Until now, it had managed to avoid the devastating effects of the Lebanon war, by striking a balance within its board of directors between the different Lebanese communities and between the Syrians and the Gulf states. That was its real success story.
It seems that this era is over. In the past few days, several of the bank’s major customers, whose investments are highly volatile, have begun to close their accounts. If this trend continues, it is likely to force the bank to sell off some of its property assets, in a highly unfavourable market.
To make matters worse, one of the bank’s main partners, the Franco-Lebanese Walid Karim, vanished three days ago, taking with him certain confidential documents relating to the current crisis … The fate of the IBL should become clear by the end of the week.
Bornand folds the papers, stretches his legs, pulls back his shoulders and his arms. Karim. A chapter of my life unravelling. Sinister. His choice, not mine. Business will resume with Iran, this time with the Americans. They need the IBL as much as I need them. The hostages … It’s not for want of trying. And floating guiltily around in his mind is the thought that the longer the embargo lasts, the better it is for business. He contemplates the crowds milling around him.
When he arrives in his office, Bornand finds a number of messages, one of which says: ‘Call Flandin back urgently.’ He wrinkles his nose. The boss of the SEA, a hysterical panic-monger. What can he want to talk to me about that’s so urgent? A bad omen.
On the phone, Flandin sounds at the end of his tether, his voice cracking uncontrollably.
‘Have you read the Tribune de Lille?’
‘No. I’m not interested in that kind of local paper.’
‘Then you’re wrong. I shall therefore have the pleasure of reading you an article from the front page of today’s Tribune. Are you listening?’
Bornand pours himself a whisky, sits down and sighs:
‘I’m listening.’
‘It’s entitled: Mystery plane crash.’
‘In true provincial press style,’ thinks Bornand.
Flandin continues: ‘This is the article:
On 29 November 1985, Turkey signalled the disappearance of a Boeing 747 cargo plane in its airspace, in the vicinity of Lake Van. So far, no airline company has reported the disappearance of one of its planes, nobody seems bothered about the death of the crew of possibly three, four, five or more people about whom we know nothing, not even their nationality. The owner(s) of the cargo have not come forward either to demand an investigation or to request compensation. And as the explosion took place at the start of winter, over a semi-desert in a perilous mountainous region, no doubt it will take a long time before a team of investigators from the Turkish civil aviation authority completes a report on this incident.
It was tempting to try and find out more about this mysterious plane. When the Ankara air-traffic controllers took charge on 29 November, the flight plan showed that it had taken off from Malta at 09.30, destination Tehran, with a cargo of rice.
Admittedly, operations at Valetta are still disrupted, flights have only just resumed after the tragic ending of the hijacking of the Egypt Air Boeing which left dozens dead,7 but the information supplied by the control tower at Valetta is categoricaclass="underline" no Boeing 747 cargo had taken off at 09.30. However, at that same time, a Boeing 747 cargo from Brussels-Zavantem had flown over Malta and came under the authority of the Valetta air-traffic controllers, who gave it a new flight number and directed it towards Iran. Brussels-Zavantem Airport confirms that the Boeing 747 cargo took off at 06.58, destination Malta-Valetta. According to the customs declarations, it was carrying electronic equipment belonging to the SAPA. Hence of course the interest in finding out more about this equipment. The SAPA is a very recently formed company whose registered office is in the Bahamas. It purchased the cargo of electronic equipment on 28 November, i.e. the day before the Boeing crashed, from the SEA, a French company based in the Paris region and specialising in electronic equipment and arms. The SAPA itself is merely a dummy company for the SEA, to ensure that the name of the SEA does not appear officially in the transaction, so that it is harder to establish the true nature of this ‘electronic equipment’. Earlier this year, the SEA successfully bought up a number of Magic 550 missiles that had been decommissioned by the French army. The reason officially given is to recycle the onboard electronic equipment. Could it be that those same missiles were now en route to Iran? Watch this space.’
A long silence.
‘What do you think about that, Bornand?’
‘It’s very badly written.’
Flandin roars:
‘You guaranteed me absolute confidentiality. You’ve totally fucked up!’ his words are coming out in a jumbled rush. ‘I want to protect my company, that’s the only thing I care about. I’m not going to sacrifice it to bail you out. I’m meeting the journalist from the Tribune this afternoon. He’s going to be so interested in what I’m going to tell him that he won’t bother about the SEA any more. All the bribes paid to the ministerial staff and to the Defence Ministry, the five million francs for them to turn a blind eye to the sale of the Magic 550s. I’ve got names. I don’t know what they did with the money afterwards … I’m going to tell that journalist that the SAPA is you, and only you, something he doesn’t seem to be aware of, and that this operation was to net you thirty million francs …’
Bornand fidgets. He can’t allow this maniac to cramp his style. I was right.
‘Calm down, Flandin. I assure you the SEA has very little to fear. At worst, a bit of fuss in the press, but the Ministry won’t prosecute, as you well know. You’re meeting your journalist this afternoon, OK. Only let’s have lunch together beforehand to talk things over. And let’s try and avoid the worst. We’ve all got something to lose in this affair. One o’clock at Laurent’s, in one of the private dining rooms on the first floor?’
A long silence.
‘I’ll be there.’
The crisis defused, Bornand hangs up. That’s the danger of working with beginners, they lack nerve. Contact Beauchamp, that’s why I brought him in. He calls the SEA security department. Beauchamp hasn’t come in this morning, nor has he called in to leave a message. Bornand phones him at home and gets the answering machine. He hasn’t put in an appearance at his regular bar, a favourite haunt of African mercenaries, for the past three days. Worrying.
Bornand stands up and gazes out over the rooftops. Silence, which infuses him slowly and turns into a sense of solitude tinged with anxiety. Must find out what’s going on with the Djimils. Four days ago, I had everything sorted, the affair was buried. Who’s stirring things up again? The Intelligence Service, of course. It’s the only possible explanation. They’ve declared outright war on me. I’ll make them sorry. But first of all, I’ve got to deal with Flandin, even if it takes a bit of improvisation. He looks at his watch. Nine a.m. And Martenot’s wife’s funeral is at twelve. Not a second to lose.
When Fernandez comes into the office he finds Bornand, reclining in his armchair, his face pale and his eyes closed, looking as if he’s asleep. Fernandez falters. Bornand sits up, looks at him and smiles:
‘It’s nothing, tiredness, jet lag. You’re having lunch with me today, young fellow. We’re going to meet Flandin. I’ve booked a private dining room at Laurent’s.’
Fernandez is staggered. In four years, this is the first time that Bornand has taken him to what appears to be a business lunch, and this blurring of roles is baffling.