Lorraine Connection (25 page)

Karim walks away from the crowd, his steps faltering, reaches the car park, gets into an old red Clio and sits there for several minutes, his head resting on the steering wheel. He’s got to find a way out, he’s going round in circles, can’t find one. Montoya slides behind the wheel of his car, waits. Karim starts up his engine, manoeuvres and drives slowly out of the car park. He appears to be heading towards the plateau. The motorway to Paris? Montoya allows him to get ahead, and then catches up with him. Tailing him is easy as long as he stays on the plateau with its straight, sloping roads. Karim leaves the main road, so he’s not
heading
for Paris and turns on to a secondary road, driving slowly,
his mind elsewhere. He probably still hasn’t decided where he’s going. It’s lunchtime, not much traffic, lonely road. Risky but doable. Montoya hangs back, rummages in the glove
compartment
, leaves the revolver but takes the plastic handcuffs which he flings on to the back seat. Goes over the controlled-crash training course he’d been on in the old days. He’d never used the
technique
until now. Recites the advice and recommendations.
Above
all,
don’t
injure
Karim.
As
they
say
in
the
movies,
I
want
him
alive.
Action. Puts his foot down on the accelerator. The red Clio
reappears
. No one in front, no one behind. Overtakes, brakes, cuts in front of the Clio’s wing, which he hits with his bumper. Karim, thrown off course, his expression terrified behind the
windscreen
, tries to straighten up, jerks the wheel and swerves into the ditch where the Clio lands, bonnet first. Montoya stops on the verge, roars into reverse, pulls up level with the Clio, jumps out, opens the driver’s door where a dazed Karim is trying to
unfasten
his seat belt. Montoya grabs him by the shoulder, extricates him from the car, leans him against the bonnet, and with his right hand straight, fingers taut, gives him a blow to the plexus. Karim crumples to the ground. Montoya picks him up, throws him on to the back seat of his car, handcuffs him tightly,
that’ll
loosen
his
tongue,
attaches the handcuffs to the seat belt anchor, gets behind the wheel and drives off at speed.

Karim slowly comes to his senses. Feels like throwing up. Utterly lost. His last memory:
Aisha’s
dead.
He groans. He got into the Clio.
Was
going
where?
Can’t
remember.
He’s half lying down. Glimpses foliage and blinks, the trees are very close and aren’t moving. Rubs his cheek against a familiar fabric, blinks, grey fabric, he’s lying on a seat in a stationary car. A surge of panic. Sits up, sharp pain in his chest, a man is sitting on the front seat, watching him without moving, hazy face, the lawyer? Tries to get up. Impossible, arm hurts, pinned behind his back. The nightmare comes back, tied up in the four-wheel drive, the
lawyer
. He howls, pulls frantically on his arms, kicks the back of the seat with both feet, a spasm, vomits on his shoes.

‘Finished blubbering like a woman? I’m not going to rape you, for fuck’s sake.’

Down to earth with a bump. Recognises the guy who was in the cafe with Rolande. Still doesn’t understand what’s happened to him. Shuts up. Wipes his mouth on his right shoulder.

‘That’s better. Are you capable of understanding what I say to you?’

Nods. ‘Who are you?’

‘The Hakim brothers, does that name ring a bell?’

Karim feels his bladder empty into his trousers. Dense trees all around, dusk outside, no way out. He closes his eyes, leans back and groans.

‘My wrists and arms really hurt. Can’t you loosen these handcuffs?’

‘Let’s try and make this quick. The brothers weren’t very happy about you grassing on them.’

‘I didn’t grass.’

‘But they seem to think you did.’

‘When they came to pick up their last delivery, someone had tipped off the cops. They took photos.’

‘Who snitched then, if you didn’t?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And they forced you to testify against Nourredine.’

‘You know about that too?’

‘I know a lot about it. Except that it wasn’t the cops that were behind it, it was Tomaso. The cops only saw the fire.’ Karim opens his eyes and wriggles his back slightly.

