The President quickens his pace.
‘Don’t spoil this beautiful walk in the rain. I don’t want to hear any more talk of arms sales to Iraq.’ He turns to Bornand. ‘And you know it. Talk to the ministers concerned.’
They walk on in silence for a moment.
‘I’m not talking to you about arms sales, but about France’s role in the Middle East …’
‘France is not Iran’s enemy …’
‘That won’t be sufficient.’
‘… but in the Middle East, the age-old balance between Arabs and Persians must be maintained.’
A gesture of irritation:
‘Let’s look at this another way. Instead of talking about arms, let’s talk about elections. We have four French hostages who’ve been held in Lebanon for between seven and nine months. The ministers concerned, to use your expression, are playing the Syria card, and after all this time they haven’t even managed — I won’t even say to enter into negotiations with the hostage-takers — but simply to find out who they are and what they want. I can tell you the key to the hostage affair lies in Tehran, as everyone knows, and I am capable of securing their release.’
‘The hostages’ release is one of the government’s ongoing preoccupations, and it is continually working towards a solution, which I approve of.’ A silence. Then the President adds: ‘Of course, anything you can do to assist in Tehran will be welcome, as I’ve already told you.’
‘But unofficially. Officially, we have broken off relations with Iran. At least give my contacts a clear signal. Otherwise, there’ll be no progress on the hostages before the general election, and March ’86 is just around the corner.’
After a few more paces in silence, the President embarks on a monologue on Saint-John Perse. Bornand switches off and massages the palm of his left hand. Shooting pains. How to find out who ordered the disappearance of the plane?
The President stops, his face waxen, leaning for a moment on Bornand’s arm.
All things considered, it is certain that it would be better for the Parisian press to talk about your contacts with Iran rather than this unfortunate plane crash.’
This was the green light he’d been waiting for.
Bornand drops into the Élysée unit headquarters and finds only two young women at their desks. The previous day’s telephone taps have been transcribed, and they’ll be sorted and classified before being passed on, as every day, to the President’s secretariat. Bornand sits down for a moment and accepts a coffee, with two sugars, asks how their children are and complains about the miserable weather. There’s snow on the way. He flicks through the files rapidly. It’s one of life’s small pleasures that Bornand regularly enjoys: lifting the lid of the hive and watching the bees make honey. But today he knows what he’s looking for and he hasn’t got time to hang around: he’s after all yesterday’s calls involving Bestégui, code name: the Basque. At least ten made to the newspaper’s office. Various appointments. Interesting, one with the General Secretary of the Paris Mayor’s office. Well, well. Covering his rear with a view to the upcoming elections? His daughter has an ear infection. Restoux won’t file his article in time, it will have to be held over until the following week. A furious tantrum ensues. Bestégui’s writing a substitute under a new pseudonym (Rancourt, make a note, just in case). And lastly, someone called Chardon announces he has a dynamite dossier on a plane crammed with French missiles heading for Iran, which vanished in mid-flight yesterday over Turkey. The Basque warily advises him to be more discreet on the telephone and agrees to meet him that evening at seven p.m.
That was it.
Bornand crosses the street and climbs the steps of the Élysée. His office is a comfortable little room under the eaves, with two windows looking out over the rooftops. Plenty of calm and light. Huge mahogany cupboards lining two walls, kept permanently locked, good armchairs, a few nineteenth-century English engravings depicting hunting scenes with hounds, green carpet and curtains. And in the centre of the room, an English pedestal desk, with a tan leather top. Sitting on it are a notepad, a crystal tumbler filled with pens and felt-tips, and a coloured glass art deco lamp.
Fernandez is waiting for him. A cop Bornand first met ten years ago on the racecourses, when he was working in Intelligence for the Racing and Gambling division. Very young, fairly tall, broad shoulders and flat stomach; short, dark hair, swarthy complexion, a somewhat loud taste in clothes, flashy gold bracelet watch and a signet ring on his middle left finger, tight trousers and colourful shirts. Good-looking guy, in a way, and very keen on easy, good-looking girls: sharing women had soon created a bond between them. Intelligent: it didn’t take him long to understand how to network in racing circles, and who the guys with real power are. Enterprising: always looking to make a deal, or a financially useful social contact. And left-wing, in other words, he liked Bornand and trusted him when he was still a long way from power. So when Bornand arrived at the Élysée, he had him transferred from Intelligence to his personal security, which opened up new career prospects for Fernandez and confirmed he had made the right political choices. A bit too much of a lout to be truly integrated into the inner family circle, but a distant cousin for whom Bornand feels a certain fondness.
‘I’ve got a job for you, my friend.’
Bornand opens the notebook, selects a green felt-tip and begins to draw complicated squiggles with application, his long, slender hands never still. A silence, before he continues:
‘A journalist has approached Bestégui offering to sell him some strictly confidential information about our contacts with Iran and our dealings to secure the hostages’ release, which include arms deliveries. We’ve already talked about this, haven’t we?’ Fernandez nods. ‘Have you heard of a guy called Chardon?’
‘Never.’
Bornand slowly jots down a few words, looking distracted, then looks up.
‘Bestégui seems to know him though. If this makes the headlines, the Iranians will break off talks. We have to identify the people behind this Chardon guy and shut them up. And to do that, I’m relying on you. If he’s mixed up in this sort of business, Intelligence must have him on file. You’re going to ask them for me. Then, depending on what they come up with, you’re going to find this Chardon, try and glean anything that might shed light on what’s in his dossier and who his sources are. You can call me here, or at the Carré des Feuillants at lunchtime.’ He rubs the palm of his left hand which is still giving him shooting pains. ‘Be smart, Fernandez. We need results.’
Once Fernandez has left, Bornand sets to work.
The first thing is to find suppliers with stocks of missiles available, preferably overseas. I’ll check out Meister in Hamburg. If news of the scandal breaks after the arrival of a new delivery to Tehran, we’ll come out of it relatively unscathed. Then, make amends where possible. And don’t expect any help from government departments on that front, turn to the family first. A basic rule of self-preservation. First of all, Pontault, one of the Defence minister’s staff. A gendarme. A friend of some of the men in the unit. His father, also a gendarme, ended his career as head of security at Bornand’s father-in-law’s firm. He’s loyal. He takes it upon himself to remind all concerned that the missiles sent to Iran had been purchased from the French army, following all the correct procedures. Clearly the military wouldn’t like their financial transactions and methods to become public knowledge. Nor would the politicians at the Ministry, who took their cut from the deal. So, defence secrets all the way down the line. Pontault acts as guarantor. Covered on that front. Bornand notes the date, time and content of the telephone call.