a part in the Prime Minister’s decision. I propose that we only use what we know for certain. Gomez, Thomson’s boss, has stored up a few time bombs against Lagardère, Matra’s boss. If we find the right way to ask him he’ll sell us a few, and even if they’re fabricated we can use them to destroy the life and reputation of Matra’s boss. That’s useful, has to be done, but it won’t be enough.’ Valentin tilts back in his chair and looks at them with a half-smile.
Know-all
.
I’ve
got
an
excuse,
they’re
so
exasperating.
‘Second avenue. I
suggest that the Prime Minister’s key concern over the
privatisation
of Thomson isn’t arms, but the multimedia subsidiary. Of course, you guys dream only of arms and find that hard to
swallow
. Let’s go back to square one. The government’s first decision was to sell off the military division, which is in excellent shape, together with the multimedia operation, already up to its ears in debt. Observers all believe this strategy is financially unsound. Everyone else forgets about it. A few days later, Daewoo enters the Matra frame. Hang on, we need to think about this. Daewoo’s no stranger to anybody. It’s one of the major Korean
conglomerates
, the most recent and the most fragile, linked to the Korean dictators who chiefly finance it. It has been in serious financial difficulties since the fall of its dictator friends in the mid-eighties, and was bailed out at the last minute by the Korean government once before, back in 1985. Today observers in Seoul are sceptical about its ability to survive the recession that’s hitting the Korean economy. To spell it out, over there Daewoo’s considered to be a bankruptcy waiting to happen. Kim, Daewoo’s Korean CEO, is no stranger either. He had to leave the country for a while in 1985. In 1995, he was caught red-handed, bribing a public official and he’s just been sentenced to two and a half years in jail. He’s not banged up yet, but he’s cutting the risk by no longer residing permanently in Korea. Unbelievable, isn’t it, to go and seek out that particular Korean? But he’s well known in Parisian circles. He landed in France some time around 1985 right when he was beginning to have serious problems at home. At first he made numerous contacts and political friends on both the left and the right; latterly they tended to be more on the right. Let’s move on swiftly, I don’t want to bore you. He sets up a company in Lorraine with around a hundred employees. In 1987 he and his family are granted French citizenship amid total secrecy. Worse still, it’s treated as a sort of ad hoc defence secret. He doesn’t speak French, doesn’t live in France, fulfils none of the
conditions
for citizenship, but the Prime Minister of the day exerts a bit of gentle pressure and his file records that he has been granted citizenship for “exceptional services to France”. What services?’ He pauses, nobody moves. ‘You can see clearly that here’s what I would call a flaw.

‘Two years ago, Kim opens a cathode tube factory in Lorraine. A small factory. Has he already been told about the privatisation
of Thomson Multimedia? Is he preparing his bid? It’s entirely possible. This factory will enable him to sign a deal with Thomson Multimedia in 1995. It’s baiting a sprat to catch a mackerel, but then he’ll be able to claim he was working with Thomson before the takeover. I’m convinced that he was foisted on to Matra, that it wasn’t Matra that went after him, but Matra’s boss, Lagardère, can’t say no to the President, for all sorts of reasons.

‘To cap it all, last May the Prime Minister makes Kim a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Commander, no less. No mention of his French nationality. Why? Is he ashamed of it? Not at all, any more than of his being sentenced to prison for
corruption
in his own country. That much goes without saying.’ Valentin leans forward, suddenly belligerent, punctuating his words with his fist. ‘I want to know what those “exceptional services” were, I want to know what Kim did, or who he paid to receive such
recognition
on a regular basis. If I can find out, I’ll have ammunition for blackmail and the Matra-Daewoo bid collapses.’

Silence. Benoît-Rey clears his throat and Valentin smiles at him.

‘Don’t lose heart, my dear Pierre. Welcome to the delightful world of arms dealing. As the Marquise du Deffand said: It is only taking the first step that is difficult.’

The following morning, after a few hours while they pretended to get some rest, mulling over extracts from dossiers, salvaging what they can, and voicing quite a lot of resentment, Benoît-Rey and Rossellini meet in Valentin’s office for a working breakfast. They sit in an austere room next to the boardroom at the top of the building, lit by a curious window, round like a camera lens, which perfectly frames the Eiffel Tower rising in majestic
isolation
against the Paris sky. Valentin always works facing the
window
; watching the variations in light on the intricate girders helps him think.

A copious traditional continental breakfast awaits them on a table in the corner of the room. Valentin dunks his croissants in a bowl of coffee, while Benoît-Rey and Rossellini keep to lemon tea,
toast without butter and just a smear of jam. They’re conscious of their weight, keen to maintain their athletic physique. Rossellini plays tennis every day at the Tennis Club de Paris, between one and two p.m., no matter how much pressure he’s under from work. Having finished his croissants, Valentin turns to him and launches his attack:

‘I know we have little in common, you and I. But you’re the person I want to convince, Rossellini, you most of all, because you’re a key player. Part of our affair, probably the most
important
part, will be played out in the Finance Ministry and the
surrounding
milieus, as is often the case in this country, and that is your territory.’ Rossellini drinks his tea without a glance at Valentin. ‘I know you’re reluctant and I well understand why. You think the game’s over, and that you urgently need to rethink your future career. Let’s look at things from a different angle. Whether you worry about your future now or in two months’ time doesn’t make much difference. In any case, it’ll take you ten years to climb back to the top. Ten years is a long time. On the other hand, if we win, I disappear, no one likes the security
service
and dirty tricks, you get all the credit for the success, and the future’s yours. In a nutshell, you’ve got a lot to gain, and
absolutely
nothing to lose that hasn’t already been lost.’

Rossellini pours himself another cup of tea and adds another slice of lemon with slow, deliberate movements. He takes a sip, leans back in his chair and looks at Valentin for the first time.

‘I came to more or less the same conclusions last night. Go on.’

‘I’ve got a few contacts among Lagardère’s sworn enemies. I won’t go into detail, and I’m going to get my hands on their files – dropped charges, current proceedings, various libel cases. Pierre and I are going to reactivate all that. I expect you to arrange for Lagardère to receive a visit from the tax inspectors …’

‘I can do that if you give me some ammunition. But a tax inspection is a drop in the ocean given what’s at stake.’

‘I know that. We’ll carry out a campaign of harassment. But that’s not the main thing. I want you to launch a stock market investigation into Matra share prices. Look for signs of insider dealing. On the radio this morning they announced a twenty-five per cent rise in the share price on opening.’

A
cop.
No
more
than
a
cop.
Hopelessly
thick.
I
should
have
known.
Shit.
Rossellini is very terse.

‘I fear you’re barking up the wrong tree, Valentin. Lagardère certainly wouldn’t compromise the whole deal – a mega
industrial
deal – by doing something so stupid. It’s not Matra’s style.’

‘Lagardère no, but Kim, Daewoo’s CEO, would. He’s the one who booked Fouquet’s several days in advance. Would he miss out on an opportunity like this to make a quick buck, almost risk free? With his crooked ways? The evidence suggests not.’ He stresses the word “evidence”. ‘He speculated, and he probably used the new stream of funds to grease the palms of his backers while he was at it. The stock market regulator will find out, and we’ll have the key to Kim’s sleaze operation.’

Rossellini has closed his eyes and is massaging his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. After all, seen in this light, it might not be impossible. He sits up.

‘Let’s say that you’ve convinced me, and let’s set things in motion without wasting any time. But don’t overestimate my contacts.’

‘We’ll cross-check my contacts and yours. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised. And besides, you have no option, Rossellini, and
neither
do we. Make sure you do a good job.’

The solitary housing estate rises up in the middle of the Lorraine plateau, just above Pondange and its valley. It dominates the vast stretch of land which is bald on one side and has verdant woodland on the other. Half-empty car parks are dotted around the estate, a construction dating back to the last heyday of the iron and steel industry. It is well-maintained, recently renovated and the majority of the residents are unemployed. This morning, there’s a biting wind and the few men and women who are
leaving
for work, dropping the kids off to school on the way, hurry towards their cars.

Two men in their thirties, athletic looking, with short hair, square jaws and inscrutable expressions, wearing work boots, jeans and leather jackets, are hanging around the building. Étienne Neveu’s wife, a well-built woman with flaxen hair, is late. At last she emerges from block C, chivvying along two little girls, half dragging, half carrying them towards a battered Clio. She piles them on to the back seat, turns on the ignition, yanks the car into gear and drives off. The two men walk up to the door of block C, glance around, nobody in the lobby, too early, too cold for the
young loafers. They go in, take the lift, third floor, the door on the left. One of them rings the bell. Silence. He rings again. Reluctant footsteps, and a sleepy voice enquires:

‘What is it?’

‘Étienne Neveu?

‘Yes …’