Lorraine Connection (23 page)

The entrance to the Oiseau Bleu is concealed behind plywood boards, and a cop is pacing up and down the pavement. Quignard
enters through the back door and goes up to the third floor, entirely taken up by Tomaso’s private apartment. The latter already awaits him, and leads him into a small office done out in mahogany like a yacht. Quignard half lies on a chaise longue with wooden slats. Tomaso opens a casket with copper corners, containing six glasses and six crystal decanters filled with peaty malt whiskies of different strengths. ‘Medium,’ says Quignard, his mind on other things. Tomaso serves him then pours himself a glass that gives off a strong peaty whiff, takes a sip, goes over to a chair and straddles it, his arms on the back, a mocking expression on his face. At that precise moment, Quignard knows he’s sitting opposite the war dog of the old days.

‘So, Maurice, there’s something fishy going on in Pondange, and you haven’t said a word to me about it?’ Quignard looks stunned. Tomaso continues: ‘Who were the man and woman who came to see you in your office this morning?’

A punch in the stomach probably has a similar effect: your body snaps in half, winded, your mind’s in a haze. Mustn’t bat an eyelid. The driver in the office. Fuck. It’s too late to improvise and too dangerous.

Quignard rapidly explains the situation as he sees it, carefully leaving out the journalist and his visit to Neveu’s widow. There’s no point in making things worse. He concludes:

‘In my view, there’s no immediate danger, which is why I decided not to say anything to you.’

‘That’s not what I think. First of all, a journalist came sniffing round the Oiseau Bleu last night, asking questions about you and your connection to me …’

A second blow to the stomach. Hard. How does he always manage to be one step ahead? The journalist, the same one who went to see the Neveu widow, for certain. How did he trace things back to me? And how did he discover the link between Tomaso and me? Quignard feels himself going into a tailspin.

‘… my man had just got hold of him when the explosion went off, and they couldn’t find him afterwards. I infer that there are people poking around who know a lot more than you imagine. So we can’t allow an eyewitness to what happened in the factory to be left hanging around. That’s the golden rule in my profession. No eyewitnesses.’ He rises. Standing, his legs slightly apart, his hands still resting on the back of the chair. ‘This girl’s name.’

It isn’t a question, it’s an order. Quignard blurts out in anguish, with a mixture of fear and pleasure:

‘Aisha Saidani.’

‘Where do we find her?’

‘Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A.’

‘I’m holding on to you, Maurice, you’ll have dinner with us. An intimate dinner among friends, here at the club, there’ll only be about ten of us. It’s seabass
en
croûte,
and Deborah’s waiting for you. She was thrilled to hear you’ll be joining us. Trust me. In any case you have no option.’

When he hears the Mercedes pull up in front of the steps, at first Quignard retches. Last night, he was too smashed to realise he was being driven home. He’d been so drunk that he could almost claim he didn’t remember having told Tomaso:
Aisha
Saidani,
Cité
des
Jonquilles.
But this morning, sobered up and on an empty stomach, the idea of seeing his spy driver depresses him.
Send
him
away
?
Delicate.
That
would
be
to
sever
relations
with
Tomaso.
Could
he?
The
blaze,
Neveu,
Park
in
Warsaw.
Of
course
not.
Does he want to? The tall, hard form leaning over him
yesterday
evening, the pent-up violence, the shudder of pleasure he experienced at that moment, which he remembers very clearly, and the uneasy feeling of abandon that followed.
Of
course
not.
He gulped down his coffee and cut breakfast short. Back to his daily routine: the morning papers, anxious to know. He hurries.

The Mercedes is there as usual. The driver is someone new. Tomaso had the bright idea of substituting him. He greets him with a groan, slumps on the back seat and spreads out the front pages of the three national dailies. Identical headlines: Thomson Multimedia employees organise national strike and demonstrate against Daewoo taking over their company. Relief.
No
point
read
ing
the
articles.
What
effect
can
a
strike
have
on
the
great
machi
nations
of
international
finance?
None,
it’s
almost
laughable.
These
people
will
never
understand.
He folds up the newspapers. Then anxiety resurfaces.
Daewoo
is
the
press’s
main
target,
for
the
second
time.
Not
being
shielded
by
Matra
makes
that
dangerous,
with
the
shit-stirrer
in
the
area
who’s
already
traced
things
back
to
Tomaso.
According
to
the
superintendent,
he’s
straight.
But
it’s
so
easy
to
get
it
wrong.
I’m
going
to
have
another
chat
to
him
about
it.
He leans back in his seat and admires the last patches of forest shrouded in fog, fragmenting as they near the city. The trees are turning russet, the leaves will soon fall, and they’ll be able to go hunting in the woods.
I
must
take
a
tour
of
the
Grande
Commune
with
the
gamekeeper
to
see
where
the
pheasants
are.
Time’s
going
on.
We’ve
only
got
to
hold
out
for
a
few
more
weeks,
three
or
four
at
the
most,
get
the
Privatisation
Commission’s
approval,
Brussels’
approval,
and
it’s
all
in
the
bag.
We’ve
held
out
so
far.
And
yet
… His stomach is in knots, it’s hard to breathe. Spiral. Park’s tricks first of all, right under his nose, without him noticing a thing, and he’d thought he was totally in control, the devastating blaze when he’d been expecting a dustbin fire. With that question
nagging
him since last night:
Supposing
Tomaso
had
deliberately
overstepped
the
mark?
With Neveu the infernal machine is set in motion, the discovery of Park’s fraudulent accounting system, Maréchal who drops him, the unstoppable Tomaso who takes charge.
Admit
it:
I
’
ve
lost
control.
The driver’s broad, impassive back and neck. They’re all the same, I’m free but under close
surveillance
. Random images of last night’s blondes, Deborah and the other one whose name he doesn’t even know, abundant flesh, pink and white, moist, wet, and that feeling of being cocooned. A phrase goes round and round in his head:
an
old
man’s
pleasures.
He fears the days to come.

