“No, I’m going to church.”
“On a weekday?”
“I go every day, Monsieur Greenmor,” she said with pride.
“Why every day?”
“Well, why do you think? To tell the Lord Jesus of the love I have for him.”
“You go to church every day to tell Jesus you love him?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated a second.
“You know, Madame Blanchard, I must tell you.”
“What?”
“I have … how shall I put it? I have doubts.”
“Doubts, Monsieur Greenmor? Doubts about what?”
“Well, I don’t know if you are a good Christian.”
She froze, stung to the quick, and then started to shake, red in the face. “How dare you!”
“Well, I don’t think you’re following Jesus’s teaching.”
“Of course I am!”
“I’m not a scholar, but I don’t remember Jesus ever saying ‘Love me.’ On the other hand, I’m certain he said, ‘Love one another.’”
She stared at me, dumbstruck.
“However,” I said, “I acknowledge that you follow Jesus’s orders to ‘love your neighbor as you would yourself.’”
She looked at me uncomprehendingly.
Then, very gently and sincerely, I asked her, “Madame Blanchard, why don’t you love yourself?”
T
WO IN THE
morning. I would never get back to sleep, endlessly turning over the same thought in my mind. I didn’t know what Dubrovski really wanted.
And that list of shareholders with his name on it that I’d seen online? Was it really just someone with the same name? Suppose it was him? I should have looked at it more closely. What was that company? Luxores? Luxares? Something like that.
I got up, crossed the bedroom, and sat down at my computer. I typed Dubrovski’s name into Google. Again, the results in Russian came up on the screen. I scrolled through the entries until I came to the one with the list of names followed by percentages. I clicked on the link.
Luxares SA
—that was the company whose majority shareholder was an Igor Dubrovski. I copied the company name into the Google search box and clicked
Enter
. Just 23 results: newspaper sites, financial sites, and then luxares.fr, the link for the company’s site, “Restoration company specializes …, “ I read. I opened the page.
I couldn’t help recoiling, stupefied by what filled the screen. It was a panoramic photo, shot at night. In the foreground were those familiar metal girders and behind them, picture windows, lit from inside, revealing the luxurious interior of the Jules Verne.
I
WAS FRIGHTENED
. It was no longer the slight apprehension that had been with me since the beginning of our pact but a terror that gnawed at me and wouldn’t leave. The man who had taken control of my life was all the more dangerous for being rich and powerful. Now I had only one obsession: getting out of his clutches.
I called the policeman again, telling him about my discovery and insisting I get police protection. He repeated that all I had was just a bundle of suspicions—worrying, admittedly, but there was not even the hint of a crime. He could do nothing for me.
I had searched in vain for all feasible ways of freeing myself. The only more or less realistic idea had been to try and negotiate with Dubrovski. Audrey’s presence had squashed that plan, and now I no longer had the courage to go back there, after the scene I had caused. I had insulted him in the presence of Catherine, and he wasn’t the sort to forgive easily.
I had to face reality. My only hope for ending the pact was to accomplish the final trial he had given me—a task that was impossible. I was caught in his trap, cornered.
The following two days were torture. I desperately sought a solution. My nights were disturbed, sleep impossible. At work I had terrible difficulty concentrating on my interviews. Alice said I looked like a ghost and advised me to see a doctor as quickly as possible. I was on a downward spiral.
On the evening of the second day, as I turned around to go back to the office to get my wallet, which I’d forgotten, I caught sight of Vladi, who just happened to be a few yards behind me on the Avenue de l’Opéra. My fear went up a notch.
The following night, I had a strange dream. It took place in America, on a farm in Mississippi. A frog had fallen into a vat of cream. The sides of the vat were very high, and the frog was trapped, unable to get a footing in the cream. There was no possibility of escape; its fate was sealed. All the frog could do was wait to die. But it was too stupid to understand this obvious truth, and it continued to struggle as hard as it could, without thinking how futile its actions were. The frog struggled so much that finally it churned the cream into butter. Now the frog had something solid to stand on. It leapt out of the vat and regained its freedom.
