Solea (13 page)

In an era of globalized markets, the role of organized crime in the market economy is still little known. Public opinion, nourished by Hollywood stereotypes and sensational journalism, associates criminal activity with the collapse of public order. The activities of petty criminals are constantly talked about, but the political and economic role, as well as the influence of international criminal organizations, is rarely brought out into the open.

I scrolled down.

Organized crime is inextricably interwoven with the economic system. The opening up of world markets, the decline of the Welfare State, privatization, the deregulation of international finance and trade: all these things have tended to favor the growth of illegal activities as well as the internationalization of a rival criminal economy.

According to the United Nations, the annual world income of trans-national criminal organizations is in the region of a thousand billion dollars, a figure equivalent to the combined gross national product of those countries categorized by the World Bank as low-income and their three billion inhabitants. This estimate takes into account both the revenue from drug trafficking, illegal arms sales, smuggling of nuclear materials, etc., and the revenue from activities controlled by the Mafia, such as prostitution, gambling, and the black market in currency.

What it does not take into account, however, is the extent to which criminal organizations have taken control of legitimate businesses, or the extent to which they dominate the means of production in many sectors of the legal economy.

I was starting to get an idea of what the other disks might contain. There were footnotes referring to official documents. Another set of notes, in bold lettering, contained cross-references to the other disks, classified by transaction, by place, by company, by political party, and finally by name. Fargette. Yann Piat. Noriega. Sun Investment. International Bankers, Luxembourg . . . It made my flesh creep. Because I was sure Babette had worked with that professional dedication that had driven her ever since she had started out as a journalist. That fierce determination to get at the truth.

I scrolled again.

Criminal organizations work unofficially with legal businesses, investing in a variety of legitimate activities that provide them not only with a cover for money laundering but also with the means to accumulate capital outside their criminal activities. These investments are mainly in the fields of luxury real estate, the leisure industries, publishing and media, financial services, etc., as well as in industry, agriculture and public services.

 

“I'm making spaghetti bolognese,” Sébastien interrupted me. “Would you like some?”

“Only if you change the music!”

“Did you hear that, Cédric?” Sébastien called.

“We'll see what we can do!” Cédric replied.

The music stopped.

“Listen to this, it's Ben Harper.”

I didn't know it, but what the hell? It was bearable.

Before I stood up, I read one last sentence:
The results achieved by organized crime surpass those of most of the companies in Fortune magazine's Top 500, and their organizations are more like General Motors than the traditional Sicilian Mafia.
It was a whole master plan that Babette had decided to take on.

“So where have you gotten to?” I asked, sitting down at the table.

“Nowhere in particular,” Cédric replied.

“Whichever way you look at things,” Mathieu argued, “we always come back to the same place. Where we are now. In the shit.”

“Well spotted,” I said. “What do you do about it?”

Sébastien laughed. “Well, when you walk, the important thing is not to get it everywhere.”

Everyone laughed. So did I. But my laughter was a little forced. Because that was exactly where I was, in the shit, and I wasn't really sure I wasn't getting it everywhere.

“Great spaghetti,” I said.

“Sébastien takes after his father,” Cyril said. “He loves cooking for other people.”

The reason for Babette's problems must be on one of the other disks. The one where she listed the names of politicians and heads of companies. The black disk.

The white was a compilation of documents. The red contained interviews and testimonies. Including an interview with Bernard Bertossa, the chief prosecutor of Geneva.

“In your opinion, is France doing enough to combat international corruption, at least at the European level?”

“Of all the European countries, only Italy has developed a genuine policy to combat dirty money and corruption. Particularly at the time of the Mani pulite operation. To be honest, France doesn't give the impression she really wants to tackle money laundering or influence peddling. There's no real political strategy to deal with these things, there are only individual judges or prosecutors who put a lot of effort into their cases and obstinately see them through. Things are starting to change in Spain, where a special prosecutor's department has just been created to fight corruption. But nothing like that exists in France. And it has nothing to do with which party we're talking about, or whether or not they're in power. They all have skeletons in their cupboards, but they don't want to admit it.”

I didn't have the strength to look at the black disk. What would be the point? My vision of the world was black enough as it was.

“Can I have a set of copies?” I asked Cyril.

“As many as you like.”

Then, remembering the things Sébastien had told me about the Internet, I added, “And is it possible to put all of it on the Internet?”

“Create a Web site, you mean?”

“Yes, something that anyone could look at.”

“Sure.”

“Could you do that? Create a Web site for me, and only get it going if I ask you.”

“I'll do it tomorrow.”

I left them at three in the morning, after a last beer. Once out on the boulevard, I lit a cigarette, and crossed Place Jean-Jaurès, which was completely deserted. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel safe.

I
woke with a start. A little bell had rung in my head. But it wasn't the phone. It wasn't a noise in the house either. It really had been in my head, and it wasn't really a bell. More like a click. Had I been dreaming? What about? It was only five to six. Shit! I stretched. I already knew I wouldn't get back to sleep now.

I got up, and went out on the terrace, an unlit cigarette in my hand. The sea was dark blue, almost black, and restless. The mistral was starting. A bad sign. In summer, the mistral meant one thing—forest fires. Hundreds of acres of forest and scrub went up in smoke every year. The firefighters must already be gearing up for trouble.

Saint-Jean-du-Gard, I told myself. That was it. The click. The postmark on Babette's envelope had said Saint-Jean-du-Gard. In the Cévennes. What the hell was she doing there? Who was she staying with? I'd made coffee, in my little one-cup Italian coffee maker. One cup after another. That was how I liked it. I didn't like reheated coffee. I finally lit my cigarette, and took a gentle drag on it. It went down well. A good omen for the ones to follow.