Quignard realises that the car has stopped outside his office, it’s probably been there for a while. He leans towards his driver.

‘Take me to the Grande Commune. I’m unavailable for the rest of the day. Unless Tomaso calls, of course.’

Montoya drops Rolande at the Cité des Jonquilles around
mid-morning
(
no,
let’s
not
arrange
to
meet,
Pondange
is
a
very
small
town,
you
know,
you’ll
find
me
easily
),
a smile, and the door slams. Then he stops at a cafe and drinks a coffee and brandy standing at the bar. Alone and glad to be on his own. A break before getting back to work. Time to plan the bugging of Quignard’s office.

The offices of Quignard’s design consultancy specialising in industrial reconversions are in Pondange, in the Grands Bureaux
building, formerly the head office of the Pondange Steelworks Company. In other words, the nerve centre of the entire
valley
. Montoya has a very clear, physical, almost painful memory of it. A massive cube of blackish stone, standing at the frontier between the world of the city and that of the blast furnaces, with the roar of the steelworks always in the background. The main façade opened on to the town. There were two doors, side by side. One, the monumental doorway, white stone steps,
colonnade
supporting a balcony, solid carved wooden double door, was opened just once a month for board meetings, both doors flung wide open for the occasion. Only the directors in their dark suits and Homburgs were entitled to cross the threshold, watched by the local press photographers. The other, very
ordinary
, door was used by the staff going in to work each day. The young Montoya used to imagine the hundreds of employees shut up in there all day long, labouring like the workers you could glimpse through the factory gates, and he would never go near it, for fear that these barracks might gobble him up. The idea of returning under cover thirty-five years later, breaking in and installing an illegal phone tap puts him in a mood of slight
elation
mingled with the physical tiredness of the night, his muscles stiff, the image of straight wisps of damp hair plastered against Rolande’s cheeks, gales of laughter, the memory of the faint taste of soap bubbles in the corner of his mouth, stimulating a sense of fulfilment.

Carry out a recce. Hard to recognise the Grands Bureaux of his childhood. The building, of beautiful Lorraine limestone, has been cleaned up and glows golden yellow in the sun. The staff and the guest entrances are both neglected. The two trees either side of the colonnade are no longer pruned, and their branches reach down to the ground encroaching on to the terrace where the big French doors of the boardroom are protected by wooden shutters. An easy way in, sheltered from view.
We
’
ll
enter
through
here.
He walks round to the building’s rear façade which used to overlook the yard of the great ironworks, and comes to carefully manicured lawns running down to the river where poplars, trees that grow quickly, have been planted. A new entrance, all in glass, has been added, facing the verdant valley. In the sun-drenched lobby, a charming receptionist behind a counter smiles at him. The names of all the companies with offices in the building are
on a huge board. Employment and training on every floor. The parasites that thrive on the social management of unemployment have all found refuge here, thanks to the hospitality of the
municipality
, which bought the Grands Bureaux.
You
did
the
right
thing
in
getting
out,
kid.

‘Mr Amrouche of the COFEP design consultancy, please?’

‘First floor, door 110.’

He climbs the stairs, follows the long corridor which goes all round the building and on to which all the offices open. He is totally alone. He takes the time to study the walls and ceilings
carefully
. No indication of any surveillance cameras or alarms. Quite logical really. Guarantee the security of what? Employment? He walks all the way round to the wing where the grand entrance is. A huge monumental staircase flanked by early twentieth-century stained-glass windows celebrating the men of iron and fire in blues and yellows made vivid by the sunlight. The factories have been razed, but the windows have been preserved. Opposite are the padded double doors of the boardroom. Still no one in sight. He hunches over the lock, holding a bunch of master keys, it’s child’s play, and soon finds himself in the large dark room with a pervasively musty smell. He gropes his way forward to the French door, which he opens a crack. Free entry tonight. He turns round. Rows of tables and chairs, baize, ashtrays, crystal chandeliers. At the far end is the chairman’s armchair. Ghosts. The smell grows stronger, haunting, he finds it suffocating, got to get out. Another long corridor, still no living soul, and at last, door 110 which leads to COFEP’s offices.

An internal area furnished as a waiting room or small lounge, containing three armchairs, a water fountain, a coffee machine, and five doors. Quignard’s name is on the door at the end and Amrouche’s is on the door to his left. No visible security system. He knocks and enters.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you? If possible I’d like to continue the enjoyable conversation we began yesterday.’

Without hesitation, Amrouche closes the file spread open in front of him and stands up.

‘It will be a pleasure. Come, we’ll be more comfortable by the coffee machine.’

There’s a danger of bumping into Quignard. Too bad,
impossible
to refuse, have to be quick. Behind a door, phones ringing and
a woman’s voice. His secretary most likely. Amrouche fills two cups with coffee and comes and sits beside Montoya, stretches his leg and back muscles and smiles.