In the wee hours of the night, I made up my mind. I was going to fight tooth and nail to take my CEO’s place.
I
DIDN
’
T WASTE
a moment.
I downloaded the bylaws of Dunker Consulting from the Chamber of Commerce website, along with the most recent annual reports. I had to know all the ins and outs of the organization.
Over the next two nights, I plunged into this torridly erotic literature. Why do French lawyers have such convoluted ways of expressing things? I needed help.
One of the good things about working as a recruiter is that you rapidly build up an impressive address book. I contacted a young finance director I had recruited some weeks before, mentioning the help I needed. He replied right away, sending all the documents I needed by express delivery.
We met a few days later at the end of the afternoon, at an outdoor café near the Luxembourg Gardens. He had taken the time to read everything on my company.
“Dunker Consulting is an SSC quoted on the new market of the Euronext Paris stock exchange,” he told me.
“An SSC?”
“Yes, a simplified joint-stock company. That’s similar to a limited liability company in the U.S. An SSC is particularly well suited to a small or mid-sized company because of the flexibility it offers in establishing the bylaws under which it operates.
“The founders of the company make up the rules, is that it?”
“To a certain extent, yes.”
“And what are the specific rules that characterize it?”
“Nothing special, apart from the appointment of the CEO.”
“That’s precisely what interests me.”
“The CEO is elected directly by the shareholders, at the annual meeting.”
“So all the shareholders vote to choose the CEO, is that it?”
“No, not quite. Only the shareholders who are present at the meeting. Everyone can take part, of course, but in practice virtually none of the shareholders attend the annual meeting and vote, except the major shareholders. Dunker Consulting has two main shareholders and tens of thousands of small investors.”
“Let me guess. I bet one of the major shareholders is Marc Dunker.”
“No, he owns only eight percent of the shares.”
I remembered then that Alice had already told me that when Dunker took the business public, he had kept only a small stake in the company. The power wasn’t really in his hands anymore.
“Who are the other big shareholders?”
“An investment fund, INVENIRA, represented by its director, David Poupon, and an American pension fund, STRAVEX, represented by a certain Rosenblack, the manager of the French subsidiary. Between them, they hold thirty-four percent of Dunker Consulting. No other shareholder, apart from Dunker himself, owns more than one percent of the shares. It goes without saying that Poupon and Rosenblack have a free hand.”
I decided to take an enormous risk and outline my plan to the finance director. He was kind enough not to laugh.
“I don’t want to put you off, but it won’t be easy,” he said.
“No, I don’t doubt that.”
“In fact, mathematically, you have no chance. If Dunker has remained CEO, that obviously means he had the votes of the two big shareholders.”
“Why? They’ve only got thirty-four percent of the shares, not fifty percent.”
“For the reason I gave you just now: The small shareholders don’t come to annual meetings. What would they get out of it? No, the only shareholders who come are a few retired people who are bored and turn up in the hope that there will be a buffet and drinks after the meeting. They have no impact on the voting.
“Let me remind you,” he continued, “that there are tens of thousands of small investors, almost every one of whom would have to turn up for their votes to count. And that never happens, except perhaps when a company is on the brink of disaster and the shareholders are afraid of losing their nest eggs. Then they turn up and weep in unison.”
I was the one who felt like weeping at the moment.
“If Dunker was reelected CEO,” the finance director went on, “then he obviously has the support of the big two. Their thirty-four percent of the shares probably represents at least eighty percent of the voting rights of the shareholders present at the annual meeting. I don’t want to jump to conclusions about your talents or your powers of conviction, but I don’t see why those two would change their opinion to support a young consultant employed by the company.”
I remained deep in thought, disheartened by so much good sense.
“I’m so sorry,” he finally said, with great sincerity.
It’s always nice to feel other people’s compassion when everything is going wrong, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I had to find a solution, a plan of attack. There must be a way.
