Lorraine Connection (28 page)

Rolande cries for the second time that night, her face buried in her hands. Maréchal has appeared too. Rolande gets up and takes his arm.

‘Come for a walk, I want to talk to you.’

They pace up and down the empty foyer, where Rolande hears Aisha’s father’s helpless rage echoing again. From her coat pocket she takes the list Montoya gave her. Maréchal gives it a cursory glance, then gives it back to her without a word.

‘Naturally, you know about this Mr Maréchal, you’ve already seen this list, you know who produced it and why. You have to explain.’

‘If you’re asking me to …’

Maréchal tells her how he was in Quignard’s office when Park telephoned him during the occupation; about the ‘bonuses’ paid to the Korean managers in guise of payment of phoney invoices; about Quignard, who finds out about the scam when it’s too late to do anything about it. Then he pauses.

‘You didn’t let matters rest there, Mr Maréchal, I know you. I saw quite clearly that you were as upset as I was to see your name on that list. If I managed to get hold of it, then you …’

Maréchal puts his arm around Rolande’s shoulders and they take a few steps in silence.

‘Come and sit down.’

He steers Rolande towards the bench. They sit down side by side. He turns to face her while he speaks.

‘Given where this list of bank accounts was found by Neveu, one of the company accountants was clearly involved. There are only two. I plumped for Germont. A sad character, married to a harridan who’s pathologically jealous and keeps an eye on him the minute he sets foot outside the factory, but he can afford to bet heavily on the horses. So he’s making money on the side. I went to see him and he spilled the beans. I shan’t explain the entire scheme to you, because I didn’t understand it completely. It was a complicated set-up that Daewoo negotiated directly with the Luxembourg bank. The main thing, Ms Lepetit, is how the accounts operate. We are supposed to have signed proxies for Germont and Park. With our names and code numbers, Germont can make transfers from one account to another on his own. But it needs both Germont and Park’s signatures to withdraw money. Or the signature of one of the account holders, you or me for example, as long as they know the code. As this eventuality had never been envisaged, it hadn’t been ruled out either. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘Weren’t you tempted, Mr Maréchal?’

‘I thought about it. It would mean going away. I can’t leave this place. I belong to this land with every fibre of my body. I know it by heart. I was young here, and happy. I’ve worked hard here. I can’t see myself living anywhere else.’ A long silence. Maréchal has an absent look. ‘In any case, I’m probably worn out. Too many memories.’ Then: ‘Germont lives in the Rue Saint-Louis, just above the bar-cum-tobacconists-cum-betting-shop.’ A silence.

‘Watch out for his wife.’ Another silence. ‘I have a lot of respect for you, Ms Lepetit. I wish you the best of luck.’

The room is packed when Montoya arrives at the funeral. Small groups are hanging around in the foyer, but Rolande isn’t there. She’s gone off to wash and get changed. ‘We’re waiting for her before we begin,’ her friends tell him. She arrives, bareheaded, in a very simple, black woollen dress under her overcoat and high black leather boots. Her face is composed, no trace of the strain of the last forty-eight hours, a radiant presence in this gloomy place. Montoya is surprised. Rolande smiles at him, takes his arm and, side by side, they lead the procession which makes its way slowly uphill to the cemetery behind the two hearses. Halfway there, she leans towards him.

‘A system of bogus invoices set up by Park to pay the Koreans’ bonuses, directly negotiated with the bank. Quignard kept in the dark until the strike, a call from Park himself, panic-stricken, when the occupation of the offices began. Is that enough for you?’

‘That’s enough. You’re a magnificent woman.’

Rolande clings to Montoya’s arm until the two coffins are
lowered
into the ground. No condolences. They leave the cemetery together. On reaching the road, Rolande stops, looks intently at Montoya’s face, one finger carefully traces the shape of his
eyebrows
, cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, as if to try and
memorise
them. She leans forward, places a chaste, affectionate kiss on his lips, and walks off quickly. Twenty metres away, a car is
waiting
, a man at the wheel, whose features Montoya can’t make out. Rolande gets into the passenger seat, the car starts up and drives off. It takes the stunned Montoya a few moments to recover his wits.
Let
her
leave,
that’s
understandable,
but
with
another
man,
in
front
of
my
eyes
…
I’ll think
about
it
tomorrow.
Then he moves away from the stream of people leaving the cemetery to phone Valentin.

Two hours later, Rolande emerges from the
Parillaud-Luxembourg
bank on the arm of Germont, Daewoo’s
accountant
. He’s just transferred the contents of the ten accounts he was managing into one opened in the name of Rolande Lepetit, and she’s just emptied it, using her signature and the secret code. A
tidy sum, nearly a million francs, in crisp new notes. Now
carefully
stashed in a black plastic briefcase, which she holds at arm’s length, flabbergasted that such a huge sum can fit into such a small space. They’ve agreed to go fifty-fifty, as soon as they’re safely back in France.

Rolande pauses on the steps outside the bank. She blinks,
dazzled
by the sunshine, spots the taxi rank further down the street and turns to the accountant. He’s a small, very ordinary man in a cheap suit, his hair plastered down, glasses, flabby features. She gives him a radiant smile, strokes his cheek, takes his arm and pulls him into the street. They take a few steps, leaning against each other, then Rolande stops in front of the first taxi in the line, closes in on the short accountant and kisses him on the mouth. He puts his arms around her, surprised at first, then delighted at his good luck. Just as he embraces her, a woman rushes across the street, screaming insults: his wife, the harridan Maréchal had mentioned, alerted that same morning by an anonymous phone call, a slightly husky woman’s voice telling her the time and the place where her husband would be meeting his blonde mistress. A native of Luxembourg and a top executive at the Parillaud bank, the anonymous voice had explained. The harridan slaps Rolande, and clutches her man. Rolande doesn’t hang around, she simply leans over to open the taxi door and climbs in hugging the black plastic briefcase to her chest.

