Lorraine Connection (18 page)

Another
lead,
the
dope.
I
already
had
the
Hakims,
the
traffick
ers
,
and
Bouziane,
the
dealer.
Now
I’ve
got
Bouziane
the
dealer,
witness
for
the
prosecution,
and
Neveu
the
consumer,
the
witness
who’s
both
a
nuisance
and
the
victim.
There’s
every
likelihood
they
knew
each
other
well.
I’ll
keep
anything
to
do
with
drugs
to
myself
for
the
time
being
in
case
Valentin’s
manipulating
the
Hakim
brothers.
Can’t
be
too
careful.
Montoya brings his seat back to the upright position. Now it’s time to call Valentin.

Over the telephone Valentin sounds relaxed. Montoya takes advantage of this to be a little more forthcoming.

‘Things are moving fast here. You thought it would be quieter than in Tangier. That’s not so sure. A young worker who saw the arsonists was murdered the following morning.’

‘What do the police say?’

‘Accidental death, apparently. No post-mortem. A mixture of incompetence, compromise and autosuggestion. The accident hypothesis seems to suit everyone.’

‘The joys of provincial France. What about you, what do you say?’

‘We already have a deliberate fire and a murder. I’ve also found signs of false accounting. Only signs, no evidence yet. But there’s absolutely no doubt that Daewoo is a real mess. First of all, we have to find out what sort of mess before fabricating one of our own from start to finish.’

‘That sounds reasonable. May I simply remind you that we have barely three weeks at the most. And I need evidence, of course.’

‘I’m very optimistic.’

‘Meanwhile I’ve got some interesting news too. 3
G
is registered at 2 Avenue des Érables in Nancy and the company is owned by Daniel Tomaso, ex-Foreign Legion, former mercenary, whose last playground was Croatia, in 1991. Officially 3
G
provides
security
guards for factories, and its clients include nearly all the
factory
owners in the valley of Pondange. It also handles security for political meetings, with customers ranging from the regional council to the various local political parties, mainly but not
exclusively
right-wing, and it has a garage specialising in limo hire whose drivers also double as bodyguards. Its biggest
customers
in this area are the European Commission and EU circles in Brussels. The firm’s thriving but it also has less official sources of income. Its biggest profits come from the trafficking of stolen cars to Poland and Russia. And probably also from drug trafficking.’ Montoya’s mind goes into overdrive. ‘But my informers can’t be sure of that as yet.’ A lull. ‘You’re very quiet?’ Montoya groans. ‘Even more interesting, 3
G
recruits local staff but it also acts as a haven for hardcore French and German mercenaries at a loose end between contracts.’

‘Pheeew … An army of potential arsonists and hitmen if need be.’

‘Precisely. And lastly, Tomaso’s official mistress is a Croat he brought back with him. She runs a brothel in Nancy, more or less disguised as a swingers’ club, the Oiseau Bleu. It’s frequented by all the local bigwigs and some of their wives, cheap thrills
guaranteed
. In short, the whole works.’ A silence. ‘Coming across a character like this Tomaso in the environs of Daewoo Pondange doesn’t make it the centre of the universe, nor does it make your investigation central to my case, but I take back what I said about your mission being a rest cure.’ Another silence. ‘I’m aware that you know your job, Montoya, but watch out with customers like this. Suicides happen so easily.’

‘Don’t worry. Good night.’

Back to the nocturnal quiet.
The
key
thing
is
to
find
the
man
in
charge
of
the
dodgy
operations
at
Daewoo.
The
one
in
contact
with
Tomaso.
My
money’s
on
Quignard,
because
I
don’t
trust
his
type,
but
I
don’t
have
a
shred
of
evidence,
and
I
can’t
afford
to
make
any
mistakes
on
that
score.
It’s
beginning
to
get
cold
in
this
car,
time
to
move.
And
it
just
so
happens
that
the
road
ahead
of
me
leads
to
Nancy.

Jean-Louis Robin cruises slowly down the barely lit Avenue des Acacias where vague shapes in the bushes of the Bois de Boulogne beckon him. He can’t help but blush, so looks away. He turns off down a pitch dark, narrow twisting road, opens his window and stops about a hundred metres from the junction without turning the engine off. He’s been in the habit of meeting Alicia here for months. A tall figure in a fur coat and high heels leans in, elbows resting on the door, face heavily made-up, wide mouth with
well-defined
lips. She caresses the nape of his neck.

