The Eyes of Lira Kazan (14 page)

“No, I'm fine.”

He went and Nwankwo approached.

“Have you got anything to tell me?” Lira pressed him.

“I've just come from the fraud squad. Your Louchsky and my Finley were laundering their money in the same bank and it's just gone bust!”

For a brief moment Lira imagined what she could have done with this information if she had been able to. She would have grabbed the telephone, demanded some space in her magazine, and had the usual row with Igor, her editor, about his legendary caution. But all she could do now was listen to Nwankwo, hanging on his every word: they were like flashes of light in the dark night in which she now dwelt. Nwankwo was unstoppable. He told her that Finley was expected in London in the next few days, that the fraud squad was determined to catch him and interrogate him, and that he would be on hand to give them a few discreet hints.

 

Lira's hand wandered up and down his forearm. He let her carry on, a little embarrassed – it was the gesture of a blind person, not that of a woman; she needed to feel him at her fingertips. She hadn't seen enough of him, or known him well enough, to be able to fully imagine him. Now she remembered his tall, thin, nervous body, with all that rage and energy barely contained in his teacher's suit. She could sense the nuances in his voice, which words came easily and which he had to search for. Lira's ear was working hard without her being conscious of it – her senses were adjusting to one another.

Nwankwo did her such a lot of good. If she could have drawn him it would have been with boxing gloves. She would be in the shadows behind him, like a coach or a fan, urging him on: “Go on, punch them! Do it for me!”

He was the only one still fighting.

It was rumoured in the law courts that the clerk had shouted at the judge when he reappeared the day after his disappearance, that he had called him names, called him a pathetic fool, a deserter, and that ever since that
lèse-majesté
they were no longer on speaking terms. The most knowledgeable claimed to know things about this curious team – the childless judge and his homosexual clerk. There's nothing gossips like better than disaster. However they are often ill-informed, and always behind the times. They could peer at the closed door of the judge's office, even listen at the door as much as they liked, they would still have been a long way from the truth of the matter.

The judge sat, frozen and pale, opposite Félix, hardly able to look up. The shouting and lies of the day after – “a friend in trouble” he had said, and Félix had not dared to contradict him – were already ancient history. The judge had just heard about Eyvin's death from his British counterparts.

“His body was found just outside London,” he said. “It took a bit of time to identify the body. I know what you're thinking, Félix, and you're right.”

Félix didn't ask about the condition in which Eyvin's body had been found, although he wanted to. He said nothing. He just stared at the empty chair opposite him, the chair in which the frightened young man with the childish mouth had sat asking for help. He heard himself say, thinking he was cleverer than the others, “this isn't the safest place”. And, worst of all, he heard the voice on the telephone shouting “They're following me!” It was all he could think of, and it spurred him on.

“I'm leaving this evening,” he said.

“Very good. I've signed for your leave of absence. I'll tell someone there that you're coming, it's safer. You may not be the only one who knows the address he gave you.”

“No. Don't tell anyone.”

“Well, at least keep me informed. I might be able to help.”

“There's nothing the law courts can do.”

“I know. But I can help you. We can pass information on to people better placed than us.”

“Like who? The fraud squad? They're stuck, the public prosecutor is blocking everything.”

“Well, it's up to you.”

In the last few days, without anyone saying anything, there had been a kind of transfer of authority between them. They were no longer operating within a legal framework. There was a ghost sitting in the room with them, reproaching them for having done nothing to save him. The judge quietly returned to his desk and started work on a dossier, but going through the motions like an actor with a stage prop. Time went by in this strange atmosphere: there was so much to say, so much to try to understand – the drowned wife, the bankruptcy, the murdered interpreter, so many questions unanswered. But the answers would not come from within these walls.

Then Félix's telephone rang, with its silly tune. It was Do.

“Ah, the kamikaze! Sorry not to have rung back sooner. How are you? I'm in Nice as it happens. I'm in court this afternoon, if you're free for a drink. I'll meet you in the law courts.”

“No, not in the court.”

 

Félix gave him the address of a little restaurant he was fond of, which had Fifties-style lights in the ceiling, and then hung up. Suddenly the door opened, and Sergio the singer came in with his lawyer. He was nervous, his face sunburnt, and he seemed a great deal more upset than he had been on the day he had been interviewed
about the death of his so-called great friend Linda Stephensen. He began talking before he had even sat down: he had been ruined by the failure of Grind Bank, he would lose everything, his villa in Saint-Tropez would be seized. He had borrowed fifteen million from a subsidiary of Grind Bank to do some work on it, with the house itself as guarantee, that was the way these things were done. He spoke fast, reeling off figures – forty per cent of the loan had been paid into his current account, and the rest into a life-insurance policy run by the Faroe Island bank…

“What's this got to do with us?” the judge interrupted.

The singer stopped and turned towards his lawyer. The lawyer expressed indignation at such lack of respect towards his client, beginning to raise his voice. The judge looked on with a weary expression that seemed to say “I've had enough of these overpaid self-important lawyers, enough of rich people mourning for their villas and not their friends, enough of everything.”

“The death of the banker's wife, the bankruptcy, it's all connected, isn't it?” the lawyer snapped.

“Maybe, but the investigation is closed. The verdict was drowning.”

“An investigation can be reopened!” the lawyer protested.

“Those people have stolen from me, they've abused me, taken everything,” the singer went on.

“Just a week ago they were your best friends!” the judge retorted.

Félix sent a message from his computer:
Louchsky?