‘You know more than I do. I don’t know any Tomaso.’

‘A guy from Nancy who used you to grass on the Hakims and is taking over their business. I don’t think they’ll let him walk all over them. There was an explosion in Tomaso’s nightclub two days ago, and the battle has only just begun. And you’re right in the middle of it. Not a good place to be.’

‘Why me? I’m small fry, I don’t count.’

Here
we
come
to
the
epistemological
disassociation,
as
my
intel
lectual
student
friends
would
have
said.
Concentrate
and
cross
your
fingers
in
the
hope
that
the
kid
will
be
scared
enough
not
to
realise
that
you’re
changing
the
subject
and
that
there’s
no
logical
link
between
the
two.

Montoya leans over towards Karim and strokes his cheek. A nervous twitch from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his eye. The smell of vomit, urine, sour sweat.

‘Poor kid. You saw the lists of names in the Daewoo accounts, when you were playing on the computer with Neveu, and
everyone
’s interested in those lists. Neveu was murdered because
he’d seen them.’ The cheek twitches again. ‘Aisha was murdered because she was with Neveu during the strike. You haven’t been murdered yet because I’m the only person who knows that you were messing around on the computer with Neveu.’ Karim
pictures
himself sitting next to Étienne, shoulder to shoulder, the porn pop-ups against a background of accounting information which he didn’t even glance at. He hears Amrouche coming in and going out, slamming the door. Amrouche … ‘So you see, you may not have too long to live.’

Karim’s arms have gone numb. Now, all the pain is
concentrated
between his shoulders and up into the back of his neck.
How
long
before
Amrouche
grasses
on
me
,
to
Quignard
, Tomaso,
whoever?
Despair. He shouts, ‘But I never saw those accounts. We were watching the porn. Étienne copied it on to a disk for me. We wanted to duplicate it and sell it. I took it with me and went home, that’s all, I never saw anything else. I haven’t even had time to do anything with it yet. I don’t know anything about disks and computers. Étienne was going to do the editing, and I was just going to sell it.’

Montoya turned back to face the windscreen.
This
kid’s
telling
the
truth.
I
got
close,
but
missed
it
.
Wait.
Pursue
this
idea
to
the
end.

‘Give me the disk.’

‘Whenever you like. Right away, if you want. It’s in the Clio’s glove box.’ Montoya starts up the engine.

‘Fine, we’ll go there. Then, I’ll let you go and I advise you to disappear for a month or two, until things calm down. You’re out of your depth.’

Montoya pulls up at a junction between a farm track and a
secondary
road. A sweeping glance over the plateau’s clear
horizon
to check that he’s not being followed. The majestic swell of ploughed fields, as far as the eye can see. He hears Neveu’s widow: ‘It’s unbelievable how beautiful the plateau can look when you see it from the windows of our farm.’ He takes out his ‘special Valentin’ phone and calls him.

A groan. Montoya smiles.

‘I’ve got the list of Luxembourg accounts.’

‘Well … What does it look like?’

‘It looks like provincial wheeling and dealing. That’s what you called it, isn’t it?’

‘Something like that. Fill me in on the detail.’

‘Ten names of Daewoo workers, payments every month for just over a year which all come from another Luxembourg bank account. Sums ranging from fifty thousand to a hundred
thousand
francs.’

‘Which amounts to around three million a year. It’s a wealthy region.’

‘But these aren’t the sort of figures you’re interested in, am I right?’

‘Yes, but we can still make good use of them. Do you have the instructions?’

‘Not yet. The files I have were copied by mistake. The person who made the disk thought he was copying the porn videos the accountant watched while performing his onerous duties, but he copied the bank statements instead. I have an idea of how to find an explanation for all this. I just need a little time – forty-eight hours.’

‘That’s much too long. Fax me that list and we’ll work on it at our end too. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.’

Laughs. ‘I can’t do exactly as I please here. You said yourself that Pondange was the Wild West. This morning, we had two more corpses.’

