Affairs of State (18 page)

It’s not hard locating Cecchi. Almost every evening, after midnight, he drops into the Perroquet Bleu club, rue Pigalle, neutral territory where the kings of the pavement meet to
negotiate boundaries and tolerance zones, plus a few cops who take part in the negotiations, a handful of politicians, and a great many famous and infamous night owls seeking thrills and cocaine. Fernandez knows the place well, having been a regular at various times, initially trailing around after Bornand and then on his own account. That’s where he met Cecchi. Beginning and end of a chapter.

Although Pigalle is animated at night, the narrow surrounding streets are very quiet, almost deserted. At around nine p.m., Fernandez, his nose buried in a huge bunch of gladioli, enters an apartment block in rue Henner behind a young woman who taps in the door code. He goes through to the dark courtyard, climbs over the back wall, forces open the door of a storeroom, a simple lock and two turns of the key, and finds himself in the back of a newsagent’s which overlooks the Perroquet Bleu.

Fernandez puts on gloves, moving around slowly with the help of a tiny torch, gropes his way to the window and puts the gladioli and a tool belt down on the counter, within reach. He checks the time: 21.23. It’ll be OK, but no time to hang around. He focuses his mind and tries to recall the exact layout of the premises on the other side of the metal shutter. He stations himself, suction disc, diamond cutter … with precise movements he cuts a big enough circle in the shop window to allow him to reach the metal shutter easily. He draws an oblong and takes out a pocket electric drill.
Don’t attract attention
. He listens out and attacks just as a car drives past the shop. Don’t let the drill bit go through the shutter and be visible from the street, that would be asking for trouble. He needs to be hyper aware of the intensity of the pressure and stop a second before the metal shutter gives way. His hands
are skilled, his mind totally absorbed, he’s sweating all over. As he makes the first holes, he gains a fuzzy picture of what’s happening outside. He carries on with his painstaking task, a little less tense now.
Few pedestrians actually, the people heading for the Perroquet Bleu are all on the other side of the street
. After an hour and a half’s drilling, he’s cut out four-fifths of an oval. He tests the resistance of the metal with his fingertips: it gives. The satisfaction of a job well done. He puts away his equipment. Then he pushes the counter in front of the window and extracts from the bunch of gladioli a short-barrelled laser gun, borrowed from the Élysée gendarmes’ armoury which always has state-of-the-art weapons. He checks the mechanism, loads it, sits on the counter and lays the gun down next to him. It is 23.38. Then begins a long wait, his eye trained on the entrance to the Perroquet Bleu.

The Perroquet Bleu. His first snort of coke, on the corner of a table. The feeling that he was discovering life. Coke, warmth, a flashback: Katryn’s face, screaming, a dark hole beneath a helmet of black hair, the back of her neck split open, a bloodstain slowly spreading over the wall, her body sliding downwards in slow motion, doubled up, a heap of rags. No more sound, not now. Ghosts. A gold pill box, two amphetamines. Empty his mind, at all costs. He rehearses the sequence of actions over and over in his mind. Cecchi’s car slows down and stops, Cecchi gets out, straightens up …

At 12.16 a.m., Bornand, at the wheel of his Porsche, screeches to a halt in front of the Perroquet Bleu. Fernandez feels a jolt, an adrenalin rush. Bornand gets out and hands his keys to the doorman. Fernandez takes aim, gripped by an overwhelming urge to kill. Bornand goes inside the bar. Fernandez sighs. The adrenalin subsides. His hands are shaking. Amphetamines.

At 12.32, Cecchi’s BMW arrives. He emerges from the left rear door. And from the right rear door, Beauchamp …

Fernandez is stunned, his mind working overtime: Cecchi and Beauchamp know each other, the
Tribune de Lille
, it’s them.

… They exchange a few words, laughing, over the roof of the car …

Flandin too?

… the BMW slowly moves off and the two men walk over to the doorman and stop to greet him …

What about the sabotaged plane? Bankrolled by arms dealers? His hand squeezes the trigger, the bullet hits Cecchi in the head. A second one shatters the neon Perroquet Bleu sign. Beauchamp and the porter fling themselves to the ground, Beauchamp, writhing in his efforts to extricate the revolver which is stuck in the folds of his coat, shoots in the direction of the metal shutter. Men come rushing out from the bar, bent double, the porter gesticulates helplessly, two or three minutes of total confusion.