“If you were in my place, what would you do?”
He replied without hesitating: “Give up. There’s nothing you can do. In your situation, you have everything to lose and nothing to gain.”
My situation.
If only you knew what it was, my friend.
I paid for our Perrier waters and thanked him for his help.
I set off through the Luxembourg Gardens. I was downcast, but I didn’t want to capitulate. This battle was my only hope of regaining my freedom, perhaps even of staying alive. I was going to throw myself into it body and soul, even if my chances of winning were close to nil. I had to find a line of attack.
I spent the evening walking around the city, looking at the situation from every angle, searching for the weaknesses in the system, trying out different scenarios. I had a feeling I would manage to find an entry point, an idea that would allow me to redeal the cards and be in a position to take on the CEO. But was it genuine intuition talking, or simply my burning desire to find a solution?
When I got home, I found a paper bag hanging from the doorknob of my apartment. I opened it at the kitchen table. Inside was a plate, still warm, covered in tinfoil. Taped to it was a little blue envelope with a scalloped flap. I opened it and pulled out a card of the same color. Written in classic European penmanship, with loops and flourishes that few people know how to form anymore, was the message:
Bon appétit from Madame Blanchard.
That evening I dined on a delicious chocolate cake.
I
N SPITE OF
my wish to do everything I could to try and succeed at my last test, I had to take precautions. My chances of success were so slim that I had to prepare myself to face the consequences if I failed.
So I decided to begin a thorough investigation of Igor Dubrovski’s shady past. If he had obtained his acquittal by hypnotizing the jurors, which we would probably never know for sure, there remained other aspects of the case that could be uncovered and would give me a certain negotiating power when I confronted him. I was driven by the conviction that the keys to my freedom lay in Dubrovski’s past.
I went back on the Internet, looking for the article by the journalist from
Le Monde
who seemed to know far more than the others about the suicide affair. I remembered that the article contained such precise details about Dubrovski and his methods that it seemed very likely the journalist had known him. I absolutely must talk to him.
I found the article again, by Jean Calusacq. I picked up the phone and dialed
Le Monde.
“Hello, I’m trying to contact Jean Calusacq, a journalist who was working for
Le Monde
in the 1970s. I don’t know if he’s still with you.”
“Who did you say?”
“Calusacq. Jean Calusacq.”
“Never heard of him. And I’ve been here eight years. Your friend must have retired a long time ago!”
“He’s not my friend, but I absolutely must find him. It’s very important. There must be someone in your office who would know how to contact him.”
“How should I know? I can’t go and shout on every floor!”
“Okay, but somewhere you must have the name of the editor at that time. He could tell me.”
I heard a sigh.
“How long ago, did you say?”
“1976.”
“Please hold.”
A jazz tune on the saxophone played while I waited for the operator to come back on the line. I began to wonder if I hadn’t been forgotten.
“Here it is, Raymond Verger,” she finally said. “But I can’t guarantee anything. We lost contact a long time ago.”
I dialed the number the
Le Monde
operator gave me, concerned that it might no longer be in service. A ring tone. Phew! After eight rings, I was about to give up when someone answered. Crossing my fingers, I asked to speak to Verger.
“Who shall I say is calling?” asked a woman, in a slightly quavering voice.
“Alan Greenmor.”
“Does he know you?”
“No, not yet, but I’d like to speak to him about one of his former colleagues.”
“Good! That will amuse him. Speak clearly if you want him to understand you.”
There followed a long silence. Finally I heard whispers, then “Hello,” in a drawling voice.
I followed the advice given by his wife, enunciating clearly. “Hello, Monsieur Verger. My name is Alan Greenmor. I got your number from
Le Monde
. I’m calling because I need to speak to one of your old journalists. It’s very important, and the paper thinks you might known how to contact him.”
“An old journalist? I still see a few of them. What’s his name? I remember every one of them. My wife would say I’m unbeatable.”