‘Hi there, handsome blond, Alicia’s not here. Rounded up by the police.’ He reaches for the gear stick ready to drive off, but she restrains him with a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t panic, things are quiet now, and Alicia asked me to take care of you this evening.’

She straightens up, steps back a couple of paces and opens her coat. She’s naked. He groans. A magnificent slender body with clean hard lines and smooth bronzed skin. Long slim legs, narrow hips, broad shoulders, a pair of generous silicon-enhanced breasts whose erect nipples he can almost feel cupped in his hands, and a man’s cock. Balls and cock displayed invitingly, hairless, in the hollow of her thighs. She walks towards the car without
bending
, all he can see is the flat stomach, the cock. His hand moves, brushes the cock, the round balls whose skin tautens.

‘Open up, handsome blond.’

The voice is authoritative. He groans again. She walks round the car, gets in and sits beside him, holding her coat open.

‘You can touch a little, to get you in the mood.’ She takes his hand and places it on her hot, throbbing cock, makes him caress it. ‘But I don’t fuck in cars. Especially not tonight with the cops on heat. I’ve got a studio flat near here, Rue du Docteur Blanche.’ She leans towards his ear, and licks it as she murmurs: ‘The lift goes directly up from the underground car park, discretion
guaranteed
.’ Nibbles his ear. ‘Alicia told me you like it up the arse from behind, dressed as a woman. Can you feel my cock
swelling
?’ Bites his earlobe. ‘You won’t forget me, I’m stricter than Alicia.’

Hard to miss the Oiseau Bleu on the Nancy ring road, it stands out for miles around. It occupies a small three-storey building and the façade is painted with frescos depicting a tropical forest
filled with multicoloured birds and lit up by flashing blue neon lights. No naked girls on display, notes Montoya. No bouncers on the door either. He enters the building. A vast lobby done out in red velvet and dark wood where two gorgeous young women in simple, figure-hugging long black dresses greet and seat the
clients
. On the ground floor are the bar, with its ambiance of an English private club, and the restaurant specialising in French cuisine. The hostesses hand guests the menu. In the basement is the nightclub with a striptease show, frequented by a clientele that’s into swinging, the hostesses warn. This is reflected in the admission charge, especially for a man on his own. And upstairs? The private lounges are only available on reservation. Montoya realises that he’s starving, but chooses the nightclub where there’s probably more action.

He goes down a big, brightly-lit, white stone spiral staircase to a cloakroom with a heavy, perfectly soundproof padded door. It closes behind him, and he is immediately plunged into a world of deafening, monotonous techno music, flashing golden strobes and a warm darkness filled with cloying smells. A few moments to adjust before he’s able to make out a large rectangular room with pillars supporting the ceiling. In the centre, a dance floor. On two sides, alcoves with cushions, some with curtains drawn. And on the other two sides, a bar, tables where guests can sit, relax and have a drink before re-entering the fray.

To keep things hot there are four pole-dancers in thongs on a podium in the middle of the tables. Nancy, US-style. Montoya takes refuge at the bar and orders a brandy. Sniffs it. Not bad. Warms it. Good even. Whatever happens, his evening won’t be completely wasted. His eyes begin to adjust to the dark. There are a lot of people already on the dance floor, with at least fifty, skimpily-dressed women, not all hookers. Not far from him, seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor is a group of five young – or youngish – men. They’re all tall and well-built, with close-cropped hair, tight-fitting T-shirts and tattoos. They’re
joking
and drinking among themselves like a sports team playing away. The mercenaries. It was a good idea to come here.

While there could be wives in the room, the girls hanging around the bar are all hookers hanging out for punters. Another brandy. Montoya leans towards the barman and says loudly enough to make himself heard above the techno beat: ‘Do you
know if Mr Quignard is here tonight? I’m looking for him and I can’t see him.’ The barman glances distractedly around the room.

‘I can’t see him either, sir.’

‘He told me he’d be here. I was hoping to meet him …’

The barman lets the conversation die. Montoya turns back to face the room. A buxom blonde in pastel pink and blue, skirt slit to the waist and a tight top with a plunging neckline, comes over to him and lays a hand on his arm.