Fernandez is already far away. Without waiting to check whether Cecchi was well and truly dead, he grabbed the gun and the bouquet, dashed for the door and was in rue Henner inside forty-five seconds. Within three minutes, he’s melted into the crowd thronging boulevard de Clichy. He walks to place Clichy, still clutching his flowers and the concealed gun. Too late for the last metro. Above all no taxis. He disappears down the back streets between Clichy and La Fourche, at random. A black Peugeot 205, a discreet model which he knows well. One and a half minutes to pick the door lock, efficient as ever, and he drives away from the neighbourhood to the wail of police sirens coming from a few blocks away.

At seven a.m., Macquart, freshly showered and shaved, goes out to buy the papers at the Gare du Nord, ensconces himself at the Terminus Nord and orders a large café crème and croissants. He skims the dailies. Nothing of interest. Then picks up the
Bavard Impénitent
– the ‘impenitent gossip’ – the satirical weekly that comes out on Wednesdays. And there, on the front page, a short, prominently positioned article, carrying the byline of the paper’s regular leader writer, André Bestégui:

Macquart swears twice, pays his bill and jumps into a taxi to get to the office as fast as possible.

There, he finds messages from Levert and Laurencin: the investigation is following its course, nothing special to report. And another from Patriat, the chief of the Crime Squad section in charge of the Fatima Rashed murder: ‘Get yourself over here as soon as possible.’

Just the time to set up a meeting with the big shots from the political police in Intelligence at ten o’clock, with only one item on the agenda: the article in the
Bavard Impénitent
, and Macquart drops into his neighbours at police HQ, at 36 quai des Orfèvres.

Patriat receives him with two men from his team. Their expressions are weary and drawn.

‘It’s been a tough night. Cecchi was killed at around half past midnight, outside the Perroquet Bleu …’

Macquart doesn’t need to feign surprise.

‘… my team was very grateful for your assistance over Chardon.’ Patriat pauses. ‘Mado accuses you of being behind the murder. Apparently you summoned her to your office yesterday and allegedly threatened her by saying she wouldn’t last a month if Cecchi were killed.’

‘Likely story.’

The first meeting of the day in Macquart’s office is somewhat gloomy. The general feeling is that Bestégui’s article is remotecontrolled by Bornand; everyone knows of the connection between the two men.

‘It’s Bornand’s declaration of war on the Intelligence Service.’

‘It looks like it.’

‘And do you have any idea why, over and above his visceral hatred for all the official police departments?’

‘No, not really. The fact that Chardon’s on our payroll doesn’t seem a strong enough reason. And we weren’t the ones to open hostilities …’

‘An attack on Mado in the same article is a first in this kind of paper, which has always gone easy on her … After all, the journalists use the same sources as we do …’

‘The same day as her man gets a bullet through the brain. Does that seem like a coincidence?’

‘Who shot him?’

‘No idea.’

‘Something to do with taking control of the Bois de Boulogne gambling club maybe?’

‘It’s always possible, but we haven’t heard a thing.’

‘In any case, we didn’t put a bullet in his brain, but the accusations against Mado … that’s a very crafty move. If it’s war, it’s possible that Bornand’s hand is behind them in an attempt to drive her out. And that is going to make our case massively harder going.’

‘And it’s also possible that Bornand’s behind Cecchi’s murder too, why not? He’s capable of it. Could Fernandez be involved?’

Macquart responds to the barrage of questions. ‘I’ve got people out looking for him, I still think he’s our best bet. But no sign of him. He appears to have vanished into thin air, like Chardon. That’s a lot of disappearances.’ A silence. ‘Right, I need to take a step back and try and fathom this out. I’m waiting for news from my team. No need to give up hope, or to rush into things. Shall we go and have a sauerkraut at L’Alsace à Paris, along with a decent bottle of wine?’

Françoise Michel comes down at 09.17, still accompanied by the same man.
Photo
. (This time it’s Levert who has the camera.) They pay for their rooms, then leave on foot, taking the lakeside road. She’s carrying her big shoulder bag. She takes his arm and they walk fast. The weather is sunny and cold, with Mont Blanc clearly visible above the lake.

At 09.37, they enter the Occidentale des Banques Suisses building. They come out again at 10.25 with two suitcases.
Photo
. At 10.32, barely five minutes’ further on, they walk into the Banque Commerciale de Genève.
Photo
. A wait. Then they come out again at 11.40, without the suitcases. He’s carrying a leather briefcase.
Photo
. Two taxis are waiting for them.
The cops follow that of Françoise Michel to Cornavin Station where she boards the TGV for Paris at 12.15.

