Lorraine Connection (29 page)

‘We’re not the target. The killers probably don’t even know we’re here.’ He turns to Rossellini for a rapid check. He’s pale, after all it’s the first time he’s witnessed a murder at close hand, but still calm. He’s reliable and bearing up better than expected. ‘Now you’re going to leave the gardens without hurrying, and stay out of sight until you reach the avenue. Take a taxi or a bus, go back to the airport and wait for me there. See you at the cafe in departures. No pills before I get back. Go.’

Rossellini disappears without a word. As yet nobody on the plaza, or near the prone form. Montoya runs over to the body and turns it on to its back.
Mind
the
spreading
pool
of
blood.
He searches Park’s inside pockets and his jacket and coat pockets. Nothing. The briefcase is locked. Forces the lock: blank paper, two pens, a packet of Kleenex. He straightens up and runs to the entrance of the Daewoo building, calling for help and waving his arms around. In reception, a stunning young blonde is standing on tiptoe behind the desk, trying to see what’s going on outside and discover the reason for this unusual commotion without
leaving
her post. Montoya talks very fast, in rapid, stilted English.

‘A man shot, there, on the plaza, murder, two bullets in the back. A Korean, one of your employees, call the police, your manager. Mr Park’s office?’

The receptionist, overwhelmed, has her hand on the telephone: ‘Office 23, sixth floor.’ Montoya rushes to the lift. But he’s not there yet. The lift door closes. A helpless shrug then she gets busy raising the alarm throughout the building.

Montoya takes the lift up to the sixth floor where the executive
offices are. By the time he steps out, news of the murder of ‘one of us’ on the plaza is beginning to spread and people are
pouring
out of the offices. He takes refuge in the toilets and emerges when he reckons the coast is clear. He finds door 23, picks the lock and goes inside. Luckily the office is small and uncluttered. Not exactly overworked in Warsaw, Park. Move fast. Go for the most obvious: two files on the desk,
not
what
I’m
looking
for.
Three drawers, not locked, magazines, an English novel, a bottle of Scotch. A metal filing cabinet, ten or so files that look more like stage props than work tools, like the empty briefcase
earlier
.
Still
haven’t
found
what
I’m
looking
for.
Perhaps
I’d
better
stop
and
think
instead
of
being
quite
so
busy.
Montoya sits at the desk in Park’s chair and breathes deeply. Calm. It all comes back to the same question:
Do
the
lists
exist?
Doubt enters in:
It
’s
too
good
to
be
true.
Apparently Quignard believed it, because he had Park killed. And he knows the outfit well.
Supposing
they
do
exist.
Valentin
told
us
he’d
realised
the
seriousness
of
his
situation,
he
was
scared
and
he
really
wanted
to
negotiate
with
us
so
he
could
disappear.
He
turned
up
for
our
appointment.
So
either
he
must
have
had
the
lists
on
him
or
else
they’re
here.
Second
point:
if
he
was
really
scared,
to
the
point
of
agreeing
to
do
business
with
us,
it
was
because
here
he
was
working
alone.
Blackmailing
Quignard
was
his
own
idea.
He
stole
the
lists.
He
knows
the
Koreans
here
are
crooks
and
he’s
afraid
of
them,
as
afraid
as
he
is
of
Quignard.
He’s
afraid
of
everyone.
So
the
lists
have
to
be
hidden.
In
an
unu
sual
place,
on
his
person
or
here.
I
didn’t
search
him
thoroughly
enough,
but
it’s
too
late
for
that
now.
Either
I
find
them
at
once
or
I
tear
the
office
apart.
Montoya stands up again, looks on and under the furniture, checks the backs of the drawers, inspects the desk top, still nothing. The white moulded plastic desk chair has a round, padded cushion with a brown cover. He picks up the cushion. Nothing. Feels it. The cover has a zip. Opens it. Inside the cover, a plastic sleeve as brown as the cushion cover, and inside that, twenty or so sheets of paper, which he flicks through very quickly. The first few are summaries, purchases, sales and delivery orders, Pondange-Warsaw, no time to read them, this must be the scheme mentioned in the phone conversation between Park and Quignard. On the next sheets, names of banks, account numbers and code numbers, a few dates and sums paid in. Finally, on the very last sheet, the names of the numbered
account holders. A few names leap out – all senior French state figures.
This
is
dynamite.

Montoya closes the file straight away.
If
anyone
asks
me,
I’ve
never
seen
that
piece
of
paper,
I’ve
not
read
anything.
Runs his fingertips over the brown sleeve.
In
the
eye
of
the
storm.
Real
life.
And a hint of curiosity: How is Valentin going to get rid of a bombshell like this? What if it’s too sensational to be of any use?
Not
my
prob
lem
.
He folds the sleeve lengthways, slips it into the innermost pocket of his coat, which he buttons up, suddenly calm, pleased and sure of himself.
I’ve
won,
this
affair
is
over.
Affai
r
…
Rolande.
Free.
Gone.
All
I
have
of
her
is
the
delightful
memory
of
her
smooth
wet
skin,
her
wacky
vamp
look,
and
the
ambiguous
gentleness
of
her
fluttering
hands.
What
bliss.
He puts the cushion back on the chair and leaves the office without hurrying. Corridor, lift,
basement
, find the back exit at the rear of the building, still no one around, this is easy.