‘I’m Deborah. Anyone who’s a friend of my friend Quignard is a friend of mine. He’s not here tonight. If he were, I’d know. But you can take his place.’

‘I can try.’

‘He usually starts with a bottle of champagne.’

Montoya signals to the barman, picks up the bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, and they go and sit at a vacant table on the edge of the dance floor. The barman gazes after them. A few metres away one of the mercenaries is dancing with a couple. He’s removed his T-shirt and is showing off his scars, a star-shaped hole in his left shoulder and a long, straight, clean line on his chest, near the heart. The evidence of his mistakes, of his
professional
errors, thinks Montoya. The woman dancer, a somewhat insipid dark-haired woman in her forties, runs her finger over them, as if tracing a new map of Love. The handsome mercenary is wearing a very long white silk scarf around his neck which he uses to lasso the woman, moving her between the husband and himself.

‘Pour a drink my friend, and don’t forget about me.’

Montoya slides a hand inside her top, pops out a nipple and bites it playfully.

‘How could I forget you, madam?’

She laughs. ‘Quignard isn’t so imaginative.’ She loosens Montoya’s tie and unbuttons his shirt. ‘Let’s go and dance.’

A chore. Montoya moves as little as possible and in the
darkness
concentrates on trying not to lose contact with Quignard’s friend who goes wild to the beat of the music, both breasts now bouncing free. Montoya has to raise his voice loudly to make himself heard.

‘Quignard told me he’s very friendly with the owner of the Oiseau Bleu.’

A wink. ‘That’s true.’

‘Have they known each other long?’

‘I’ve been here for six months and I always see them together.’

A man has slipped between the girl and him, Montoya is yanked violently back and tripped up. He falls on to some
cushions
to find the man with the white scarf leaning over him. He looks more intimidating from this angle. The Incredible Hulk
personified
grabs his shirt collar with one hand and plants him back on his feet with no apparent effort. Another mercenary draws the curtains around the alcove, frisks him, finds his ID, reads it and tells the Hulk, with a grimace: ‘Journalist.’ Montoya tries to keep both men in his field of vision. The ringleader shakes him.

‘Why are you asking about Quignard? What do you want of Quignard, eh?’

Think
fast.
A
suicide
can
happen
so
easily.
Maximum
concentration.

‘I don’t want anything. Just to have a bit of fun with a girl, like everyone else here, right?’ The second man has come to stand beside his chief, blocking the entrance to the alcove.
My
back’s
clear,
now’s
my
chance.
Fuck
you.

The chief swings back his arm and delivers a blow fit to stun an ox. Montoya ducks it by rotating his body slightly around the hand gripping his collar, then follows through his attacker’s movement with both arms, knocking him off balance. As he
topples
forward Montoya lunges and knees him in the groin. A howl. Then an explosion. Pitch darkness. The world quakes. Montoya is lifted in the air as his opponent seems to have disintegrated, and lands flat on his back under a hail of rubble. His chest crushed, he pants in shallow breaths, the thick air feels like burning dust in his lungs. A bloody face, sticky at the corners of his mouth, under his hand. Total blackout. Blind? A plane engine roars in his head. Deaf? A reflex: get away. Crawl. A wall. Stands up. Stays upright. Feels like laughing, one thought:
Get
out
of
here.
Follow
the
wall.
Stumbles.
Obstacles.
Go
round
them,
push
them
away.
Soft
moving
masses,
bodies?
Step
over.
Legs feeling stronger and stronger. Taste of blood in his mouth. The staircase. Still in the dark. Several people trying to get out. A crush. At last, the street, fresh air, breathe, breathe, hiccup, spit, choke. No, he’s not blind, he can make out, behind a haze, the illuminated street, the façade of the Oiseau Bleu with its tropical forest intact. He makes a rapid
inventory of his wounds. He can walk, he can breathe, blood on his face, running down his neck, superficial wounds to his head. Vaguely hears the sirens of the fire engines getting closer.
Not
deaf
either.
For
now,
don’t
try
and
understand,
grab
your
chance
and
get
the
hell
out.
Things were turning nasty down there.