On arrival at the Gare de Lyon, and while Noria watches Françoise Michel in the taxi queue, Levert telephones Macquart.

‘Drop it for now, we know where to find her. Come back to my office straight away, with your photos.’

‘Move it, Ghozali. We’re letting her go, Macquart’s waiting for us, no time even for a sandwich.’

In Macquart’s office, Levert, Noria and the three superintendents study the photos spread out in front of them. The ones taken by Noria first. Clumsily framed and a bit fuzzy. ‘You’ll have to learn,’ was Macquart’s only terse comment. Then the others, taken by Levert, that morning, in the street outside the banks. These are unarguably clear.

‘Without a shadow of a doubt, that’s Moricet. Well known to the police, as they say.’

‘Formerly of the Élysée special unit and the secret services.’

‘A security mercenary who works for the Saudis.’

‘I’ve heard that he’s also closely linked to the Syrians.’

‘Yes, them too. He’s not proud.’

‘A killer. Wanted for murder in several countries.’

‘But not in France.’

‘In any case, a big fish,’ concludes Macquart. ‘With a man of his ilk in the picture, as well as the suitcase probably stuffed with dosh, and the
Tribune
article, this clearly puts matters in a different league from Chardon’s little schemes.’

Everyone sits up. Macquart seems mentally elsewhere.

‘It all comes back to arms trafficking. And that’s not necessarily good news for us. We’re not in charge of that side of things.’

After accompanying his companion of the previous night to the municipal archive Laurencin, clearly not sorry to part company, heads for rue de Belfort, in a working-class district. Naturally, at number 29, there’s no trace of the Michel family, and the current owners have no recollection of them. Laurencin sets off on a tour of the shops. Bakery-cum-patisserie, a cheese seller, a butcher, but none of them had been there during the war years. He grabs a sandwich and a beer.

At the end of the street is a hardware shop. Laurencin pushes open the door, setting off an irritatingly shrill bell. The shop is long and narrow, dark, apparently containing a workshop at the back, from which comes the sound of a hacksaw and the smell of burnt iron. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, massive counters propped across chests of drawers in the middle of the room, and just about everything everywhere. Tins of nails, screws, nuts, washers, spanners, tools, taps, watering cans, casserole dishes, stepladders, planters. Hanging from the ceiling, amid the brooms, are feather dusters, real ones, with real feathers, and a bunch of leather straps. Laurencin wants to touch everything, he feels as though he’s stepped into the dream childhood he never had. An old man makes his way towards him from the back of the shop, all smiles, wearing a grey dust-jacket, a beret and safety boots. Laurencin bangs his right hand on a corner of the counter to make sure he’s not dreaming.

They exchange formalities, then Laurencin says:

‘I’m trying to find out what happened to a certain Michel who lived at number 29 during the war, and his daughter Antoinette.’

‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, but you know, I was a prisoner of war for five years, and then, in ’45, I left for Australia …’

Laurencin glances around: ‘Australia …’

‘Oh yes, I was a cowboy for several years, then I came and settled here, with my wife, who’s Australian. Does that surprise you?’

‘Depress me, you mean. If you can’t tell me about the Michels, who in this neighbourhood can?’

‘Doctor Méchin, at number 35. He took over his father’s practice, years ago now, and he’s never left rue de Belfort. If anyone remembers your Michel, it’ll be him.’

Laurencin thanks him and goes back up the street, finds number 35 and Doctor Méchin’s surgery. The waiting room’s crowded, he has a spot of bother with the practice secretary. The doctor won’t be free until early evening. ‘Let’s say at around seven o’clock, at the Café de Belfort just down the road.’ Several hours to kill. Laurencin goes back to the hardware store for a chat with the veteran cowboy.

At Security headquarters, Macquart is given a warm reception by Superintendent Lanteri, who is very interested in the photos of Moricet and the names of the banks visited by Françoise Michel. He reveals a few nuggets of information in exchange. They’d found papers on Cecchi implicating Bornand directly in the Iranian arms deal, an operation for which the SEA was seemingly merely a cover. (Any connection with the suitcases full of notes? Possible, but not obvious, it still remained to be proved.) Bornand, who was at the Perroquet Bleu at the time of the murder, had been questioned in this office, that very
morning. For the moment, it is officially recognised that those papers were false, and that Cecchi had been planning to use them to blackmail Bornand. Cecchi’s stool pigeon, a certain Beauchamp, head of security at the SEA, has been arrested. He’s a friend of Chardon’s. It’s possible that he’s mixed up in Cecchi’s murder.