I put on a CD by the South African pianist Abdullah Ibrahim.
Echoes from Africa
. One piece in particular. “
Zikr
.” I didn't have any religious beliefs. But there was such serenity in the vocals on that track—a duet with his bassist, Johnny Dyani—it made you want to praise the earth and its beauty. I'd spent hours listening to that piece. At dawn or at sunset. It made me feel human.

The music swelled. I stood framed by the French window, with my cup in my hand, and looked at the sea, which was more agitated now. I didn't understand any of the words Abdullah Ibrahim was singing, but I translated that “Remembrance of Allah” in my own way. It's my life that's at stake here, on this earth. A life with the taste of hot stones, the sighing of the sea, the song of the cicadas. To my last breath, I will love this life.
Insh'Allah
.

A seagull flew past, very low, almost at the level of the terrace. I thought of Hélène Pessayre. A pretty seagull. I didn't have the right to lie to her anymore. Now that I was in possession of Babette's disks. Now that I had an idea where she was holed up. I had to check, but I was almost certain. Saint-Jean-du-Gard. In the Cévennes. I opened her binder of articles.

It was her first big story. The only one I hadn't yet read. I suppose because of the accompanying photos, which Babette had taken herself. Photos full of affection for the former philosophy student who'd left Paris after May '68 to raise goats. She'd loved this guy Bruno, I was sure of it. Like me. Maybe she'd loved him and me at the same time. And others too.

So what? I asked myself, as I read the article. That was ten years ago. But did she still love you? Did she really still love you? That note of hers bugged me.
I still love you.
Was it possible to start your life over again with someone you once loved? Someone you'd lived with? No, I didn't believe that. I'd never believed it about the women I'd left or who'd left me. I didn't believe it about Babette either. The only woman I could imagine getting back together with was Lole, and that was pure insanity. A woman I'd known—I couldn't remember her name—had told me once that you mustn't disturb the ghosts of love.

Le Castellas. That was it. That's where she was. I was sure of it. The way Babette described it, it was the ideal place to hide out. Except that you couldn't lie low for the rest of your life. Unless you decided, like this Bruno, to start a new life there. But I couldn't see Babette raising goats. She still had too much anger in her.

I made myself a third cup of coffee, then called Information, and got the number of Le Castellas. At the fifth ring, someone lifted the receiver. A child's voice. A boy.

“Who is that?”

“I'd like to speak to your daddy.”

“Mommy!” he cried.

Footsteps.

“Hello?”

“Hello. I'd like to speak to Bruno.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Montale. Fabio Montale. He doesn't know me.”

“Just a moment.”

More footsteps. A door opening. Then Bruno's voice came on the line.

“Yes. What is it?”

I liked his voice. Determined, confident. As rugged as the mountains.

“You don't know me. I'm a friend of Babette's. I'd like to speak to her.”

Silence. He was thinking.

“Who did you say?”

“Listen, let's stop this play acting. I know she's hiding at your place. Tell her Montale called. Ask her to call me back as soon as possible.”

“What's going on?”

“Tell her to call me. Thanks.”

 

Babette called half an hour later.

Outside, the mistral was blowing hard. I'd gone out to fold my sunshade, and Honorine's. She hadn't yet appeared. She must have gone to Fonfon's to have a coffee and read
La Marseillaise
. Ever since
Le Provençal
and
Le Méridional
had merged into a single newspaper called
La Provence
, Fonfon had been buying only
La Marseillaise
. He didn't like newspapers that sat on the fence. He liked ones that took a stand. Even if he didn't share their ideas. Like
La Marseillaise
, which was a Communist paper. Or like
Le Méridional
,
 
which before moving to the centre-right had made its fortune, about twenty years ago, spreading the extreme racist ideas of the National Front.

Fonfon couldn't understand how the editorial in
La Provence
could be left-wing one day and right-wing the next, depending on which of the editors had written it.

“That's pluralism for you!” he'd shouted.

Then he'd shown me that day's editorial: a tribute to the Pope, who was visiting France. The editorial praised the moral virtues of Christianity.

“I mean, I got nothing against the Pope. Or against the guy who wrote this. People can write what they like, it's a free country. But . . .” He turned the pages. “Here, read this.”

There was a small item in the local pages, with photographs, about a guy who'd opened a new restaurant on the coast. This guy was talking about how great his place was, because all the waitresses were young and pretty and walked around almost naked. He didn't say that you could put your hand on their asses, but he implied it. It was the ideal place for a business meal. Money and sex have always made good bedfellows.

“No, you can't be blessed by the Pope on page one, and get a blowjob on page four!”

“Fonfon!”

“Hell, a newspaper without morality isn't a newspaper. I'm not buying it anymore, and that's that. It's over.”

Since then, the only paper he'd read was
La Marseillaise
. And that also made him angry sometimes. Sometimes a little insincerely. But often with good reason. You couldn't change the way he was. But I liked him like that. I'd met too many people who were all talk and no substance.

I'd jumped when the phone rang. For I moment I thought it might not be Babette, but the Mafia guys.

“Fabio,” she said.

There was a tremendous amount of fear and weariness in her voice. Just from the way she spoke my name, I realized she'd changed. It suddenly came home to me that, before going on the run, she must have been through a really hard time.

“Yes.”

A silence. I didn't know what she was thinking about during that silence. I was thinking about all the nights we'd made love. If you look back, that woman whose name I couldn't remember had also said, you end up falling to the bottom of a well. I was at the edge of the well. On the rim. Babette.