‘I know him,’ snaps Cecchi. ‘He’s always kept well away from Mado’s girls, I’ve made sure of that. How do you know he was mixed up with Katryn?’
‘Chardon has a dossier on clandestine arms sales to Iran. No need for me to elaborate further. And he’s trying to sell it to the press.’
‘Storm warning?’
‘Let’s say a gale.’ Bornand addresses Mado again. ‘Last Friday I sent Fernandez to tail Chardon. And he found him having lunch with Katryn in a brasserie near Buttes Chaumont. I have to say I thought she might be his source. I had her working with the Iranians a lot.’
‘And was she?’
‘No. I’ve since obtained the dossier. Too well documented. It couldn’t have come from Katryn.’
Mado gives Cecchi a questioning look, then says:
‘The Crime Squad have heard of this Chardon character. They’re looking for him. Apparently he’s the last person to have seen Katryn alive.’
‘Will you be getting regular updates on the progress of their investigation?’
‘I’ve made arrangements to be kept informed.’
‘If you find out anything at all about him, I’m interested. There’s no way he could have come across that dossier by chance. I’m looking for any leads that could put me on the trail of the person who gave it to him.’
‘Fair’s fair, François,’ replies Cecchi. ‘We don’t want Mado’s name to appear in the proceedings.’
‘I’ll take care of that. The prosecutor is a reasonable man and a friend.’
‘Excellent.’ Mado gets up, and so does Bornand. ‘Do you want to try out Katryn’s replacement? A novice. You can give her some of your sound advice and tell me what you think. And then have dinner with us.’
‘I’m greatly honoured, Mado.’ He takes her hand, holds onto it for a moment, leans forward and brushes it with his moustache. She smiles at him. ‘But I can’t stay. I’m on duty tonight at the Élysée.’
Late afternoon, glorious cool weather over Halat airfield on the road from Beirut to Tripoli. Airfield is too grand a description, more of an air strip, at most two long, broad sections of motorway converted to landing strips, a perfunctory control tower, planes of varying sizes dotted around, hangars sprouting everywhere on the surrounding plain. The hub of all trafficking, controlled by the Christian militia. A pick-up truck laden with sacks rattles its way to Camoc’s hangar whose sliding door is wide open, and pulls up inside. The driver and his assistant start unloading the bundles, food products destined for the Lebanese community in Sierra Leone, scheduled to leave tomorrow along with a cargo of arms sent by Camoc. In the midst of the sacks is Moricet. At a signal from the driver, he darts into the hangar and slips behind a stack of wooden pallets. The pick-up drives off. Moricet, lying on his back on the ground, relaxes. All you need to do is wait, doze off a little. It’s going to be a long night.
Comings and goings inside the hangar, the sacks are brought over to the plane scheduled to take off tomorrow morning. It’s true that it’s easier to keep a plane under surveillance than a hangar, and if the Syrians were telling the truth, there’s a fair quantity of heroin in among the chickpeas. Gradually, the activity subsides, both inside and outside the hangar, then grinds to a complete halt. Moricet moves over to the door. Beneath his jacket he’s wearing a belt full of tools, and in a holster under his arm, his revolver. He breaks open the very rudimentary lock. Half opens the door, looks and listens. It’s a clear night, not many lights. Jeeps drive round at regular intervals, but mainly on the runways.
They seem to drive past every half-hour or so. More than enough time.
He has to sprint about a hundred metres across open ground to get to Camoc’s offices. He checks his equipment, his gun, emerges from the hangar closing the door behind him, and breaks into a run, doubled over just in case, or out of habit. An almost flat roof, with one pitched side. He jumps, steadies himself, regains his balance, climbs, lies flat. The riskiest part is over. Now to the tools. Using his shears, he makes a hole in the corrugated iron roof, cuts out a square, clears away the insulation materials, slides out the false ceiling, jumps down into the building and replaces the metal square. The alarm is only wired to the doors and windows. He takes a map and an electric torch out of his pocket, gets his bearings and goes straight to the boss’s office. All along one wall are metal lockers filled with files. The locks are no problem. It’s midnight, and Moricet gets down to work.
Tuesday 3 December
Moricet skims through the various customer files, classified in alphabetical order. He quickly finds confirmation of what the Syrians had told him: large numbers of French and Israeli weapons, fixed up and modified for the Christian militia in Lebanon, the Horn of Africa, with Francophone sub-Saharan Africa the biggest customer, and of course, as it happens, the most interesting. At the centre of the network is the Franco-Lebanese Djimil family. Seven brothers, Shia Muslims, who emigrated in the early 1950s to Côte-d’Ivoire because the Christians controlled all the power in Lebanon. They soon made their fortune. One of them, living in Sierra Leone, organises diamond smuggling, controls virtually half of the country’s output, and is now one of the richest men in Africa. A devout Muslim, he finances the works of the entire Shia community in sub-Saharan Africa and maintains close relations with the ayatollahs and the Iranian regime. Another brother, Mohamed Djimil, who stayed in Côte-d’Ivoire, specialises in importing arms. And perhaps also heroin, which often goes hand in hand, but of that, of course, there is no trace in Camoc’s correspondence. Huge arms shipments, one average-sized cargo plane a week. Nothing on the ultimate destination, and Camoc only knows Djimil, the middle man. But Moricet has a clear picture of the chain: French mercenaries, African guerrillas, presidential bodyguards and, further afield, South Africa, still under embargo. And of course, Francophone Africa means that there’s probably an RPR connection. Besides, it’s public knowledge that the Djimil brothers in Côte-d’Ivoire regularly finance the RPR’s electoral campaigns. This could be a serious lead. But at the same time, is it really new? It is only confirmation of what had seemed probable from the start. Anyway, Bornand wants names, I can always give him these, they’re credible. Then it’s up to him to do what he wants. I’ve fulfilled my contract. It’s two a.m., the airfield is very quiet, may as well carry on ferreting around.
The next file, a reply from Aurelio Parada, Brazil. Yes, he does have thirty-three toys of superior size and quality, Frenchmade, in working order, from the Argentinean army. Exocets, thinks Moricet. Camoc is ratcheting up its activities. In the same file, Mohamed Djimil confirms to Camoc that he’ll take the thirty-three toys in question, and is immediately transferring the agreed deposit in dollars to Camoc’s Swiss bank account. Finally, Parada informs him of the despatch of the toys to the Comores, on 15 November 1985. Moricet feels a rush of excitement. Comores, Denard, French mercenaries in sub-Saharan Africa, Djimil — you can bet the Exocets will end up in Tehran. The opening up of a new arms supply route to Iran, now that’s a valuable piece of information. And Camoc is playing a part in the operation. A political manoeuvre? Bornand can make what he likes of it, not my problem.
What do I do? Do I take the documents and get out, or do I pick up the boss, as planned? It’s four o’clock in the morning. He decides to stay. He crams the files that interest him into a plastic bag, drags a chair over so it will be hidden behind the door when it opens, takes his revolver out of its holster, lays it on his knee, rests his head against the wall, and dozes off.