Bestégui is still elegant, rich, self-confident and highly informed. Incidentally, how many articles has he penned, including some that have helped build Bornand’s reputation among Paris’s elite? A vast number … and a few dirty tricks too. You don’t get anything for nothing.
Bornand arrives at last and, without apologising, squeezes Bestégui’s arm warmly by way of a vague embrace, like a man in a hurry, then sits down. The head waiter hastens over. Bornand doesn’t open the menu.
‘I’ll have what you’re having. I trust your judgement.’
Bestégui orders a cream of chestnut soup and pheasant. Bornand eats without even noticing what’s on his plate. He has always considered a taste for fine cuisine as incongruous. He only frequents good or very good restaurants because in France they are the undeniable external trappings of wealth, as well as reliable indicators of the esteem in which one holds one’s guest. He is fully engrossed in what Bestégui is telling him.
‘I’ve been offered a dossier on a plane that crashed in Turkey yesterday morning. It was supposedly carrying French missiles destined for Iran.’ Bornand doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I’d like to know what I might be getting myself into before going any further.’
Apparently he’s playing fair, which will make things easier.
‘You can hardly expect me to tell you that.’
Bestégui continues, ignoring Bornand’s reply: ‘In your view, is a deal like that possible, or probable, or am I likely to find myself walking into a trap?’
‘That’s certainly a possibility. Even a probability. Nearly all the world’s arms dealers are doing business with Iran. Embargos have never prevented arms from being sold, they just make them more expensive, and the profits are higher.’ He leans towards Bestégui, who is tucking into his food. ‘Which doesn’t necessarily rule out the possibility that it could be a sting.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Allow me to make a little detour via Lebanon where the French hostages are being held. Yesterday I was with a Lebanese friend who was telling me about the outbreak of the current war between the militias, one of the most violent that Beirut has seen — and Beirut has seen many such conflicts. An Amal militiaman, a Muslim and an ally of the Syrians, was driving at breakneck speed as usual, and at a crossroads he demolished the car of a Progressive Socialist Party militiaman, an ally of the Syrians and of Amal. Out came the guns, and war was declared between Amal and the PSP. There are countless French envoys supposedly negotiating the hostages’ release in Lebanon. Our lot are wandering around carrying suitcases stuffed with money and speaking on behalf of some minister or other, or the President, or a political party or whatever. You can just imagine. Lebanon’s in a state of chaos, about which they’re utterly clueless. The result: nothing. Nothing. André, even after more than six months, and for one very simple reason: the key to the hostages isn’t in Lebanon, it’s in Tehran. And that plane may be part of a much bigger deal.’
‘Can you tell me any more about this hypothetical deal?’
‘Point number one: it could be a question of stopping arms deliveries to Iraq, or of balancing deliveries to both sides, which the cargo in question may or may not be a part of.’
‘If the plane is part of this deal, there are some people who have an interest in preventing it from reaching Tehran.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Not yet. But if we look at the people who want us to lose the election in March ’86, we should come up with the answer. And track them down. Fast.’
Bestégui attacks his chocolate and pistachio dessert.
‘Will I get to hear of it first?’
‘You won’t publish anything about the plane for the moment? And you’ll put off the competition?’
‘The ones who talk to me at least.’
‘You’re on.’
The meal’s over. Bestégui gives a deep sigh.
‘Fine, then I won’t rush into it.’
Connivance, compromise, always treading a fine line.
Katryn and Chardon part company in the street in front of the Brasserie des Sports. From a distance, Fernandez follows Katryn who walks very fast. She’s wearing a long cream-coloured waterproof duster coat. She enters an upmarket apartment building on avenue Mathurin-Moreau. Fernandez draws nearer. She punches in the entry code for the front door. Her fingers leave grey smudges on four figures and a letter. He tries various random combinations; on the third, the door opens. He goes inside. Katryn is no longer in the lobby. The lift is on its way down. To the cellar, or the garage. It stops at the lower basement level. Instinctively, Fernandez follows. I’ll think of something.
There’s a dim light controlled by a timer switch and one of the lock-ups is open, two rows further back. Katryn drives out a red Mini, stops the car and gets out to close the door behind her. Fernandez moves closer. She might recognise me. He places his hand on her arm. Katryn over-reacts violently. She screams and punches him in the face with all her strength, hitting out wildly. Fernandez, caught unawares, protects himself as best he can.
‘Stop … I want to talk to you …’ Crushing her arm: ‘Talk to you, do you hear, shit …’
She’s not listening, but carries on lashing out blindly, screaming. He pushes her into the lock-up, a hand over her mouth.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
She bites him and draws blood. He releases her and she makes a dive for the open door of the car. A whore … That’s why she’s making trouble … He takes out his revolver with his right hand, to keep her quiet, grabs her again with his left hand and yanks her away from the car which she’s clinging on to. She’s hurt her hands. He pins her to the wall again, waves the revolver in front of her face, yelling:
‘Calm down!’
Feeling the gun barrel at her throat, her whole body convulses, she shoots both her legs out at waist level, he doubles over and a shot is fired. Killed outright, Katryn slides along the wall.
The shot resonates for a long time. The sound mingles with the smell of gunpowder and burning petrol. Winded, Fernandez stares aghast, his heart thumping wildly.
The light timer cuts out and the only sound is the Mini’s engine ticking over. He leans against the wall. This killing means curtains for me. Unacceptable. A left-wing cop, the security branch, all the fun and games, my meeting with Bornand, the Élysée, a ten-year battle. He catches his breath. I’m not giving all that up. I need a few hours. Got to get going.
He switches the light back on, gets behind the wheel of the car and drives it back into the lock-up. He closes the door. It’s not the ideal shelter, there’s another car, but even so it’s better than leaving it wide open. The body lies crumpled on the ground right there in front of him. There’s a streak of blood down the wall and a dark red pool is gradually spreading over the floor. This is a total fuck-up. I can’t leave her here, someone might find her any minute and identify her straight away, and I’m in the front line. I’ll play for time and try and pin it on Chardon.
He opens the car door and dumps the body on the passenger seat, turning it to one side as if the girl were asleep. He covers her with her long raincoat, rummages in her bag and finds the remote control for the garage. He takes a deep breath and drives the Mini out of the garage. Blood on his clothes and in the car. It’s starting to snow. That’s probably good news, there’ll be fewer nosey people about, but it’s not possible to drive too far, too risky in this weather.
Nearby in the 19th arrondissement there’s a place that’s deserted at this hour and in this weather — the La Villette automated parking lot. He heads in that direction, driving cautiously. He reaches the esplanade with its asphalt avenues divided by pavements fringed with bare trees. The street lamps are out. The snow’s falling thick and fast and settling on the tarmac and on the branches of the trees. A glow comes from the ring road above the parking lot, and there are a few lights shining on the vast La Villette construction site a hundred metres away. Fernandez and his corpse are surrounded by a fuzzy black void. He pulls up alongside the row of shrubs and pines bordering the parking lot exit ramp, walks around the car, opens the passenger door, heaves the body onto the ground, nudges it under the bushes with his foot and covers it with the cream-coloured raincoat. Immediately the snow begins to obliterate the corpse. He glances around him, still nobody. In ten minutes, everything will be covered with snow. He gets back into the car, pays at the machine, and turns onto avenue Jean-Jaurès. He pauses to adjust the seat and the driving mirror, then stops by a telephone booth, rings directory inquiries for Chardon’s number and calls him. Oh God of all cops, please let him be home. He’s home.