Rossellini’s waiting for him at the airport bar, where he’s downing coffee after coffee, leafing through the English language newspapers. Montoya sits down at his table, stretches out his legs, and smiles.

‘I’ve got the documents. Do you still have the money?’

Smile. ‘Of course. What would I spend it on here?’ He takes the plane tickets out of his pocket. ‘Let’s go. The next plane for Paris takes off in less than an hour. I was worried you’d miss it.’

All Saints’ Day and a public holiday. Alcatel’s head office is silent, empty. Just an occasional security guard doing the rounds. In Valentin’s little office on the top floor the soundproofed door is carefully locked, there’s quite a crush. Valentin has placed
photocopies
of the documents Montoya brought back the day before on the table. Fayolle, personal lawyer and right-hand man of the big boss of Alcatel, Rossellini and Benoît-Rey, all three
casually
dressed in fine wool sweaters and corduroy jackets, as if to emphasise the completely informal nature of the meeting, are reading the documents avidly, page by page. Suppressed sighs and
sidelong glances. Valentin makes coffee, and Montoya remains on his feet to one side, leaning against the desk with a vacant air.

Rossellini and Benoît-Rey look up at the same time. Their
sentiments
are the same: it’s a knockout victory. A job well done. But no one speaks, waiting to hear what Fayolle has to say. He takes his time, reading and rereading the last page before opening his mouth, his face a stiff mask.

‘We have enough to bring down the government, which was not our original intention. Everyone would lose out massively.’ He pushes the documents back to the centre of the table. ‘This is so big, I don’t see how we could use it.’

Valentin serves coffee. Fayolle drinks his standing in front of the window, absorbed in contemplation of the Eiffel Tower, the top of which is lost in the haze of an autumn mist. Benoît-Rey clenches his teeth in exasperation. What did the big boss expect, sending us off to rummage around in dustbins? So we could bring him a bunch of dead flowers? All that for nothing? As for this Fayolle, what credibility does he have? Rossellini, elbows on the table, clutching his head, repeats to himself:
Fayolle
’s
going
to
back
down.
If
he
backs
down,
what
happens
to
me?
How
do
we
force
him
to
act?
Anonymous
phone
call
to
the
Prime
Minister?
No.
Leaks
to
the
press …
Names
are
already
coming
to
mind
… Fayolle puts down his empty cup and turns round.

‘What do you think, Valentin?’

Valentin gathers up the files, makes a neat pile of them, then folds and rests his hands on the top.

‘I share your point of view, dear sir. We can’t make any public use whatsoever of this information. The situation would run out of control. But nor can we pretend this file doesn’t exist and
simply
drop the matter. If Daewoo takes over Thomson Multimedia we now know for certain that with its management methods the company will go belly up, and probably very soon. How do you know that this list of backhanders won’t surface again then? If we were able to dig it up, others can do the same. On the other hand, if Daewoo loses the bid, nobody will have the least interest in it any more and a scandal will have been averted.’

Montoya turns back to the coffee machine with a smile. Alcatel, the white knight, to the rescue of the Republic. Great cops and the Jesuits definitely have a number of things in common. He pours himself another cup.

Sitting down again, Benoît-Rey carefully weighs his words.

‘Let’s take things one at a time. The choice of Daewoo was the result of bribery, we have the documents to prove it. Although there’s no point in us making this public, those who are
implicated
have a lot more to lose than we do.’ Fayolle makes a gesture. ‘Or at least, they’ll think they do. We make it discreetly known that we have these papers, the decision is quashed. On that point, I share the view that Valentin has held from the start, it doesn’t matter how. And all these documents we have here disappear.’

‘The whole problem, Pierre, rests on the word “discreetly”. It is out of question for us to go and see the senior politicians to tell them, and I don’t see who’d agree to act as our spokesperson. These days, as in the past, they shoot the messenger.’

Valentin speaks up again.

‘We shouldn’t look for an individual, but rather an
influential
association or body that has moral authority, with contacts in each camp. Haven’t you got someone suitable among your alumni networks? What else is the old school tie for?’

‘Yes, we do. The École Polytechnique Engineers association which I belong to.’

Silence. Everyone thinking. Then Fayolle, slightly more relaxed:

‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Pierre. In any case, I can’t come up with anything better. Among the association’s staff, Dubernard is very involved with Matra; Meynial with Alcatel, in the nuclear sector; and the chairman, Leroy, is on the Matra supervisory board. The Association’s clout will probably shield them from any potential ill feeling. But will they agree to do it?’

‘Shall I set up a meeting?’

Fayolle nods and ends up smiling.

‘I feel as though I’m bungee jumping. And that’s not
something
I usually do.’

‘You get used to it,’ mutters Rossellini. ‘Worse still, you come to enjoy it.’

Montoya is left alone with Valentin, who collects up the dirty
coffee
cups.

‘You led them exactly where you wanted them to go. Did you know about this Association?’

‘Of course. In a slightly old company like ours, which has its
own ways of working, if you want to be effective, you have to know where the real power networks are. The Association is one of them, and its members are at the helm of half the French
economy
. As the
esprit
de
corps
isn’t as strong within their
organisation
as it is among us cops … Their Association won’t be able to resist the pleasure of flexing its muscle, and people will listen, believe you me.’