“Let's get things straight,” the judge continued. “Either you know something about the fraudulent goings on at the bank, which might have cost Mrs Stephensen her life, in which case you tell us about them, or you go elsewhere. Do you know Sergei Louchsky?”

“Are you implying that my client might have participated in illegal activities?”

“I'm simply saying that here we're dealing with dead bodies. Grind Bank going bust isn't my department.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just let myself be fleeced after a forty-year career?” Sergio shouted, getting up from his chair.

The mention of the forty-year career suddenly conjured up an image of all those terrible variety shows, those miserable Saturday nights in front of the television. It was all too much for Félix, who was feeling claustrophobic and was already late for his appointment with Do.

“You sang on the night the President was elected, didn't you?” he suddenly asked. “Why don't you go and talk to him about your problems?”

The singer and his lawyer were speechless. In any case the clerk had stopped transcribing anything. Protocol had gone out of the window and the judge couldn't help smiling. The visitors stormed out, no doubt feeding more rumours of rows and scenes. And then gloom descended once more. Félix grabbed his things and checked the time of his plane again. The judge stood up, held out his hand and held Félix's for a long time.

“Call me. Don't take any risks. Don't punish yourself, Félix.”

 

As he ran to the restaurant, Félix realized that that had been the last interview they would do together. Do was waiting at the table when he came in. He greeted Félix drily, irritated at having had to wait so long and ill-pleased with the wine he had been given. He briskly called the waiter and ordered. Félix smiled.

“What's so funny?”

“You. You lawyers never stop arguing even when you're ordering a cup of coffee.”

Do didn't rise to this – he was in a hurry, and went straight to the point.

“Listen, Félix, I've just got one thing to say to you: forget it. In five or ten years your friend Louchsky will own a
television station and he'll be financing the next president of the Republic.”

“You always think big!”

“And it hasn't done me any harm either…”

Félix should have agreed, but he kept quiet.

“Seriously,” Do continued, “just look at his advisory board. A German ex-chancellor, an ex-head of the European Bank, and that's just the official ones. I'm sure our ex-president is involved as well. But don't spread that around, you know how money is reviled in this country…”

“They're all just has-beens.”

“Listen to this young fool – no respect for his elders. Louchsky's story started a long time ago, twenty years back. At that time Russia was breaking into pieces, everything was for sale, and vultures were flying in from all over the world. Louchsky was very young then but he had already started climbing the ladder. That was when he met what'sher-name, the tall woman with the earrings – Vuipert, she was known as the Viper. She was working for a bank at the time, finding new markets; she and Louchsky got cosy. And now she's the President's special adviser.”

“I see. Now I understand why the reaction was so quick.”

“You haven't got a hope in hell! Your judge should have been a bit more subtle. He should have waited, started some peripheral investigations, I don't know. Was he trying to self-destruct or what?”

“What do we know about this character?”

“About him, nothing. If it's a choice between Louchsky or the Chinese, everybody prefers the Russian. Europe stretching from the Atlantic to the Urals. I can understand that. He's made a clean sweep of the world Monopoly board. There's hardly a takeover bid, a merger or a project that doesn't have his name attached. So eat up your salad, go on holiday and forget about it.”

“I want it known that the judge was ruined after searching his villa.”

“You may have done your utmost to disappoint your parents, Félix, you're still an arrogant little bourgeois. What did you find there?”

“Two guns, a fake Monet—”

“Forget about the paintings! Copies suit everybody, particularly insurance companies. I learnt that at the Ministry.”

Félix was now in a hurry to get this over with. The flamboyant Do was no more than an establishment figure, saved a little by his gay mannerisms. He longed to go, to escape from all this cynicism. He would go to the address Eyvin had given him; he would spend the night with Mark who had texted him “Glad you're coming”. That was all that mattered now.

They left the restaurant half an hour later. Félix went home to pack. He hesitated, looking at the envelopes full of photocopies of the dossier, and then pushed them into the bottom of his suitcase.

 

At the airport, with the sound of the loudspeakers in the background, Steffy called. He had probably been warned by Do that Félix was still playing the hero.

“Just want to see if everything's OK.”

“You just want to see if the law is going to keep quiet!”

“Don't be like that. I'm worried about you. Louchsky's absolutely furious! He's throwing a party at Versailles next month for his fortieth birthday, and there's a big contract looming that I can't tell you about. So your little expedition to his villa and the failure of the bank have left him foaming. I'm saying it again, Félix, dive for cover. The dogs are out.”

“What's the contract?”

“I just said, I can't tell you, I'm just warning you. It sounds as though you're at the airport.”

“Yeah,” Félix said, annoyed at being pinned down.

“Are you going to see Mark?”

“Yes, I need some air. I need him.”

“Good, I'm glad you're getting together again. Just get away from all this, think of yourself, Félix. We all know you're too clever to be a mere clerk. But don't do anything stupid.”

Once he was in the plane, stuck in a middle seat, Félix unfolded the
Guardian
, which he had picked up on boarding. He went straight to the financial pages: they were filled with stories about the failure of Grind Bank and the panic spreading among the big financial players in London. Eyvin's death was not mentioned, it obviously hadn't been made public yet. So Félix thought that perhaps he had not come too late, that he might yet find something or someone at the address, which he had wiped from his mobile and learnt by heart. He then idly turned to the news pages. He thought about Mark and began to believe in love again. Then he thought of Eyvin, and wondered whether he too might be killed. Just as he was brooding about life and death the air hostess began her safety demonstration.

His eye was suddenly caught by a headline at the bottom of the page: “Inquest on attack on Russian journalist Lira Kazan has stalled”. And so Félix learnt that she was now blind. And she was in London.