Silence. ‘Clearly, you’re not joking.’

‘Clearly.’

‘Have the corpses got anything to do with our affair?’

‘Of course. Elimination of a potential witness.’

‘Fine. Forty-eight hours, if you insist. Things have been dead quiet at this end. Quignard hasn’t set foot in his office. More
worrying
, our phone tap hasn’t picked up any calls between Quignard and Tomaso.’

Silence. Montoya rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘Is Quignard’s driver employed by 3
G
?’

‘Good question. We’ll find out. I’ll page you on this phone as soon as I have any news. Don’t forget to check it. And be careful.’

‘That goes without saying. Goodbye, chief.’

Montoya is patiently waiting for Rolande outside Pondange police station. He’s parked across the street from the entrance and has been leaning against the car for more than an hour. Darkness is falling, he can feel the cold and damp in his bones. Behind him
stands the local primary school, silent and empty. He hasn’t glanced at it, the memories it stirred are fading. The dark shape of the police station looms before him. The neon-lit entrance can be seen through the open door, hinting at the activity going on inside and casting a band of light on the white stone steps and the neat lawn.

Rolande’s tall, slim, upright silhouette in its black overcoat steps into the light as she descends the three steps, her hands in her pockets. He straightens up, takes a step towards her when she sees him. Her entire body freezes on the spot, hesitates. He thinks of her hands fluttering as she struggles for words, her eloquent body. A rush of affection. He walks swiftly towards her, offers his arm, which she takes without looking at him. The two bodies brush, touch, recognise each other, then move apart. Observation: between them, a silent, dead space. He leads her to the car and opens the door for her. She sits down. He sits behind the wheel.

‘I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. There’s a room for you at the Hôtel Vauban if you like. And you can have something to eat there too, with or without me, as you wish.’

She nods and signals to him to get going.

A quick dinner in the Hôtel Vauban’s empty, dimly-lit dining room. Not a word. She doesn’t meet his eye, concentrates on
eating
a vegetable soup and cheese with slow movements, her head bowed. Then she sits upright.

‘I spent hours in the apartment with the superintendent,
drawing
up an inventory. He wanted me to tell him what had been stolen. Of course nothing had been stolen.’ She gives him a harsh stare. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told me who you are and what’s going on? Don’t you think I’ve paid dearly enough to find out?’

He takes her into the lobby. The security guard has left, the main door is locked and the curtains are drawn across the bay window overlooking the main square. The night lights give off a dim glow and the only light comes from a single bright lamp with a big shade standing on a coffee table. They sit side by side in two big chintz armchairs. Rolande sinks back in hers, her arms on the rests, her hands spread flat, tensing occasionally. Montoya tells her in a low, monotonous voice about Matra and Alcatel’s rival bids for Thomson, how he came to be hired, his arrival in Pondange.
Note
that
I
arrived
after
the
fire
and
after
É
tienne’
s
death.
I
have
nothing
to
do
with
the
start
of
the
trouble.
He tells her about the bogus Daewoo accounts, what he knows about the collaboration between Quignard and Tomaso. He tells her that the fire was started deliberately and that Étienne was murdered, about Amrouche’s statement fingering Nourredine – she closes her eyes, ashen – and about Karim Bouziane. He doesn’t tell her about his meeting with Neveu’s widow or her phone call to Quignard. At that particular point, he underestimated the enemy. At that particular point, he pushed Aisha towards her death. He’ll never tell her that. Not because he doesn’t want to lose her, he knows it’s already too late for that. But because he doesn’t want to admit responsibility and make it official.

Then he gives her a list of the Luxembourg bank accounts which has her name on it. ‘It got into my hands sort of by
mistake
. The person who copied it from the computer thought he was copying porn videos, the pastime of the person who kept the accounts.’ She becomes more animated, turns the sheets over and over, reads them several times, folds them, puts them in her coat pocket. Montoya reckons he’s winning and is almost surprised. She’s changing, fast.