‘Go, quick. Straight ahead, anywhere.’ The taxi starts up. ‘I hate domestic fights. She wants her man, she can keep him. Did you see the guy? I’ll get over it.’

Rolande does not look back. Behind her she leaves the
accountant
who’s beside himself with fury, and his astounded wife. After a few minutes, the driver asks his customer: ‘Where to, madam?’

First
of
all
,
pick
up
my
son,
then
get
out
of
here.

‘How much will you charge to drive me to Metz?’

Montoya’s off to scout around Warsaw. Comfortably installed in first class, he’s put his seat into the reclining position and is lying back and dozing. Valentin had entered into brisk negotiations
with Park.
You’re
going
to
find
a
little
guy
scared
shitless,
com
pletely
out
of
his
depth
in
this
game.
Positive
in
one
way,
danger
ous
in
another.
Fear
is
not
a
wise
counsel.
We
return
the
lists
of
Korean
managers
to
him.
We
have
a
copy.
We
give
him
a
payment
in
dollars.
Comfortable,
no
more.
Rossellini
will
have
the
money
on
him.
We
promise
the
Korean
that
we
will
ensure
his
extradition
and
his
transfer
elsewhere.
We
could
do
it
that
way,
but
I
really
don’t
see
how.
In
any
case,
that
side
of
things
doesn’t
concern
you.
You’re
going
to
be
operating
on
foreign
soil
with
no
preparation,
no
support,
and
without
any
real
fallback
position.
And
I’m
sad
dling
you
with
Rossellini,
who
will
be
of
no
help
to
you
and
might
even
embark
on
some
ill-advised
course
of
action,
but
you
have
to
guarantee
his
safety,
and
that
of
the
cash.
That’s
life,
my
friend.
Montoya, half asleep. That’s life.

Warsaw. Taxi to Daewoo’s head office on the main avenue from the airport to the city centre. A four-storey glass and steel building with a plaza paved in white stone, set back from the avenue and surrounded by landscaped gardens, shrubs, trimmed hedges, lawns and clumps of trees. Here and there, other luxury office blocks. During working hours, the place is fairly deserted. Montoya hangs around in the vicinity, locates a possible way into the building through the unlocked dustbin room at the back.

A little scout around town. Montoya hides near the apartment block where Park lives and eventually spots his man, at around eight p.m., encased in a voluminous grey wool coat with a fur
collar
and a dark grey trilby, his moon face reduced by huge
tortoiseshell
spectacles. He’s alone, stops for a drink at the local cafe and, still alone, enters his apartment block, followed by Montoya. Fourth floor, nothing to report.
A
very
brief
recce,
but
I
don’t
see
what
more
I
could
have
done.
Montoya heads back to the vicinity of the airport to sleep in an anonymous hotel.

Rossellini’s sitting by the window gazing out at the shifting layer of luminous white cloud thousands of metres below, stretching as far as the eye can see. We’ve reached the denouement. An electric tingle. Each day he handles tens of millions by simply clicking
his mouse, shifting huge sums around, transferring them across borders, hiding and making them reappear without the slightest emotion, sometimes even with a faint sense of boredom. Today he has a much smaller sum inside the lining of his jacket, but it’s in cash, which he feels rub against his chest when he turns to look out of the window. He’s got to physically transport it across the border, walking calmly, looking preoccupied and absent, right under the noses of the customs officers. Thrilling in a different way. He fishes a pillbox from his pocket, takes out a little blue tablet which he swallows, and continues gazing at the hypnotic clouds. The odd chuckle escapes him from time to time, like a schoolboy raiding a condom machine in a supermarket.

He clears customs without any difficulty. Montoya’s waiting for him at the exit. Handshake. Rossellini swings between a sense of complicity with a fellow fighter, and aloof disdain.

A taxi drops them in the midst of the lawns and copses. The weather is fine and cool – ‘Just perfect for a little stroll,’ says Montoya with a half-smile – and he leads Rossellini through the gardens to the edge of the empty plaza in front of Daewoo’s head office. Montoya telephones.

‘Park hasn’t arrived yet. He shouldn’t be long. We’ll wait for him under this pine tree. Once he’s inside the building, we’ll sneak in behind him.’

Rossellini feels an irrepressible urge to laugh again. He
chuckles
. Is this a game? He decides to be patient.

‘You’re a walking safe, and Park may not be the only person who knows it. We’re dealing with a bunch of crooks about whom we know nothing, except that they’re already involved in more than one murder. Valentin asked me to bring you back alive, if possible, so I’m trying to minimise the risks. This empty plaza surrounded by trees looks to me like the perfect place to practise shooting at a moving target. OK? You might find it amusing, but you’ll do as I say, and don’t lose control.’

Rossellini, shaken, takes his pillbox out of his pocket and
swallows
a small blue tablet.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ snaps Montoya.

Just then, he catches sight of Park at the entrance to the plaza, muffled in his coat. He’s alone, walking briskly, swinging a black leather briefcase at arm’s length. Montoya grabs Rossellini by the shoulder.

‘There he is. Don’t move.’

The words are barely out of his mouth when two sharp shots ring out in quick succession. The figure stumbles, as if pushed from behind, spreads his arms, jerks and crumples to the ground, his arms outspread, without a sound. Indubitably dead. Montoya is still squeezing Rossellini’s shoulder, which he can feel shaking, while keeping an eye all around them. The shots must have been fired from the other side of the avenue. He locates a clump of trees, the killer probably has a gun with a telescopic sight trained on the path across the plaza to the main door of the building. It must have a super-efficient firing mechanism. He just catches a glimpse of two men walking calmly away from the trees, across the gardens.