A. No, I’ve heard nothing like that.
Later that afternoon, the lawyer drives Karim off in his big four-wheel drive with tinted windows. ‘We’ve got a business appointment, the two of us‚’ he tells him. When Karim sits down in the passenger seat, the lawyer caresses his face with his rough hand, following the hollows of his cheeks, brushing his lips until he touches his moist mouth. Surprised and worried, Karim doesn’t recognise the man he took for a constipated Catholic, but he doesn’t flinch. Then the lawyer pulls away sharply. He drives fast, along an almost straight secondary road across the plateau. Rounding sharp bends, the heavy car feels as if it’s about to come off the road, and Karim instinctively checks his seat belt. What on earth’s the guy on? Coke, speed? The lawyer smiles at him, his teeth prominent, ready to bite. (Coke, most likely. He’d better not touch me, the arsehole). Then without slowing down, he turns off on to a farm track and pulls up at the edge of a copse. He takes a packet of photos from his pocket and slides it across the dashboard to Karim who flicks through them. The Hakim brothers’ most recent delivery, shot from every angle. Hot flush. Don’t bat an eyelid. Keep calm. Playing for time, he looks at the whole set again. Faces, licence plates, very clear. Expensive equipment and the work of a pro. What’s he playing at, this arsehole? This isn’t some sexual game. He’s trying to trap me, but how? And who’s behind it? Have to see. Puts the photos down.
‘So?’
‘Your latest delivery. Aren’t you surprised?’
‘Delivery, that’s what you say. The photos don’t show any delivery. Guys going in and out of a toilet. In a court of law, a good lawyer will demolish that, right?’
‘True.’ He’s a real turn-on, falling into the trap, at my mercy, and he knows it. He’s desperately trying to dig himself out, but he won’t manage it. The lawyer places a fax from Agence France Presse Lorraine in front of Karim. It’ll hit the papers tomorrow.
MASSIVE CUSTOMS HAUL
In the course of a routine check at the Nancy toll booth on the A31 motorway, customs officers arrested two Belgian nationals of Moroccan origin, the Hakim brothers, who were driving south to the Riviera.
The customs officials found thirty kilos of pure heroin and 100,000 ecstasy tablets concealed under the back seat of their luxury BMW. This is the biggest drugs haul in Lorraine for several years.
At this stage the customs services and the Nancy departmental police are uncertain whether this is a one-off operation or a new drug-trafficking channel.
The lawyer continues.
‘The Hakim brothers are in Metz prison. I am not their defence counsel. In all decency, I couldn’t be. A left-wing human rights lawyer for ten years, then the lawyer for the local bigwigs since my marriage, I’ll have to wait a while before taking on drug traffickers. But I’ve put a very good friend of mine on the case. How do you think the Hakim brothers would react if they found out that you were under police surveillance when they made their delivery to you and that you grassed on them to the cops? There is photographic evidence.’ The lawyer caresses Karim’s face again, almost affectionately. ‘You’re not saying anything?’
‘I’m waiting for what you’re going to say next.’
Smile. ‘Concerning the Daewoo fire, the superintendent had you in his sights. Thanks to my father-in-law, he doesn’t any more. Thank you? No … never mind. The investigators have identified the arsonist. Nourredine Hamidi. You know him …’
Karim nods. He pictures Nourredine, attentive, serious-minded, controlling comings and goings at the factory gates, then leaning over the boot of the Korean manager’s car. Uncompromising, holier-than-thou, pain in the ass, anything you like, but an arsonist … Poor bastard, he’s stuffed. The lawyer leans towards him, no further hint of a smile as he spells it out, articulating each word with deliberation.
‘Tomorrow morning you are summoned to give a witness statement. You were in the cafeteria, before the fire. You saw the guy, he was trying to sleep on a bench in a dark corner. He couldn’t get to sleep, he was too wound up. You saw him get up and leave by the door that leads to the factory just after nine p.m. The cops will help you get the facts right, you know what they’re like. When it suits them, they feed you the answer in the question. Tell me you’ll testify.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Better than that.’
‘I’ll testify that I saw Nourredine leave the cafeteria after nine o’clock. I get it, OK?’
The lawyer grabs Karim’s arm and indicates the back seat with a jerk of his head.
‘Get your clothes off. I’ve got one hell of a hard-on.’ 23 October
An autumn hunting scene on the Lorraine plateau. The beauty of the soft mist over the heavy, dark cornfields, eviscerated by the icy morning and the emerging sun which brings the countryside to life little by little. The beaters’ shouts, the dogs’ barks, the waiting, the tension, sudden shots. Three coveys of partridges flushed out, seven bagged. Often hares, five in the bag. The men are good shots.
The hunters in their brown jackets and heavy rubber waders make their way back from the hides and converge at the meeting point at the corner of the wood. Quignard and the superintendent walk side by side, their guns snapped in half under their arms, relaxed, content. Quignard walks along the edge of the field, he loves the feel of the slightly clinging soft clay underfoot. This land is mine, I belong here. He takes a glance around at the furrowed fields as far as the eye can see. My land. He can still hear the energetic flapping of wings as the covey of partridges rises, feels his own heart beating deafeningly, then the partridges are windborne and dive down towards his hide at nearly two hundred kilometres an hour. He follows their line of flight, shoots his first round — the dull thud of the bird falling — then he turns around, fires his second shot instinctively, a second bird hit. Almost in heaven. His mind vaguely numbed. Daewoo, sorted. Everything back to normal. Park’s stupidity made up for, poor bastard. Now sole master on board. Efficient. Return to order. No waves in the national press. A glorious future ahead. The world’s my oyster. His feet sink into the clay. You can be proud of yourself. Smile. Pay attention, the superintendent’s talking to you.
‘Your tip-off about the Hakim brothers, terrific. Did you see, we teamed up with Customs. I shan’t hide the fact that it’s helped get me a transfer to Nancy, which is now on the cards. Nothing definite yet, but …
‘Good. I told you about that business, which naturally I got wind of purely by chance in Brussels … especially because I hope we can protect the region from traffickers of that kind. But if you benefit from it, between you and me, I’m only too pleased.’ Friendly thump. ‘And I very much hope that after you’ve moved to Nancy, you’ll still join us on the Grande Commune hunt, it’s one of the best in the region.’
‘I should hope so, if you carry on inviting me …’
Laughter. The two men are the last to reach the meeting point, around two big four-wheel drives. The gamekeeper composes the tableau, lining up the kill on the ground. The hunters admire and comment on each other’s shots. The smell of blood and gun grease in the still air. Some thirty metres away the beaters, in white overalls, armed with big sticks, tuck into thick sandwiches and knock back the beer. Beside the vehicles are two small picnic tables covered with white tablecloths. On one are four hollowed-out loaves filled with canapés, and on the other, a selection of chilled red and white Loire valley wines and some glasses. Two drivers, seconded from the 3G company, pour the wine. The hunters jostle each other, laughing. The superintendent helps himself to a glass of red, raises it high, and booms: