Affairs of State (15 page)

A luxury private dining room lavishly decorated in shades of sea-green with two vast windows overlooking the gardens of the
Champs-Élysées and a circular table laid for three. Bornand, extremely elegant in a pale grey, immaculately fitting worsted suit and a dark grey silk and wool tie, is pacing up and down, waiting for his guest, his face expressionless. Fernandez, stands stiffly in a corner, on the alert, trying to keep a low profile.

Flandin arrives accompanied by Beauchamp. Bornand shivers.
Impossible to get hold of, Beauchamp? He tricked me. Chardon … Lebanese heroin … Beauchamp too. The dossier, it’s him. Both of them working for Intelligence? It’s possible. The Djimils, a red herring? So what about Moricet? Danger. Too late to back out, take things as they come
.

Bornand warmly shakes his guests’ hands and introduces Fernandez, joking: ‘My head of staff, if I had a staff’, has another place laid, and asks the maître d’hôtel to serve the aperitif. A glance around the room. Two bodyguards for guests – this was how politics and business was conducted in Paris, in the winter of 1985 …

‘What will you have to drink, my friend?’

‘Whisky. A light Scotch, neat.’

‘Same for me.’

Once the drinks have been poured, Bornand goes over to the window and gazes out over the Champs Elysées in the greyness and the cold, then returns to his guests. He signals to Fernandez that he should take care of Beauchamp then joins Flandin, steering him over to one of the windows.

‘Sad, Paris at this time of year.’ Flandin, his face drawn, lets him speak, without reacting. ‘I’m just back from the USA, with some interesting opportunities.’ Still no response. Bornand puts his glass down next to a huge bouquet of flowers on a pedestal table between the two windows, and takes a long envelope from his inside pocket. Specific proposals, in writing and
with figures. He proffers the envelope to Flandin. ‘I’m simply asking you to read these documents after lunch, before going to see your journalist.’

Flandin, a little taken aback, wavers for a moment, then puts his glass down on the table and takes the envelope, turns it over and over, then folds it and puts it in his pocket. Bornand has already picked up Flandin’s glass, while Flandin picks up the one left on the pedestal table. Then they both make their way over to the centre of the room where Fernandez is engaging Beauchamp in conversation as best he can:

‘We’ve met before …’

Beauchamp snaps:

‘I’d be very surprised. We don’t move in the same circles.’

Fernandez, very ill at ease, feels a crazy urge to beat the shit out of Bornand who raises his glass with a smile.

‘Come, whatever happens, let’s drink to the success of our venture, it’s not too late.’

Shortly after, Flandin follows suit, takes one, then another slug of whisky, and suddenly stiffens, his mouth open. Noiselessly, his face drawn and mottled, he slowly slumps to the floor and lies in a contorted heap. Bornand watches him collapse from high above, from a long way away, almost surprised. Flashback: another body, long ago, killed in a courtyard, and he himself kicking the body relentlessly.
No comparison, this death is sanitised
. He leans over to retrieve the envelope he’s just given Flandin. Then it’s all stations go. Fernandez rushes over to perform cardiac massage. Beauchamp calls the waiters. The ambulance, the cops, the room fills with people. The words ‘heart attack’ are on everyone’s lips.

Bornand, stock still, contemplates the scene.
I’m spared the gourmet lunch
.

Bonfils and Noria Ghozali enter Macquart’s office. It is very ordinary looking, unlike the man sitting at his desk ready to ambush them. Leaning slightly forward, his forearms resting on the desk, his broad, stubby hands folded, he scrutinises them, without making a movement. He has a round, fleshy face, very thin lips, and a fixed, expressionless stare. He’s a little on the corpulent side without being fat, and wears his hair plastered back along with a salt-and-pepper moustache trimmed very short. He’s wearing a navy blue three-piece suit with very thin white stripes, a white shirt and a tie. The archetypal civil servant, with a slightly 1950s touch. Noria instinctively thinks:
a real killer
. Instinctively she says to herself:
a cop who commands respect
. Instinctively thinks:
my lucky day
.

He motions them to sit down, allowing a silence to hover as he gazes at them, then eventually says:

‘Why is it that two junior cops from the 19th
arrondissement
are so interested in Maître Martenot?’

Straight to the point, and fast. The clerk must be working for Intelligence. Impressive. Noria and Bonfils have prepared their answer, Noria insists on taking the lead.

‘I was the only one to take an interest in Maître Martenot.’

Macquart looks from Noria to Bonfils and back at Noria who takes the yellow notebook from the inside pocket of her anorak, opens it at the last page. She leans over and places it on Macquart’s desk.

‘The magistrate’s personal diary.’

He reads the open page, flicks through the rest, stony-faced, closes it and puts it away in a drawer.

‘Where did you find that?’

‘In the magistrate’s apartment, on the day we found her body.’

‘And you kept it to yourself. Need I say more?’
Two smart, ambitious young cops, completely out of control. They could cause havoc in sensitive cases. Do I break them or bring them on board?
‘And while you’re at it, tell me how you came to be in the magistrate’s apartment too.’

‘We were involved in the identification of Fatima Rashed …’

‘I am aware of your connection with that case.’

‘… At that point, we thought there could have been a second man in the restaurant with Chardon and Fatima Rashed. That same man could have picked Chardon up in Fatima Rashed’s car, just after her murder, and that was the last time Chardon was seen, alive or dead.’

This girl, with her impenetrable dark eyes and taut body, possessed of a raw strength.

‘Go on.’

‘We wrote a report and we took it to the magistrate at the law courts.’

‘She wasn’t there.’

‘The clerk gave us her address.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Bonfils breaks his silence and says with a dazzling smile:

‘I found the magistrate a fascinating woman. One evening, I followed her home.’ He takes the additional report out of his pocket and places it in front of Macquart. ‘After her death, the investigation was put on hold and nobody’s asked us for anything further.’

‘So I’m the first person to see this report?’

‘That’s correct.’

He takes his time reading it.
Good work. Excellent work. My mind’s made up. I bring them on board
.

‘Would you be interested in a transfer to Intelligence?’

‘Yes,’ says Noria.

‘No,’ says Bonfils.

Macquart smiles, for the first time.

‘Just as I thought.’ Then, turning to Noria: ‘Why is the superintendent of the 19th so happy to see the back of you?’

Noria, her hands clasped on her knee, tense, her knuckles white, reflects for a second.

‘I think he’s afraid of me.’

Macquart rises, shows them to the door of his office and says, with a hand on Bonfils’ shoulder:

‘For your own good, if you don’t want to pay for her mistakes, forget the whole thing, Bonfils, including your latest report.’

‘I already have.’

‘And you, Ghozali, eight o’clock tomorrow morning in my office.’

As soon as Noria and Bonfils have left his office, Macquart calls in one of his inspectors.

‘Laurencin, drop what you’re working on. I have an emergency. I’m giving you this packet of photos, which you are going to show a few people. If the result confirms my suspicions, you can cancel all leave.’

Noria and Bonfils leave the office together and set off down the street with a sigh of relief. They walk quickly away, side by side, their heads down. Noria’s expression is inscrutable. But when he brushes against her, Bonfils feels the explosive tension in her muscles. They go into the Soleil d’Or, which is almost empty
at this hour, and sit at the back of the café. A hot chocolate for Noria, a beer for Bonfils. He looks up at her.

‘Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? The political police, champions of dirty tricks.’

She replies aggressively:

‘I’m not like you. I don’t have any choice, and I’m in a hurry.’

Then a smile. In a single movement, she undoes her chignon and loosens her hair. The shining, black, undulating mass spreads over her shoulders, sculpts her round cheeks, offsets her features. She stands up, presses her hands down on the table and leans towards him. She places her mouth on his upper lip and licks it with the moist tip of her tongue, the trace of white foam leaving a slight tickling sensation, her breath coming in warm, short bursts. A brief silence, then Bonfils, incredulous, says:

‘Now what happens?’

‘Forget the whole thing, Bonfils, forget the whole thing.’

And she ditches him there, at the table, with the beer and the chocolate, rushing out as fast as her legs will carry her.

‘Bestégui? … Good to hear you, I was just about to call you. Where are you? At home?’

‘…’

‘Yes, that’s correct, Flandin has just died of a heart attack … While we were having lunch together …’

‘…’

‘Rumour! What nonsense. The burial certificate has already been issued. It was the article in the
Tribune de Lille
that killed him. Have you read it?’

‘…’

‘I know it’s the dossier you had in your hands.’ Bornand’s voice is strained, aggressive, veering towards the shrill rather more than he would wish. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you know a certain Chardon?’

‘…’

‘And do you know who you are employing? A pimp, blackmailer and drug trafficker. Not exactly a brilliant move.’

‘…’

‘Of course I have proof. A prostitute was murdered ten days ago and Chardon is mixed up in it somehow. The Crime Squad is investigating him and they’ve uncovered the full extent of his activities. You can easily check, I’m sure you’ve got your contacts at Crime Squad HQ. They also have proof that Chardon works for your paper. It’s not certain they’ll use it, but you never know …’

‘…’

‘The best bit is still to come, André. Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’

‘…’

Bornand sniggers:

‘His nose in your shit. The real question is: who dug up the Chardon dossier, which was well and truly buried three days ago? And the answer can only be: the Intelligence Service.’

‘…’

‘No, I’m not out of my mind. Chardon is involved in a heroin trafficking ring with a certain Beauchamp, head of security at the SEA. You know what I’m talking about, because you’ve had the dossier in your hands. He’s the source of the information. When the prostitute was murdered – I have no idea why, by the way – Chardon got scared. Intelligence covered up for him, either by hiding or by murdering him …’

‘…’

Bornand, exasperated, bangs his fist down on the desk:

‘Oh yes, of course it’s possible. Don’t act more naive than you are. Two months ago, your paper ran a press campaign on the Irish of Vincennes … I’m not blaming you, but remember, your informer, your only informer, was dealt with by military security. And now Intelligence have Chardon. These people hate us, André. The official police departments are poisoned by our political enemies. And besides, their sights are set directly on me, because through me, they’re targeting the Élysée unit, the
bête noire
of all the official police departments, because it’s the living proof of their ineffectiveness … What we are witnessing, André, is a police coup, and I’m weighing my words carefully, here. I don’t intend to let them get away with it. I need you, you can’t abandon me.’

When Bestégui hangs up, he is deeply disturbed. Paranoid, Bornand? Not totally, it would seem. So many facts stack up … His tone is violent, the threats barely disguised. But how to get away from him? Sooner or later, it’ll be payback time and the other version will surface. Ultimately, we’re in the same boat.